This is a modern-English version of Moby Dick; Or, The Whale, originally written by Melville, Herman.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
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MOBY-DICK;
or, THE WHALE.
By Herman Melville
CONTENTS
EXTRACTS (Supplied by a Sub-Sub-Librarian).
CHAPTER 26. Knights and Squires.
CHAPTER 27. Knights and Squires.
CHAPTER 29. Enter Ahab; to Him, Stubb.
CHAPTER 39. First Night-Watch.
CHAPTER 40. Midnight, Forecastle.
CHAPTER 42. The Whiteness of the Whale.
CHAPTER 48. The First Lowering.
CHAPTER 50. Ahab’s Boat and Crew. Fedallah.
CHAPTER 54. The Town-Ho’s Story.
CHAPTER 55. Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales.
CHAPTER 56. Of the Less Erroneous Pictures of Whales, and the True Pictures of Whaling Scenes.
CHAPTER 57. Of Whales in Paint; in Teeth; in Wood; in Sheet-Iron; in Stone; in Mountains; in Stars.
CHAPTER 61. Stubb Kills a Whale.
CHAPTER 65. The Whale as a Dish.
CHAPTER 66. The Shark Massacre.
CHAPTER 71. The Jeroboam’s Story.
CHAPTER 73. Stubb and Flask kill a Right Whale; and Then Have a Talk over Him.
CHAPTER 74. The Sperm Whale’s Head—Contrasted View.
CHAPTER 75. The Right Whale’s Head—Contrasted View.
CHAPTER 76. The Battering-Ram.
CHAPTER 77. The Great Heidelburgh Tun.
CHAPTER 78. Cistern and Buckets.
CHAPTER 81. The Pequod Meets The Virgin.
CHAPTER 82. The Honor and Glory of Whaling.
CHAPTER 83. Jonah Historically Regarded.
CHAPTER 88. Schools and Schoolmasters.
CHAPTER 89. Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish.
CHAPTER 91. The Pequod Meets The Rose-Bud.
CHAPTER 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.
CHAPTER 98. Stowing Down and Clearing Up.
CHAPTER 102. A Bower in the Arsacides.
CHAPTER 103. Measurement of The Whale’s Skeleton.
CHAPTER 104. The Fossil Whale.
CHAPTER 105. Does the Whale’s Magnitude Diminish?—Will He Perish?
CHAPTER 108. Ahab and the Carpenter.
CHAPTER 109. Ahab and Starbuck in the Cabin.
CHAPTER 110. Queequeg in His Coffin.
CHAPTER 115. The Pequod Meets The Bachelor.
CHAPTER 120. The Deck Towards the End of the First Night Watch.
CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.
CHAPTER 122. Midnight Aloft.—Thunder and Lightning.
CHAPTER 125. The Log and Line.
CHAPTER 128. The Pequod Meets The Rachel.
CHAPTER 131. The Pequod Meets The Delight.
CHAPTER 133. The Chase—First Day.
CHAPTER 134. The Chase—Second Day.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
EXTRACTS (Supplied by a Sub-Sub-Librarian).
CHAPTER 26. Knights and Squires.
CHAPTER 27. Knights and Squires.
CHAPTER 29. Enter Ahab; to Him, Stubb.
CHAPTER 39. First Night-Watch.
CHAPTER 40. Midnight, Forecastle.
CHAPTER 42. The Whiteness of the Whale.
CHAPTER 48. The First Lowering.
CHAPTER 50. Ahab’s Boat and Crew. Fedallah.
CHAPTER 54. The Town-Ho’s Story.
CHAPTER 55. Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales.
CHAPTER 56. Of the Less Erroneous Pictures of Whales, and the True Pictures of Whaling Scenes.
CHAPTER 57. Of Whales in Paint; in Teeth; in Wood; in Sheet-Iron; in Stone; in Mountains; in Stars.
CHAPTER 61. Stubb Kills a Whale.
CHAPTER 65. The Whale as a Dish.
CHAPTER 66. The Shark Massacre.
CHAPTER 71. The Jeroboam’s Story.
CHAPTER 73. Stubb and Flask kill a Right Whale; and Then Have a Talk over Him.
CHAPTER 74. The Sperm Whale’s Head—Contrasted View.
CHAPTER 75. The Right Whale’s Head—Contrasted View.
CHAPTER 76. The Battering-Ram.
CHAPTER 77. The Great Heidelburgh Tun.
CHAPTER 78. Cistern and Buckets.
CHAPTER 81. The Pequod Meets The Virgin.
CHAPTER 82. The Honor and Glory of Whaling.
CHAPTER 83. Jonah Historically Regarded.
CHAPTER 88. Schools and Schoolmasters.
CHAPTER 89. Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish.
CHAPTER 91. The Pequod Meets The Rose-Bud.
CHAPTER 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.
CHAPTER 98. Stowing Down and Clearing Up.
CHAPTER 102. A Bower in the Arsacides.
CHAPTER 103. Measurement of The Whale’s Skeleton.
CHAPTER 104. The Fossil Whale.
CHAPTER 105. Does the Whale’s Magnitude Diminish?—Will He Perish?
CHAPTER 108. Ahab and the Carpenter.
CHAPTER 109. Ahab and Starbuck in the Cabin.
CHAPTER 110. Queequeg in His Coffin.
CHAPTER 115. The Pequod Meets The Bachelor.
CHAPTER 120. The Deck Towards the End of the First Night Watch.
CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.
CHAPTER 122. Midnight Aloft.—Thunder and Lightning.
CHAPTER 125. The Log and Line.
CHAPTER 128. The Pequod Meets The Rachel.
CHAPTER 131. The Pequod Meets The Delight.
CHAPTER 133. The Chase—First Day.
CHAPTER 134. The Chase—Second Day.
Original Transcriber’s Notes:
ETYMOLOGY.
(Supplied by a Late Consumptive Usher to a Grammar School.)
The pale Usher—threadbare in coat, heart, body, and brain; I see him now. He was ever dusting his old lexicons and grammars, with a queer handkerchief, mockingly embellished with all the gay flags of all the known nations of the world. He loved to dust his old grammars; it somehow mildly reminded him of his mortality.
The pale Usher—worn-out in coat, heart, body, and mind; I can see him now. He was always dusting off his old dictionaries and grammar books with a strange handkerchief, ironically decorated with the colorful flags of every known nation in the world. He enjoyed dusting off his old grammar books; it somehow gently reminded him of his own mortality.
“While you take in hand to school others, and to teach them by what name a whale-fish is to be called in our tongue, leaving out, through ignorance, the letter H, which almost alone maketh up the signification of the word, you deliver that which is not true.” —Hackluyt.
"While you set out to educate others and teach them what to call a whale-fish in our language, you leave out the letter H out of ignorance—though it’s almost the most important part of the meaning of the word—and you end up stating something untrue." —Hackluyt.
“WHALE. * * * Sw. and Dan. hval. This animal is named from roundness or rolling; for in Dan. hvalt is arched or vaulted.” —Webster’s Dictionary.
“WHALE. * * * Sw. and Dan. hval. This animal gets its name from its round shape or the way it rolls; in Dan. hvalt means arched or vaulted.” —Webster’s Dictionary.
“WHALE. * * * It is more immediately from the Dut. and Ger. Wallen; A.S. Walw-ian, to roll, to wallow.” —Richardson’s Dictionary.
"WHILE. * * * It comes more directly from the Dutch and German Wallen; Old English Walw-ian, meaning to roll or to wallow." —Richardson's Dictionary.
| חו, | Hebrew. | |
| ϰητος, | Greek. | |
| CETUS, | Latin. | |
| WHŒL, | Anglo-Saxon. | |
| HVALT, | Danish. | |
| WAL, | Dutch. | |
| HWAL, | Swedish. | |
| HVALUR, | Icelandic. | |
| WHALE, | English. | |
| BALEINE, | French. | |
| BALLENA, | Spanish. | |
| PEKEE-NUEE-NUEE, | Fegee. | |
| PEHEE-NUEE-NUEE, | Erromangoan. |
EXTRACTS. (Supplied by a Sub-Sub-Librarian).
It will be seen that this mere painstaking burrower and grub-worm of a poor devil of a Sub-Sub appears to have gone through the long Vaticans and street-stalls of the earth, picking up whatever random allusions to whales he could anyways find in any book whatsoever, sacred or profane. Therefore you must not, in every case at least, take the higgledy-piggledy whale statements, however authentic, in these extracts, for veritable gospel cetology. Far from it. As touching the ancient authors generally, as well as the poets here appearing, these extracts are solely valuable or entertaining, as affording a glancing bird’s eye view of what has been promiscuously said, thought, fancied, and sung of Leviathan, by many nations and generations, including our own.
You'll see that this meticulous digger, this poor soul of a Sub-Sub, seems to have rummaged through the vast libraries and street bookstalls of the world, collecting any scattered references to whales he could find in any book, whether sacred or secular. So, you shouldn't, in every instance at least, take the chaotic whale facts in these extracts—no matter how credible they seem—as absolute gospel truth about whales. Not at all. As for the ancient writers in general, as well as the poets included here, these excerpts are only interesting or valuable as they provide a quick, sweeping glimpse of what has been randomly said, thought, imagined, or sung about Leviathan by different nations and generations, ours included.
So fare thee well, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. Thou belongest to that hopeless, sallow tribe which no wine of this world will ever warm; and for whom even Pale Sherry would be too rosy-strong; but with whom one sometimes loves to sit, and feel poor-devilish, too; and grow convivial upon tears; and say to them bluntly, with full eyes and empty glasses, and in not altogether unpleasant sadness—Give it up, Sub-Subs! For by how much the more pains ye take to please the world, by so much the more shall ye for ever go thankless! Would that I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for ye! But gulp down your tears and hie aloft to the royal-mast with your hearts; for your friends who have gone before are clearing out the seven-storied heavens, and making refugees of long-pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael, against your coming. Here ye strike but splintered hearts together—there, ye shall strike unsplinterable glasses!
So, goodbye, poor devil of a Sub-Sub, whose commentator I am. You belong to that bleak, pale group that no wine on earth can ever warm; not even Pale Sherry could ever be strong or rosy enough for you. Yet, at times, it’s nice to sit with you, to feel a little poor-devilish myself, to share in a kind of sad camaraderie. We shed tears, toast with empty glasses, and in a mix of sorrow and strange comfort say bluntly—Let it go, Sub-Subs! The harder you try to please the world, the less thanks you’ll ever get for it. If only I could clear out Hampton Court and the Tuileries for you! But swallow your tears and climb high to the royal mast with your hearts; your friends who’ve gone before are already making room for you in the heavens, clearing out the seven layers and displacing long-pampered Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael in preparation for your arrival. Here, you only collide with broken hearts—there, you’ll clink indestructible glasses!
EXTRACTS.
“And God created great whales.” —Genesis.
"And God created mighty whales." —Genesis.
“Leviathan maketh a path to shine after him; One would think the deep to be hoary.” —Job.
"Leviathan leaves a shining trail behind him; you’d think the ocean depths were gray with age." —Job.
“Now the Lord had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah.” —Jonah.
"Now the Lord had arranged for a huge fish to swallow Jonah." —Jonah.
“There go the ships; there is that Leviathan whom thou hast made to play therein.” —Psalms.
"There go the ships; there's that Leviathan you made to play in it." —Psalms.
“In that day, the Lord with his sore, and great, and strong sword, shall punish Leviathan the piercing serpent, even Leviathan that crooked serpent; and he shall slay the dragon that is in the sea.” —Isaiah.
"At that time, the Lord, with His harsh, mighty, and powerful sword, will punish Leviathan, the piercing serpent—yes, Leviathan, the twisted serpent—and He will kill the dragon that lives in the sea." —Isaiah.
“And what thing soever besides cometh within the chaos of this monster’s mouth, be it beast, boat, or stone, down it goes all incontinently that foul great swallow of his, and perisheth in the bottomless gulf of his paunch.” —Holland’s Plutarch’s Morals.
"And whatever else comes within the chaos of this monster’s mouth—be it an animal, a boat, or a stone—it goes straight down into that massive, foul swallow of his, vanishing into the bottomless abyss of his stomach." —Holland’s Plutarch’s Morals.
“The Indian Sea breedeth the most and the biggest fishes that are: among which the Whales and Whirlpooles called Balaene, take up as much in length as four acres or arpens of land.” —Holland’s Pliny.
"The Indian Ocean has the largest and most numerous fish, including whales and whirlpools known as Balaene, which can grow as long as four acres of land." —Holland’s Pliny.
“Scarcely had we proceeded two days on the sea, when about sunrise a great many Whales and other monsters of the sea, appeared. Among the former, one was of a most monstrous size.... This came towards us, open-mouthed, raising the waves on all sides, and beating the sea before him into a foam.” —Tooke’s Lucian. “The True History.”
"Hardly two days had passed at sea when, at sunrise, we saw a large number of whales and other sea creatures. Among them was one of enormous size... It came toward us with its mouth wide open, churning up waves all around and turning the sea ahead of it into foam." —Tooke’s Lucian. “The True History.”
“He visited this country also with a view of catching horse-whales, which had bones of very great value for their teeth, of which he brought some to the king.... The best whales were catched in his own country, of which some were forty-eight, some fifty yards long. He said that he was one of six who had killed sixty in two days.” —Other or Other’s verbal narrative taken down from his mouth by King Alfred, A.D. 890.
"He also came to this country to hunt horse-whales, which had bones highly valued for their teeth, some of which he brought to the king. The best whales were caught in his own country, some of them measuring forty-eight or fifty yards long. He mentioned that he was one of six people who had killed sixty whales in just two days." —Other or Other’s verbal narrative recorded by King Alfred, A.D. 890.
“And whereas all the other things, whether beast or vessel, that enter into the dreadful gulf of this monster’s (whale’s) mouth, are immediately lost and swallowed up, the sea-gudgeon retires into it in great security, and there sleeps.” —MONTAIGNE. —Apology for Raimond Sebond.
"And while everything else—whether it's a beast or a vessel—that goes into the terrifying abyss of this monster's (whale's) mouth is instantly lost and swallowed, the sea-gudgeon safely retreats into it and takes a nap." —MONTAIGNE. —Apology for Raimond Sebond.
“Let us fly, let us fly! Old Nick take me if it is not Leviathan described by the noble prophet Moses in the life of patient Job.” —Rabelais.
“Let’s go, let’s go! May the devil take me if that’s not Leviathan described by the noble prophet Moses in the story of patient Job.” —Rabelais.
“This whale’s liver was two cartloads.” —Stowe’s Annals.
"This whale's liver was the size of two cartloads." —Stowe’s Annals.
“The great Leviathan that maketh the seas to seethe like boiling pan.” —Lord Bacon’s Version of the Psalms.
"The mighty Leviathan that makes the seas churn like a boiling pot." —Lord Bacon’s Version of the Psalms.
“Touching that monstrous bulk of the whale or ork we have received nothing certain. They grow exceeding fat, insomuch that an incredible quantity of oil will be extracted out of one whale.” —Ibid. “History of Life and Death.”
"Regarding the enormous size of the whale or ork, we haven't received any definite information. They become extremely fat, so much so that an unbelievable amount of oil can be taken from a single whale." —Ibid. "History of Life and Death."
“The sovereignest thing on earth is parmacetti for an inward bruise.” —King Henry.
"The best remedy on earth for an internal injury is parmacetti." —King Henry.
“Very like a whale.” —Hamlet.
“Looks just like a whale.” —Hamlet.
“Which to secure, no skill of leach’s art
Mote him availle, but to returne againe
To his wound’s worker, that with lowly dart,
Dinting his breast, had bred his restless paine,
Like as the wounded whale to shore flies thro’ the maine.”
—The Fairie Queen.
“Which to fix, no skill of a doctor's art
Could help him, but to return again
To his wound's source, that with humble dart,
Piercing his chest, had caused his endless pain,
Just like the wounded whale that swims to shore through the sea.”
—The Fairie Queen.“Immense as whales, the motion of whose vast bodies can in a peaceful calm trouble the ocean till it boil.” —Sir William Davenant. Preface to Gondibert.
“Massive as whales, whose huge bodies can stir a tranquil ocean until it churns.” —Sir William Davenant. Preface to Gondibert.
“What spermacetti is, men might justly doubt, since the learned Hosmannus in his work of thirty years, saith plainly, Nescio quid sit.” —Sir T. Browne. Of Sperma Ceti and the Sperma Ceti Whale. Vide his V. E.
"What spermaceti is, people might reasonably question, since the scholar Hosmannus, after thirty years of study, plainly says, I don't know what it is." —Sir T. Browne. Of Sperma Ceti and the Sperma Ceti Whale. See his V. E.
“Like Spencer’s Talus with his modern flail
He threatens ruin with his ponderous tail.
...
Their fixed jav’lins in his side he wears,
And on his back a grove of pikes appears.”
—Waller’s Battle of the Summer Islands.
“Like Spencer’s Talus with his heavy flail
He threatens destruction with his massive tail.
...
Their fixed javelins in his side he carries,
And on his back a cluster of pikes varies.”
—Waller’s Battle of the Summer Islands.“By art is created that great Leviathan, called a Commonwealth or State—(in Latin, Civitas) which is but an artificial man.” —Opening sentence of Hobbes’s Leviathan.
"Through human skill, that great Leviathan is created, known as a Commonwealth or State—(in Latin, Civitas), which is essentially a man-made entity." —Opening sentence of Hobbes’s Leviathan.
“Silly Mansoul swallowed it without chewing, as if it had been a sprat in the mouth of a whale.” —Pilgrim’s Progress.
"Silly Mansoul swallowed it whole, like a sprat in the mouth of a whale." —Pilgrim’s Progress.
“That sea beast
Leviathan, which God of all his works
Created hugest that swim the ocean stream.” —Paradise Lost.
—“There Leviathan,
Hugest of living creatures, in the deep
Stretched like a promontory sleeps or swims,
And seems a moving land; and at his gills
Draws in, and at his breath spouts out a sea.” —Ibid.
“That sea monster, Leviathan, which God created as the largest of all his creations that swim in the ocean.” —Paradise Lost.
—“There Leviathan, the largest of living creatures, in the deep lies or swims, stretched out like a coastline, and looks like a moving land; and at his gills, he inhales, and with his breath, he blows out a sea.” —Ibid.“The mighty whales which swim in a sea of water, and have a sea of oil swimming in them.” —Fuller’s Profane and Holy State.
"The massive whales that swim in the ocean of water, with an ocean of oil inside them." —Fuller’s Profane and Holy State.
“So close behind some promontory lie
The huge Leviathan to attend their prey,
And give no chance, but swallow in the fry,
Which through their gaping jaws mistake the way.”
—Dryden’s Annus Mirabilis.
“So close behind some cliff lies
The huge Leviathan waiting for its prey,
And gives no chance, but swallows the young fish,
Which through its gaping jaws go the wrong way.”
—Dryden’s Annus Mirabilis.“While the whale is floating at the stern of the ship, they cut off his head, and tow it with a boat as near the shore as it will come; but it will be aground in twelve or thirteen feet water.” —Thomas Edge’s Ten Voyages to Spitzbergen, in Purchas.
"While the whale floats at the back of the ship, they cut off its head and tow it with a boat as close to the shore as possible; however, it will get stuck in water that’s twelve or thirteen feet deep." —Thomas Edge’s Ten Voyages to Spitzbergen, in Purchas.
“In their way they saw many whales sporting in the ocean, and in wantonness fuzzing up the water through their pipes and vents, which nature has placed on their shoulders.” —Sir T. Herbert’s Voyages into Asia and Africa. Harris Coll.
"Along the way, they saw many whales playing in the ocean, playfully spouting water through the blowholes nature placed on their backs." —Sir T. Herbert’s Voyages into Asia and Africa. Harris Coll.
“Here they saw such huge troops of whales, that they were forced to proceed with a great deal of caution for fear they should run their ship upon them.” —Schouten’s Sixth Circumnavigation.
"Here they encountered such massive groups of whales that they had to move forward very carefully to avoid accidentally hitting them with their ship." —Schouten’s Sixth Circumnavigation.
“We set sail from the Elbe, wind N.E. in the ship called The Jonas-in-the-Whale.... Some say the whale can’t open his mouth, but that is a fable.... They frequently climb up the masts to see whether they can see a whale, for the first discoverer has a ducat for his pains.... I was told of a whale taken near Shetland, that had above a barrel of herrings in his belly.... One of our harpooneers told me that he caught once a whale in Spitzbergen that was white all over.” —A Voyage to Greenland, A.D. 1671. Harris Coll.
“We set out from the Elbe with a northeast wind on a ship called The Jonas-in-the-Whale. Some people say a whale can’t open its mouth, but that’s just a myth. The crew often climbs up the masts to look out for whales because the first person to spot one gets a ducat as a reward. I heard about a whale caught near Shetland that had more than a barrel of herrings in its stomach. One of our harpooners told me he once caught a completely white whale in Spitzbergen.” —A Voyage to Greenland, A.D. 1671. Harris Coll.
“Several whales have come in upon this coast (Fife) Anno 1652, one eighty feet in length of the whale-bone kind came in, which (as I was informed), besides a vast quantity of oil, did afford 500 weight of baleen. The jaws of it stand for a gate in the garden of Pitferren.” —Sibbald’s Fife and Kinross.
"Several whales washed up on this coast (Fife) in the year 1652. One of them was 80 feet long and of the baleen whale type, and, as I was told, besides producing a huge amount of oil, it yielded 500 pounds of baleen. Its jaws are now used as a gate in the garden of Pitferren." —Sibbald’s Fife and Kinross.
“Myself have agreed to try whether I can master and kill this Sperma-ceti whale, for I could never hear of any of that sort that was killed by any man, such is his fierceness and swiftness.” —Richard Strafford’s Letter from the Bermudas. Phil. Trans. A.D. 1668.
"I’ve decided to see if I can take on and kill this sperm whale, since I’ve never heard of anyone managing to kill one of that kind—it’s just too fierce and fast." —Richard Strafford’s Letter from the Bermudas. Phil. Trans. A.D. 1668.
“Whales in the sea God’s voice obey.” —N. E. Primer.
"Whales in the sea obey God's voice." —N. E. Primer.
“We saw also abundance of large whales, there being more in those southern seas, as I may say, by a hundred to one; than we have to the northward of us.” —Captain Cowley’s Voyage round the Globe, A.D. 1729.
“We also saw plenty of large whales, with there being, I’d say, about a hundred times more in these southern seas than we have up north.” —Captain Cowley’s Voyage around the Globe, A.D. 1729.
“... and the breath of the whale is frequently attended with such an insupportable smell, as to bring on a disorder of the brain.” —Ulloa’s South America.
"... and the whale's breath often comes with such an unbearable smell that it can cause a disorder of the mind." —Ulloa’s South America.
“To fifty chosen sylphs of special note,
We trust the important charge, the petticoat.
Oft have we known that seven-fold fence to fail,
Tho’ stuffed with hoops and armed with ribs of whale.”
—Rape of the Lock.
“To fifty selected sylphs of special significance,
We entrust the important task, the petticoat.
We've often seen that seven-fold barrier fail,
Though packed with hoops and reinforced with whale bones.”
—Rape of the Lock.“If we compare land animals in respect to magnitude, with those that take up their abode in the deep, we shall find they will appear contemptible in the comparison. The whale is doubtless the largest animal in creation.” —Goldsmith, Nat. Hist.
"If we compare land animals in terms of size with those that live in the ocean, we'll find that land animals seem insignificant by comparison. The whale is without a doubt the largest creature in existence." —Goldsmith, Nat. Hist.
“If you should write a fable for little fishes, you would make them speak like great whales.” —Goldsmith to Johnson.
"If you were to write a story for little fish, you'd probably make them talk like big whales." —Goldsmith to Johnson.
“In the afternoon we saw what was supposed to be a rock, but it was found to be a dead whale, which some Asiatics had killed, and were then towing ashore. They seemed to endeavor to conceal themselves behind the whale, in order to avoid being seen by us.” —Cook’s Voyages.
"In the afternoon we spotted what we thought was a rock, but it turned out to be a dead whale that some Asians had killed and were towing to shore. They appeared to be trying to hide behind the whale to avoid being seen by us." —Cook’s Voyages.
“The larger whales, they seldom venture to attack. They stand in so great dread of some of them, that when out at sea they are afraid to mention even their names, and carry dung, lime-stone, juniper-wood, and some other articles of the same nature in their boats, in order to terrify and prevent their too near approach.” —Uno Von Troil’s Letters on Banks’s and Solander’s Voyage to Iceland in 1772.
"The larger whales, they rarely dare to attack. They are so afraid of some of them that, when out at sea, they won’t even say their names and carry dung, limestone, juniper wood, and a few other similar items in their boats to scare them off and keep them from getting too close." —Uno Von Troil’s Letters on Banks’s and Solander’s Voyage to Iceland in 1772.
“The Spermacetti Whale found by the Nantuckois, is an active, fierce animal, and requires vast address and boldness in the fishermen.” —Thomas Jefferson’s Whale Memorial to the French minister in 1778.
"The Sperm Whale discovered by the Nantucketers is a strong, aggressive creature and demands great skill and courage from the fishermen." —Thomas Jefferson’s Whale Memorial to the French minister in 1778.
“And pray, sir, what in the world is equal to it?” —Edmund Burke’s reference in Parliament to the Nantucket Whale-Fishery.
"And tell me, sir, what in the world could possibly compare to it?" —Edmund Burke’s reference in Parliament to the Nantucket Whale-Fishery.
“Spain—a great whale stranded on the shores of Europe.” —Edmund Burke. (somewhere.)
"Spain—a massive whale washed up on the shores of Europe." —Edmund Burke. (somewhere)
“A tenth branch of the king’s ordinary revenue, said to be grounded on the consideration of his guarding and protecting the seas from pirates and robbers, is the right to royal fish, which are whale and sturgeon. And these, when either thrown ashore or caught near the coast, are the property of the king.” —Blackstone.
A tenth type of the king's usual revenue, said to be based on his duty to guard and protect the seas from pirates and thieves, is the right to "royal" fish, which are whales and sturgeon. These, when either washed ashore or caught near the coast, belong to the king. —*Blackstone*
“Soon to the sport of death the crews repair:
Rodmond unerring o’er his head suspends
The barbed steel, and every turn attends.”
—Falconer’s Shipwreck.
“Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets blew self driven,
To hang their momentary fire
Around the vault of heaven.
“So fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves on high,
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.”
—Cowper, on the Queen’s Visit to London.
“Soon the crews gather for the deadly sport:
Rodmond skillfully holds the barbed steel
And pays attention to every move.”
—Falconer’s Shipwreck.
“The roofs, domes, and spires shone brightly,
And rockets soared on their own,
Exploding in a brief burst of light
Across the sky above.
“Just like water compared to fire,
The ocean rises high,
Spouted by a whale in mid-air,
To show its uncontrollable joy.”
—Cowper, on the Queen’s Visit to London.“Ten or fifteen gallons of blood are thrown out of the heart at a stroke, with immense velocity.” —John Hunter’s account of the dissection of a whale. (A small sized one.)
"Ten or fifteen gallons of blood are pumped out of the heart in one stroke, with incredible speed." —John Hunter’s account of the dissection of a whale. (A small-sized one)
“The aorta of a whale is larger in the bore than the main pipe of the water-works at London Bridge, and the water roaring in its passage through that pipe is inferior in impetus and velocity to the blood gushing from the whale’s heart.” —Paley’s Theology.
"The aorta of a whale is wider than the main pipe of the waterworks at London Bridge, and the water rushing through that pipe moves with less force and speed than the blood surging from the whale’s heart." —Paley’s Theology.
“The whale is a mammiferous animal without hind feet.” —Baron Cuvier.
"The whale is a mammal without hind legs." —Baron Cuvier.
“In 40 degrees south, we saw Spermacetti Whales, but did not take any till the first of May, the sea being then covered with them.” —Colnett’s Voyage for the Purpose of Extending the Spermaceti Whale Fishery.
"In 40 degrees south, we spotted sperm whales but didn’t catch any until May 1st, as the sea was full of them by then." —Colnett’s Voyage for the Purpose of Extending the Spermaceti Whale Fishery.
“In the free element beneath me swam,
Floundered and dived, in play, in chace, in battle,
Fishes of every colour, form, and kind;
Which language cannot paint, and mariner
Had never seen; from dread Leviathan
To insect millions peopling every wave:
Gather’d in shoals immense, like floating islands,
Led by mysterious instincts through that waste
And trackless region, though on every side
Assaulted by voracious enemies,
Whales, sharks, and monsters, arm’d in front or jaw,
With swords, saws, spiral horns, or hooked fangs.”
—Montgomery’s World before the Flood.
“Io! Paean! Io! sing.
To the finny people’s king.
Not a mightier whale than this
In the vast Atlantic is;
Not a fatter fish than he,
Flounders round the Polar Sea.”
—Charles Lamb’s Triumph of the Whale.
“In the open water beneath me swam,
Floundered and dived, playing, hunting, battling,
Fish of every color, shape, and type;
Things language can’t describe, and sailors
Have never seen; from fearsome Leviathan
To millions of tiny insects filling every wave:
Gathered in huge schools, like floating islands,
Guided by mysterious instincts through that wild
And uncharted area, even while surrounded
By hungry predators,
Whales, sharks, and monsters, armed with teeth or jaws,
With swords, saws, spiral horns, or hooked fangs.”
—Montgomery’s World before the Flood.
“Io! Paean! Io! sing.
To the king of the fish people.
There’s not a mightier whale than this
In the vast Atlantic;
Not a fatter fish than he,
Flounders around the Polar Sea.”
—Charles Lamb’s Triumph of the Whale.“In the year 1690 some persons were on a high hill observing the whales spouting and sporting with each other, when one observed: there—pointing to the sea—is a green pasture where our children’s grand-children will go for bread.” —Obed Macy’s History of Nantucket.
"In 1690, some people were on a high hill watching the whales spouting and playing with each other, when someone pointed to the sea and said, 'There is a green pasture where our grandchildren's grandchildren will go for their food.'" —Obed Macy’s History of Nantucket.
“I built a cottage for Susan and myself and made a gateway in the form of a Gothic Arch, by setting up a whale’s jaw bones.” —Hawthorne’s Twice Told Tales.
"I built a cottage for Susan and me and made a gateway shaped like a Gothic Arch by using a whale's jawbones." —Hawthorne’s Twice Told Tales.
“She came to bespeak a monument for her first love, who had been killed by a whale in the Pacific ocean, no less than forty years ago.” —Ibid.
"She came to arrange a monument for her first love, who had been killed by a whale in the Pacific Ocean, no less than forty years ago." —Ibid.
“No, Sir, ’tis a Right Whale,” answered Tom; “I saw his sprout; he threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a Christian would wish to look at. He’s a raal oil-butt, that fellow!” —Cooper’s Pilot.
"No, Sir, it’s a Right Whale," answered Tom. "I saw his spout; he shot up a pair of rainbows as clear and bright as anyone could hope to see. That guy’s a real oil-barrel!" —Cooper’s Pilot.
“The papers were brought in, and we saw in the Berlin Gazette that whales had been introduced on the stage there.” —Eckermann’s Conversations with Goethe.
"The papers came in, and we read in the Berlin Gazette that whales had been included in a stage performance there." —Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe.
“My God! Mr. Chace, what is the matter?” I answered, “we have been stove by a whale.” —“Narrative of the Shipwreck of the Whale Ship Essex of Nantucket, which was attacked and finally destroyed by a large Sperm Whale in the Pacific Ocean.” By Owen Chace of Nantucket, first mate of said vessel. New York, 1821.
“My God! Mr. Chace, what’s wrong?” I replied, “We’ve been struck by a whale.” —“Narrative of the Shipwreck of the Whale Ship Essex of Nantucket, which was attacked and ultimately destroyed by a massive Sperm Whale in the Pacific Ocean.” By Owen Chace of Nantucket, first mate of said vessel. New York, 1821.
“A mariner sat in the shrouds one night,
The wind was piping free;
Now bright, now dimmed, was the moonlight pale,
And the phospher gleamed in the wake of the whale,
As it floundered in the sea.”
—Elizabeth Oakes Smith.
“A sailor sat in the rigging one night,
The wind was blowing strong;
Now bright, now dim, was the pale moonlight,
And the phosphorescence shimmered in the wake of the whale,
As it thrashed in the sea.”
—Elizabeth Oakes Smith.“The quantity of line withdrawn from the boats engaged in the capture of this one whale, amounted altogether to 10,440 yards or nearly six English miles....
"The amount of line pulled from the boats involved in catching this one whale added up to a total of 10,440 yards, or almost six miles..."
“Sometimes the whale shakes its tremendous tail in the air, which, cracking like a whip, resounds to the distance of three or four miles.” —Scoresby.
"Sometimes the whale swings its massive tail into the air, and with a crack like a whip, the sound echoes three or four miles away." —Scoresby.
“Mad with the agonies he endures from these fresh attacks, the infuriated Sperm Whale rolls over and over; he rears his enormous head, and with wide expanded jaws snaps at everything around him; he rushes at the boats with his head; they are propelled before him with vast swiftness, and sometimes utterly destroyed.... It is a matter of great astonishment that the consideration of the habits of so interesting, and, in a commercial point of view, so important an animal (as the Sperm Whale) should have been so entirely neglected, or should have excited so little curiosity among the numerous, and many of them competent observers, that of late years, must have possessed the most abundant and the most convenient opportunities of witnessing their habitudes.” —Thomas Beale’s History of the Sperm Whale, 1839.
"Driven mad by the pain from these fresh attacks, the enraged sperm whale rolls over and over. He raises his massive head and snaps at everything around him with his jaws stretched wide open. He charges at the boats with his head, propelling them forward at incredible speed and sometimes completely destroying them. It's truly astonishing that the behaviors of such a fascinating and, from a commercial perspective, highly significant animal (like the sperm whale) have been so thoroughly overlooked or sparked so little curiosity among the many capable observers who, in recent years, must have had the most plentiful and convenient opportunities to study their habits." —Thomas Beale’s History of the Sperm Whale, 1839.
“The Cachalot” (Sperm Whale) “is not only better armed than the True Whale” (Greenland or Right Whale) “in possessing a formidable weapon at either extremity of its body, but also more frequently displays a disposition to employ these weapons offensively and in manner at once so artful, bold, and mischievous, as to lead to its being regarded as the most dangerous to attack of all the known species of the whale tribe.” —Frederick Debell Bennett’s Whaling Voyage Round the Globe, 1840.
"The Sperm Whale (Cachalot) not only has better defenses than the True Whale (Greenland or Right Whale) with powerful weapons on both ends of its body, but it also shows a greater tendency to use these weapons aggressively. Its tactics are so cunning, bold, and destructive that it is considered the most dangerous species to attack among all the known types of whales." —Frederick Debell Bennett’s Whaling Voyage Round the Globe, 1840.
October 13. “There she blows,” was sung out from the mast-head.
“Where away?” demanded the captain.
“Three points off the lee bow, sir.”
“Raise up your wheel. Steady!” “Steady, sir.”
“Mast-head ahoy! Do you see that whale now?”
“Ay ay, sir! A shoal of Sperm Whales! There she blows! There she
breaches!”
“Sing out! sing out every time!”
“Ay Ay, sir! There she blows! there—there—thar she
blows—bowes—bo-o-os!”
“How far off?”
“Two miles and a half.”
“Thunder and lightning! so near! Call all hands.”
—J. Ross Browne’s Etchings of a Whaling Cruize. 1846.
October 13. “There she blows,” was called out from the masthead.
“Where is she?” asked the captain.
“Three points off the lee bow, sir.”
“Move the wheel. Steady!” “Steady, sir.”
“Masthead, do you see that whale now?”
“Yes, sir! A group of Sperm Whales! There she blows! There she breaches!”
“Shout out! Shout out every time!”
“Yes, sir! There she blows! there—there—thar she blows—bowes—bo-o-os!”
“How far away?”
“Two and a half miles.”
“Thunder and lightning! So close! Call all hands.”
—J. Ross Browne’s Etchings of a Whaling Cruize. 1846.“The Whale-ship Globe, on board of which vessel occurred the horrid transactions we are about to relate, belonged to the island of Nantucket.” —“Narrative of the Globe Mutiny,” by Lay and Hussey survivors. A.D. 1828.
"The whale ship Globe, on which the terrible events we’re about to describe took place, was from the island of Nantucket." —"Narrative of the Globe Mutiny," by Lay and Hussey, survivors. A.D. 1828.
Being once pursued by a whale which he had wounded, he parried the assault for some time with a lance; but the furious monster at length rushed on the boat; himself and comrades only being preserved by leaping into the water when they saw the onset was inevitable.” —Missionary Journal of Tyerman and Bennett.
Once chased by a whale he had injured, he fended off the attack for a while using a spear. But eventually, the enraged creature charged at the boat, and he and his crew only survived by jumping into the water when they realized the attack was unavoidable.” —Missionary Journal of Tyerman and Bennett.
“Nantucket itself,” said Mr. Webster, “is a very striking and peculiar portion of the National interest. There is a population of eight or nine thousand persons living here in the sea, adding largely every year to the National wealth by the boldest and most persevering industry.” —Report of Daniel Webster’s Speech in the U. S. Senate, on the application for the Erection of a Breakwater at Nantucket. 1828.
"Nantucket itself," said Mr. Webster, "is a unique and remarkable part of the nation’s interests. There’s a population of eight or nine thousand people living out here in the ocean, contributing significantly every year to the nation’s wealth through their daring and relentless hard work." —Report of Daniel Webster’s Speech in the U.S. Senate, on the application for the Erection of a Breakwater at Nantucket, 1828.
“The whale fell directly over him, and probably killed him in a moment.” —“The Whale and his Captors, or The Whaleman’s Adventures and the Whale’s Biography, gathered on the Homeward Cruise of the Commodore Preble.” By Rev. Henry T. Cheever.
"The whale landed right on top of him, most likely killing him instantly." — *"The Whale and his Captors, or The Whaleman’s Adventures and the Whale’s Biography, gathered on the Homeward Cruise of the Commodore Preble"* by Rev. Henry T. Cheever.
“If you make the least damn bit of noise,” replied Samuel, “I will send you to hell.” —Life of Samuel Comstock (the mutineer), by his brother, William Comstock. Another Version of the whale-ship Globe narrative.
"If you make the slightest bit of noise," Samuel replied, "I'll send you straight to hell." —Life of Samuel Comstock (the mutineer), by his brother, William Comstock. Another Version of the whale-ship Globe narrative.
“The voyages of the Dutch and English to the Northern Ocean, in order, if possible, to discover a passage through it to India, though they failed of their main object, laid-open the haunts of the whale.” —McCulloch’s Commercial Dictionary.
"The voyages of the Dutch and English to the Northern Ocean, aiming to find a route through it to India, even though they didn’t achieve their main goal, revealed the habitats of the whale." —McCulloch’s Commercial Dictionary.
“These things are reciprocal; the ball rebounds, only to bound forward again; for now in laying open the haunts of the whale, the whalemen seem to have indirectly hit upon new clews to that same mystic North-West Passage.” —From “Something” unpublished.
"These things go both ways; the ball bounces back only to spring forward again. By revealing the whale’s hiding places, the whalers seem to have accidentally stumbled upon new clues to the mysterious Northwest Passage." —From “Something” unpublished.
“It is impossible to meet a whale-ship on the ocean without being struck by her near appearance. The vessel under short sail, with look-outs at the mast-heads, eagerly scanning the wide expanse around them, has a totally different air from those engaged in regular voyage.” —Currents and Whaling. U.S. Ex. Ex.
"You can’t come across a whaling ship out on the ocean without being struck by how distinct it looks. The ship, sailing with minimal sails and lookouts stationed high up on the masts, intensely scanning the vast waters around them, has a completely different vibe compared to ships on standard voyages." —Currents and Whaling. U.S. Ex. Ex.
“Pedestrians in the vicinity of London and elsewhere may recollect having seen large curved bones set upright in the earth, either to form arches over gateways, or entrances to alcoves, and they may perhaps have been told that these were the ribs of whales.” —Tales of a Whale Voyager to the Arctic Ocean.
"People walking around London and other places might remember seeing large curved bones standing upright in the ground, sometimes used to create arches over gateways or entrances to alcoves. They might have even been told these were the ribs of whales." —Tales of a Whale Voyager to the Arctic Ocean.
“It was not till the boats returned from the pursuit of these whales, that the whites saw their ship in bloody possession of the savages enrolled among the crew.” —Newspaper Account of the Taking and Retaking of the Whale-Ship Hobomack.
"It wasn’t until the boats came back from chasing the whales that the crew saw their ship had been violently taken over by the savages who were part of their crew." —Newspaper Account of the Taking and Retaking of the Whale-Ship Hobomack.
“It is generally well known that out of the crews of Whaling vessels (American) few ever return in the ships on board of which they departed.” —Cruise in a Whale Boat.
"It’s a well-known fact that most crew members on American whaling ships rarely return on the same ship they set sail on." —Cruise in a Whale Boat.
“Suddenly a mighty mass emerged from the water, and shot up perpendicularly into the air. It was the whale.” —Miriam Coffin or the Whale Fisherman.
"Suddenly, a massive shape rose out of the water and shot straight up into the air. It was the whale." —Miriam Coffin or the Whale Fisherman.
“The Whale is harpooned to be sure; but bethink you, how you would manage a powerful unbroken colt, with the mere appliance of a rope tied to the root of his tail.” —A Chapter on Whaling in Ribs and Trucks.
"The Whale is harpooned, sure; but think about how you'd handle a strong, untamed colt with nothing but a rope tied to the base of its tail." —A Chapter on Whaling in Ribs and Trucks.
“On one occasion I saw two of these monsters (whales) probably male and female, slowly swimming, one after the other, within less than a stone’s throw of the shore” (Terra Del Fuego), “over which the beech tree extended its branches.” —Darwin’s Voyage of a Naturalist.
"Once, I saw two of these creatures (whales), most likely a male and a female, slowly swimming one behind the other, less than a stone's throw away from the shore" (Terra Del Fuego), "where the branches of the beech tree stretched out over the water." —Darwin’s Voyage of a Naturalist.
“‘Stern all!’ exclaimed the mate, as upon turning his head, he saw the distended jaws of a large Sperm Whale close to the head of the boat, threatening it with instant destruction;—‘Stern all, for your lives!’” —Wharton the Whale Killer.
"'Back up, everyone!' yelled the mate as he turned his head and saw the wide-open jaws of a massive sperm whale right next to the boat, ready to smash it to pieces. 'Back up, if you value your lives!'" —Wharton the Whale Killer.
“So be cheery, my lads, let your hearts never fail, While the bold harpooneer is striking the whale!” —Nantucket Song.
"So stay cheerful, my friends, never let your spirits drop, While the brave harpooner is striking the whale!" —Nantucket Song.
“Oh, the rare old Whale, mid storm and gale
In his ocean home will be
A giant in might, where might is right,
And King of the boundless sea.”
—Whale Song.
“Oh, the rare old whale, in the midst of storm and gale
In his ocean home will be
A giant in strength, where strength is power,
And king of the endless sea.”
—Whale Song.CHAPTER 1. Loomings.
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
Call me Ishmael. A few years ago—doesn't really matter how long—when I had little to no money in my wallet and nothing particular keeping me on land, I decided to take to the sea and explore the watery parts of the world. It's how I shake off the blues and keep myself balanced. Whenever I find myself getting moody or down; whenever life feels like a damp, gray November; whenever I catch myself lingering by coffin shops or following every funeral procession I come across; and especially when my dark thoughts get so overwhelming that it feels like it takes sheer willpower to keep myself from stepping out onto the street and knocking hats off people's heads—I know it's time to head to sea. That's my way of avoiding something more drastic. Where Cato might throw himself on his sword, I just quietly board a ship. There's nothing unusual about it. If they realized it, almost everyone feels something similar about the ocean at some point.
There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.
There’s your island city of Manhattan, surrounded by docks like Indian islands encircled by coral reefs—commerce wraps it in its own surf. Streets on both sides lead you toward the water. At the far southern tip is the Battery, where that impressive seawall is bathed by waves and refreshed by breezes that, just hours before, were far out at sea. Look at the crowds of people staring at the water there.
Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?
Take a walk around the city on a calm, lazy Sunday afternoon. Start at Corlears Hook, head down to Coenties Slip, and from there, pass through Whitehall and head north. What do you see?—Standing silently like watchful guards all over the city are thousands upon thousands of people lost in deep thoughts about the sea. Some are leaning against the pilings; some are sitting on the edges of the piers; some are gazing over the sides of ships from China; some are perched high up in the rigging, as if trying to get an even better look at the ocean. But all these people are city-dwellers; during the week, they’re cooped up in offices, stuck behind counters, pinned to benches, chained to desks. So what’s going on? Are the green fields gone? What are they doing here?
But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?
But look! Here come more crowds, walking straight toward the water and seemingly ready to dive in. Strange! Nothing satisfies them except reaching the very edge of the land. Hanging out in the shade of those nearby warehouses isn’t enough. No, they have to get as close to the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—whole leagues. All of them are from inland, coming from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—from the north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all gather. Tell me, is it the magnetic pull of the compasses on all those ships that draws them here?
Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.
Once again. Imagine you're out in the countryside, somewhere in a mountainous region with lakes. Pick just about any path you like, and more often than not, it’ll lead you down into a valley and leave you by a stream or a pool. There’s something magical about it. Even the most absent-minded person, lost in deep thoughts—if you put that person on their feet and get them moving, they’ll inevitably lead you to water, as long as there’s water anywhere in that area. If you ever find yourself thirsty in the vast American desert, try this experiment—assuming your group has a philosophy professor on hand. Yes, as everyone knows, reflection and water are forever connected.
But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd’s head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd’s eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies—what is the one charm wanting?—Water—there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.
Here is an artist who wants to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, most peaceful, and enchanting bit of romantic landscape in the whole Saco Valley. What’s the main element he uses? Look at his trees—they stand there, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit or a crucifix was tucked inside. His meadow lies still, his cattle rest in the grass, and thin, lazy smoke curls up from a cottage in the distance. A winding path snakes deep into the woods, leading to overlapping ridges of mountains, their slopes glowing in a soft, hill-side blue. But even though this entire scene seems frozen in a dreamy calm, and even with the pine tree letting its sighs fall like leaves onto the shepherd’s head, all of it would mean nothing unless the shepherd’s gaze stayed fixed on the magical stream before him. Visit the prairies in June, where for miles upon miles you walk knee-deep through fields of tiger lilies—what’s the one thing missing? Water. There’s not a single drop of it there. If Niagara were just a waterfall of sand, would you bother traveling a thousand miles to see it? Why did a poor poet from Tennessee, when he unexpectedly got his hands on two handfuls of silver, hesitate between buying a much-needed coat or spending it on a walking trip to Rockaway Beach? Why does nearly every healthy, spirited boy, at some point, feel an overpowering urge to go to sea? Why, during your first trip as a passenger, did you feel such an intense thrill when someone told you the ship had finally sailed out of sight of land? Why did the ancient Persians call the sea sacred? Why did the Greeks give it its own deity, a god who was Zeus’s equal? Clearly, all of this isn’t without meaning. And even deeper is the meaning of the myth of Narcissus, who drowned because he couldn’t reach the alluring, gentle image of himself reflected in the water. That same image is something we all see in every river and ocean. It’s the image of life’s unattainable, elusive mystery—and that is the core of it all.
Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick—grow quarrelsome—don’t sleep of nights—do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,—though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.
Whenever I start feeling blurry-eyed and overly aware of my breathing, I make it a habit to head out to sea. But don’t get me wrong—I never go as a passenger. To be a passenger, you need money, and an empty wallet is pretty much useless. Plus, passengers get seasick, cranky, can’t sleep at night, and generally have a miserable time. No, I never go as a passenger. And even though I’ve got a bit of a sailor’s spirit, I don’t go as a Commodore, Captain, or Cook either. I leave those prestigious and challenging roles to those who enjoy them. Personally, I avoid all kinds of respectable work, responsibilities, and headaches whenever possible. It’s hard enough managing myself; I don’t need the added stress of managing ships, brigs, schooners, and all that. As for being a cook—sure, it’s an important role on a ship and has some respect attached to it—but I’ve just never been into cooking. I don’t care much for roasting chickens, though I’ll admit that, when cooked right, with butter and the perfect amount of seasoning, I absolutely appreciate a well-broiled bird more than anyone. In fact, I’d speak of it with the utmost admiration. You know, the ancient Egyptians were so fixated on their grilled ibis or roasted hippopotamus that they ended up mummifying them. That’s why you find their remains in the massive ovens we now call pyramids.
No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one’s sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.
No, when I go to sea, I go as a regular sailor, working right at the front, down in the forecastle, and high up at the royal masthead. Sure, they boss me around a bit and make me jump from beam to beam like a grasshopper in a spring meadow. At first, it’s pretty unpleasant. It messes with your sense of pride, especially if you come from an old, respected family like the Van Rensselaers, the Randolphs, or the Hardicanutes. And even more so if, just before dipping your hands into a tar bucket, you were a country schoolteacher, commanding respect from even the tallest boys in class. Let me tell you, the switch from schoolteacher to sailor is a sharp one and takes a good dose of Seneca and the Stoics to help you face it with a smile. But even this eventually fades away.
What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way—either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.
So what if some old grumpy sea captain tells me to grab a broom and sweep the deck? What does that humiliation really mean, measured, I’m saying, by the standards of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks any less of me because I quickly and respectfully obey that grumpy guy in that moment? Who isn’t a slave in some way? Tell me that. Well then, no matter how much the old sea captains boss me around—or how much they shove and push me—I find comfort in knowing it’s just the way things are; everyone else gets treated pretty much the same, either physically or mentally. That’s just how life works: the universal struggle gets passed around, and we all ought to pat each other on the back and make peace with it.
Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid,—what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!
I always choose to go to sea as a sailor because they actually pay me for my effort, while passengers never get paid a single cent as far as I know. On the contrary, passengers have to pay. And there's a world of difference between paying and getting paid. Paying is probably one of the most unpleasant burdens those two infamous orchard thieves left us with. But getting paid—what can compare to it? The polite enthusiasm with which someone accepts money is truly incredible, especially since we firmly believe that money is the root of all evil and that a wealthy person has no chance of entering heaven. And yet, how gladly we sell ourselves to damnation!
Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way—he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:
Finally, I always choose to go to sea as a sailor because of the healthy exercise and fresh air on the front deck. Just like in life, headwinds are far more common than tailwinds (assuming you always follow the Pythagorean rule). Most of the time, the captain on the quarterdeck gets his air secondhand from the sailors on the forecastle deck. He thinks he's breathing it fresh, but that's not the case. Similarly, in many other aspects of life, the common people often lead their leaders, even though the leaders rarely notice it. But why it happened that, after repeatedly experiencing life at sea as a merchant sailor, I suddenly decided to embark on a whaling voyage—that's a question best answered by the unseen forces of fate. This hidden, ever-present force watches over me, follows me, and influences me in ways I can’t explain. My decision to join a whaling voyage surely fit into some larger plan orchestrated by Providence, a plan written long ago. This journey was just a brief pause or solo performance in between bigger, grander acts. I imagine that part of the script might have read something like this:
“Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. “WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL. “BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”
"Major Contested Election for the President of the United States. "A Whaling Journey by Someone Named Ishmael. "Intense Battle in Afghanistan."
Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces—though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.
Even though I can’t say exactly why those stage managers—the Fates—cast me in this shabby role of a whaling voyage, while others got grand roles in epic tragedies, easy roles in refined comedies, or fun roles in slapstick farces, I still can’t pinpoint the exact reason. But now, looking back on everything, I think I can start to understand the forces and motives that, cleverly disguised in different ways, led me to take on this role. They also tricked me into believing it was a choice born of my own free will and careful judgment.
Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it—would they let me—since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.
The biggest reason driving me was the powerful idea of the great whale itself. Such a massive and mysterious creature sparked all my curiosity. Then there were the wild, faraway oceans where he moved his massive bulk like an island; the indescribable, unnamed dangers of the whale; all of this, along with the incredible sights and sounds of a thousand Patagonian wonders, pulled me toward my desire. For others, maybe these things wouldn’t have been tempting, but as for me, I’m plagued with a constant craving for the distant and unknown. I love to sail uncharted seas and explore untamed shores. While I don’t overlook what’s good, I’m quick to notice a horror and could still get along with it—if they’d let me—because it’s wise to be on good terms with all the "residents" of the place you’re staying in.
By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.
Because of these reasons, the whaling voyage was appealing; the massive gates to a world of wonders opened wide, and in the wild imaginings that drove me to my decision, countless visions of whales streamed into my soul, two by two, with one towering, hooded phantom rising above them all, like a snow-covered hill floating in the sky.
CHAPTER 2. The Carpet-Bag.
I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday.
I packed a couple of shirts into my old duffel bag, slung it under my arm, and headed off for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Leaving the great city of Manhattan, I eventually made it to New Bedford. It was a Saturday night in December. I was pretty disappointed to find out that the small ship to Nantucket had already left and that there wouldn’t be another way to get there until the following Monday.
As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original—the Tyre of this Carthage;—the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?
Most young people heading for the challenges and hardships of whaling often stop in New Bedford before starting their journey. But I, for one, had no intention of doing that. I had already decided I would sail only on a Nantucket ship because there was something bold and untamed about everything connected to that legendary old island, which I found incredibly appealing. Sure, New Bedford has recently taken over much of the whaling industry, and poor old Nantucket has fallen behind. But Nantucket was the original—the birthplace of it all, like Tyre to Carthage. It was the place where the first American whale washed ashore. Where else but Nantucket did the original whalemen, the Native Americans, paddle out in their canoes to hunt the Leviathan? And where else but Nantucket did the first daring little sloop set sail, supposedly partly loaded with cobblestones imported just to throw at whales—so the story goes—to see if they were close enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?
Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,—So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south—wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.
With a night, a day, and another night ahead of me in New Bedford before I could set sail for my destination, I had to figure out where I’d eat and sleep in the meantime. It was an ominous, dark, and miserable night—bitingly cold and utterly bleak. I didn’t know a soul in the town. Nervously, I fished around in my pocket and only came up with a small handful of silver coins. "Wherever you go, Ishmael," I said to myself as I stood in the middle of a desolate street with my bag on my shoulder, glancing at the gloom to the north and the darkness to the south, "wherever you decide to stay for the night, my dear Ishmael, make sure to ask the price—and don’t be too picky."
With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The Crossed Harpoons”—but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,—rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns.
I walked slowly through the streets, passing the sign for "The Crossed Harpoons"—but it looked way too pricey and lively for me. A little further down, the glowing red windows of the "Sword-Fish Inn" shone so brightly, it seemed like the heat had melted all the snow and ice in front of the building, even though everywhere else, the frozen frost was piled ten inches thick, hardened into a rough, asphalt-like pavement. It was tough going for me, especially when I bumped my foot against the sharp edges in the road, since my boots were in terrible shape from long, hard use. Too pricey and lively, I thought again, pausing for a moment to watch the bright lights spilling onto the street and listen to the clinking of glasses inside. But keep it moving, Ishmael, I told myself; don’t you see? Get out of the way of the door; your worn-out boots are blocking the path. So, I kept going. Almost on instinct, I followed streets that seemed to lead toward the water, figuring that's where I'd find the cheapest, if not the most welcoming, inns.
Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The Sword-Fish?”—this, then must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door.
Such gloomy streets! Rows of darkness, not houses, on each side, and here and there a candle, like a flickering light wandering around in a crypt. At this late hour on the last day of the week, that part of town was nearly empty. But soon, I spotted a dim, smoky light coming from a low, wide building with its door wide open, almost inviting me in. It appeared casual, like it was meant for public use. So, I stepped inside, and the first thing I managed to do was trip over an ash box in the doorway. “Ha!” I thought as I nearly coughed from the cloud of dust that rose up. “Are these ashes from that doomed city, Gomorrah?” But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The Sword-Fish”? Surely this must be the mark of “The Trap.” Nevertheless, I got back on my feet, and hearing a loud voice inside, I moved ahead and opened the inner door.
It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’
It felt like the grand Black Parliament meeting in Hell. A hundred black faces turned in their seats to stare; and beyond them, a black Angel of Doom was pounding on a book in the pulpit. It was a Black church, and the preacher’s sermon was about utter darkness, with wailing, crying, and gnashing of teeth. "Ha, Ishmael," I muttered to myself as I backed away, "What a miserable show at a place called 'The Trap!'"
Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath—“The Spouter Inn:—Peter Coffin.”
Moving along, I eventually reached a faint light near the docks and heard a lonely creaking noise in the air. When I looked up, I saw a swinging sign above the door with a faded white painting on it that vaguely showed a tall, straight jet of misty spray, along with these words below it: "The Spouter Inn—Peter Coffin."
Coffin?—Spouter?—Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.
Coffin?—Spouter?—Kind of eerie in that context, I thought. But they say it's a common name in Nantucket, so I guess this Peter guy must have moved here from there. With the light so dim, the place seeming quiet enough for now, and the shabby little wooden house looking like it might have been hauled over from the wreckage of a fire-damaged neighborhood, I figured this was the perfect spot for cheap lodging and some decent pea coffee.
It was a queer sort of place—a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul’s tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. “In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,” says an old writer—of whose works I possess the only copy extant—“it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier.” True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind—old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn’t stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it’s too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper—(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals.
It was a strange kind of place—an old house with a gable roof, one side looking like it was crippled, sagging and leaning sadly. It stood on a sharp, windy corner where that fierce wind, Euroclydon, howled worse than it ever did around poor Paul’s ship. Still, Euroclydon can feel like a cozy breeze to anyone sitting indoors with their feet by the fire, warming up before bed. “When judging that stormy wind called Euroclydon,” writes an old author—whose work I happen to have the only surviving copy of—“it makes a huge difference whether you’re looking out at it through a glass window with frost only on the outside, or watching it through a window with no glass at all, where the frost covers both sides, and Death himself is the one who fit the panes.” True enough, I thought, as that line came to mind—old black-letter writer, you make a great point. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. Such a shame no one patched up the cracks and gaps, or stuffed a little lint here and there while they could. But it’s too late for improvements now. The universe is done; the last stone is set, and the debris was cleared away millions of years ago. Poor Lazarus over there, chattering his teeth against the curb he uses as a pillow and shaking in his rags—he could plug both ears with scraps of cloth and wedge a corncob in his mouth, and still that stormy Euroclydon would find its way in. Euroclydon! scoffs old Dives in his red silk robe—(he got an even redder one later)—pooh, pooh! What a crisp, frosty night; look how Orion sparkles, and how the northern lights glow! Let them rave about their eternal tropical summers, their nonstop greenhouses; I’ll take the joy of making my own summer with my own coals.
But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost?
But what does Lazarus think? Can he warm his cold, blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Wouldn't Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Wouldn't he much prefer to lie down stretched along the equator; yes, gods! Even descend into the fiery pit itself, just to escape this freezing cold?
Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans.
Now, the fact that Lazarus is left stranded there on the curb in front of Dives's door is more astonishing than an iceberg being anchored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself lives like a czar in an ice palace built from frozen sighs, and as a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the lukewarm tears of orphans.
But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this “Spouter” may be.
But enough of this crying now—we’re going whaling, and there’s plenty of that ahead. Let’s scrape the ice off our frozen feet and check out what kind of place this “Spouter” really is.
CHAPTER 3. The Spouter-Inn.
Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of the bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large oilpainting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal crosslights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.
When you stepped into the gable-roofed Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, rambling hallway with old-fashioned wood paneling that made you think of the sides of some battered old ship destined for the scrapyard. On one wall hung a massive oil painting, so darkened by smoke and damaged in every way, that in the uneven and dim lighting, it was only through careful study, repeated visits, and asking around that you could begin to figure out what it was supposed to depict. The strange, jumbled masses of shadow and darkness initially made you think that some overambitious young artist from the days of New England witches had tried to paint a vision of chaos possessed. But after a lot of thoughtful staring, repeated reflection, and especially by opening the small window at the back of the hallway, you eventually concluded that the wild idea might not be entirely off the mark.
But what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber, portentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the picture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a nameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what that marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas, deceptive idea would dart you through.—It’s the Black Sea in a midnight gale.—It’s the unnatural combat of the four primal elements.—It’s a blasted heath.—It’s a Hyperborean winter scene.—It’s the breaking-up of the icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to that one portentous something in the picture’s midst. That once found out, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint resemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?
What puzzled and baffled you the most was a long, flexible, ominous black shape hovering in the center of the scene, over three faint, blue vertical lines floating in some undefined, frothy chaos. A swampy, messy, unsettling image for sure—enough to drive a nervous person mad. Yet there was a vague, partially grasped, unimaginable grandeur about it that held you frozen, until you silently promised yourself you’d figure out what that strange painting meant. Every now and then, a bright but, unfortunately, misleading idea would flash through your mind—It’s the Black Sea in a storm at midnight. It’s the chaotic battle of the four primal elements. It’s a desolate, cursed wasteland. It’s an icy, far-northern winter scene. It’s the shattering of the frozen river of Time. But in the end, all those ideas gave way to that one ominous shape in the middle of the picture. *That* was the key—figure that out, and the rest would make sense. Wait a second—doesn’t it faintly resemble an enormous fish? Maybe even the great leviathan itself?
In fact, the artist’s design seemed this: a final theory of my own, partly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with whom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mast-heads.
It seems the artist’s idea was this: a final theory of my own, partly based on the combined opinions of many older people I spoke to about the subject. The image shows a Cape-Horner caught in a massive hurricane; the half-sunken ship is tossing about with only its three broken masts visible. Meanwhile, an enraged whale, about to leap entirely over the vessel, is in the colossal act of spearing itself on the three mastheads.
The opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots of human hair; and one was sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping round like the segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed mower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what monstrous cannibal and savage could ever have gone a death-harvesting with such a hacking, horrifying implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling lances and harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were storied weapons. With this once long lance, now wildly elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan Swain kill fifteen whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that harpoon—so like a corkscrew now—was flung in Javan seas, and run away with by a whale, years afterwards slain off the Cape of Blanco. The original iron entered nigh the tail, and, like a restless needle sojourning in the body of a man, travelled full forty feet, and at last was found imbedded in the hump.
The opposite wall of this entryway was covered with a bizarre collection of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were lined with shiny teeth that looked like ivory saws; others had tufts of human hair attached; and one was shaped like a sickle, with a giant handle that curved around like the arc made by a long-armed mower cutting fresh grass. The sight made you shudder, and you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of terrifying cannibal or savage could have used such a brutal, horrifying tool to reap lives. Mixed in with these were old, rusty whaling lances and harpoons, all bent and battered. Some of them had stories to tell. For instance, with this once-long lance—now crooked and twisted—Nathan Swain had killed fifteen whales in a single day, fifty years ago, between sunrise and sunset. And that harpoon, now twisted like a corkscrew, had been thrown into a whale in the Javan seas and carried off, only for the whale to be killed years later near Cape Blanco. The original iron had gone in near the whale's tail and, like a restless needle moving through a man’s body, had traveled forty feet and ended up lodged in the hump.
Crossing this dusky entry, and on through yon low-arched way—cut through what in old times must have been a great central chimney with fireplaces all round—you enter the public room. A still duskier place is this, with such low ponderous beams above, and such old wrinkled planks beneath, that you would almost fancy you trod some old craft’s cockpits, especially of such a howling night, when this corner-anchored old ark rocked so furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities gathered from this wide world’s remotest nooks. Projecting from the further angle of the room stands a dark-looking den—the bar—a rude attempt at a right whale’s head. Be that how it may, there stands the vast arched bone of the whale’s jaw, so wide, a coach might almost drive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.
Walking through this dimly lit entrance, and then through the low-arched passage—carved out of what must have been a huge central chimney with fireplaces all around back in the day—you reach the main room. It’s an even gloomier space, with massive, low-hanging beams overhead and old, creaky floorboards underfoot, making you feel like you’re walking through the hold of an ancient ship, especially on stormy nights when this old, stationary structure rocks violently. On one side, there’s a long, low table resembling a shelf, cluttered with cracked glass cases full of dusty oddities collected from the farthest corners of the world. In the further corner of the room stands a dark, confined space—the bar—a rough imitation of a right whale’s head. True or not, there sits the enormous arch of a whale’s jawbone, so broad you could nearly drive a carriage through it. Inside, shabby shelves are lined with aged decanters, bottles, and flasks; and within those ominous jaws, like a doomed Jonah (a nickname they actually gave him), scurries a little shriveled old man who eagerly trades sailors their money for illusions and ruin.
Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison. Though true cylinders without—within, the villanous green goggling glasses deceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians rudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads’ goblets. Fill to this mark, and your charge is but a penny; to this a penny more; and so on to the full glass—the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp down for a shilling.
The tumblers he pours his poison into are horrible. On the outside, they’re true cylinders, but on the inside, they’re sinister green glasses that narrow deceitfully toward a fake bottom. Roughly scratched parallel lines circle these thieves’ goblets. Fill to *this* mark, and it costs you only a penny; to *this* one, another penny; and so on, until you reach a full glass—the "Cape Horn" measure, which you can gulp down for a shilling.
Upon entering the place I found a number of young seamen gathered about a table, examining by a dim light divers specimens of skrimshander. I sought the landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated with a room, received for answer that his house was full—not a bed unoccupied. “But avast,” he added, tapping his forehead, “you haint no objections to sharing a harpooneer’s blanket, have ye? I s’pose you are goin’ a-whalin’, so you’d better get used to that sort of thing.”
When I walked in, I found a group of young sailors gathered around a table, checking out various pieces of scrimshaw under a dim light. I looked for the landlord and told him I needed a room. He replied that the place was full—not a single bed available. "But hold on," he said, tapping his forehead, "you don't mind sharing a blanket with a harpooner, do you? I assume you're going whaling, so you might as well get used to that kind of thing."
I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that if I should ever do so, it would depend upon who the harpooneer might be, and that if he (the landlord) really had no other place for me, and the harpooneer was not decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander further about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up with the half of any decent man’s blanket.
I told him that I never liked sharing a bed; that if I ever did, it would depend on who the harpooneer was, and that if he (the landlord) truly didn’t have any other place for me, and the harpooneer wasn’t absolutely objectionable, then rather than keep wandering around an unfamiliar town on such a freezing night, I’d settle for sharing a blanket with any decent guy.
“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?—you want supper? Supper’ll be ready directly.”
"I figured as much. All right, have a seat. Hungry? Want to eat? Dinner will be ready soon."
I sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like a bench on the Battery. At one end a ruminating tar was still further adorning it with his jack-knife, stooping over and diligently working away at the space between his legs. He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but he didn’t make much headway, I thought.
I sat down on an old wooden bench, carved all over like one of the benches at the Battery. At one end, a contemplative sailor was adding even more carvings with his pocketknife, bent over and carefully working on the space between his knees. He was trying to carve a ship under full sail, but I didn’t think he was making much progress.
At last some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in an adjoining room. It was cold as Iceland—no fire at all—the landlord said he couldn’t afford it. Nothing but two dismal tallow candles, each in a winding sheet. We were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold to our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers. But the fare was of the most substantial kind—not only meat and potatoes, but dumplings; good heavens! dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green box coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most direful manner.
Eventually, about four or five of us were called for dinner in a nearby room. It was as cold as Iceland—no fire at all—the landlord said he couldn’t afford it. There were only two gloomy tallow candles, each with wax dripping like a shroud. We had to pull our jackets tight and warm our half-frozen fingers around cups of scalding tea. But the food was hearty—not just meat and potatoes, but dumplings too. Dumplings for dinner, of all things! One young guy in a green coat attacked those dumplings like his life depended on it.
“My boy,” said the landlord, “you’ll have the nightmare to a dead sartainty.”
"My boy," said the landlord, "you're sure to have nightmares."
“Landlord,” I whispered, “that aint the harpooneer is it?”
"Landlord," I whispered, "that's not the harpooner, is it?"
“Oh, no,” said he, looking a sort of diabolically funny, “the harpooneer is a dark complexioned chap. He never eats dumplings, he don’t—he eats nothing but steaks, and he likes ’em rare.”
"Oh, no," he said, with a kind of devilish humor, "the harpooner is a dark-skinned guy. He never eats dumplings—no, he only eats steaks, and he likes them rare."
“The devil he does,” says I. “Where is that harpooneer? Is he here?”
"The hell he does," I said. "Where's that harpooner? Is he here?"
“He’ll be here afore long,” was the answer.
“He’ll be here before long,” was the answer.
I could not help it, but I began to feel suspicious of this “dark complexioned” harpooneer. At any rate, I made up my mind that if it so turned out that we should sleep together, he must undress and get into bed before I did.
I couldn't help it, but I started feeling suspicious of this "dark-skinned" harpooner. Either way, I decided that if it turned out we had to share the bed, he'd have to undress and get in first.
Supper over, the company went back to the bar-room, when, knowing not what else to do with myself, I resolved to spend the rest of the evening as a looker on.
After dinner, everyone returned to the bar, and not knowing what else to do with myself, I decided to spend the rest of the evening just watching.
Presently a rioting noise was heard without. Starting up, the landlord cried, “That’s the Grampus’s crew. I seed her reported in the offing this morning; a three years’ voyage, and a full ship. Hurrah, boys; now we’ll have the latest news from the Feegees.”
Suddenly, a loud commotion was heard outside. Jumping up, the landlord shouted, “That’s the Grampus’s crew! I saw her mentioned coming into view this morning—a three-year voyage and fully loaded. All right, boys, now we’ll get the latest news from the Fiji Islands!”
A tramping of sea boots was heard in the entry; the door was flung open, and in rolled a wild set of mariners enough. Enveloped in their shaggy watch coats, and with their heads muffled in woollen comforters, all bedarned and ragged, and their beards stiff with icicles, they seemed an eruption of bears from Labrador. They had just landed from their boat, and this was the first house they entered. No wonder, then, that they made a straight wake for the whale’s mouth—the bar—when the wrinkled little old Jonah, there officiating, soon poured them out brimmers all round. One complained of a bad cold in his head, upon which Jonah mixed him a pitch-like potion of gin and molasses, which he swore was a sovereign cure for all colds and catarrhs whatsoever, never mind of how long standing, or whether caught off the coast of Labrador, or on the weather side of an ice-island.
You could hear the stomping of sea boots in the entryway; the door flew open, and in stormed a wild group of sailors, enough to grab anyone's attention. Wrapped up in their heavy, shaggy coats and with their heads bundled in wool scarves—tattered and patched all over—and with their beards frozen stiff with icicles, they looked like a pack of bears straight out of Labrador. They had just come ashore from their boat, and this was the first building they stumbled into. Naturally, they headed directly for the bar, nicknamed "the whale’s mouth," where a wrinkled old man—Jonah—was tending to customers and immediately poured out full glasses for them all. One sailor complained about a nasty cold, so Jonah whipped up a thick, syrupy remedy made from gin and molasses, claiming it was a guaranteed cure for any cold or congestion, no matter how long someone had it or whether it was picked up off the Labrador coast or near an ice island on the coldest sea.
The liquor soon mounted into their heads, as it generally does even with the arrantest topers newly landed from sea, and they began capering about most obstreperously.
The alcohol quickly went to their heads, as it usually does even with the most seasoned drinkers just off a ship, and they started dancing around wildly.
I observed, however, that one of them held somewhat aloof, and though he seemed desirous not to spoil the hilarity of his shipmates by his own sober face, yet upon the whole he refrained from making as much noise as the rest. This man interested me at once; and since the sea-gods had ordained that he should soon become my shipmate (though but a sleeping-partner one, so far as this narrative is concerned), I will here venture upon a little description of him. He stood full six feet in height, with noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I have seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply brown and burnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the contrast; while in the deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much joy. His voice at once announced that he was a Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When the revelry of his companions had mounted to its height, this man slipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his shipmates, and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favourite with them, they raised a cry of “Bulkington! Bulkington! where’s Bulkington?” and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.
I noticed, though, that one of them kept a little to himself, and while he didn’t seem to want to ruin his crewmates’ fun with his serious expression, he mostly held back from making as much noise as the others. This guy caught my attention right away; and since fate decided he’d soon be my shipmate (though just a minor part of this story), I think it’s worth giving a quick description of him here. He stood a full six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a chest as solid as a dam. I’ve rarely seen someone so muscular. His face was deeply tanned and weathered, which made his white teeth gleam even more by contrast. In the dark shadows of his eyes, there seemed to be some memories that didn’t bring him much happiness. His accent immediately gave away that he was from the South, and based on his impressive height and build, I figured he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Allegheny Ridge in Virginia. When his shipmates’ partying was at its peak, this man quietly slipped away without anyone noticing, and I didn’t see him again until he became my companion at sea. Within a few minutes, though, his crewmates realized he was gone, and since, for some reason, he seemed to be a big favorite of theirs, they all started shouting, “Bulkington! Bulkington! Where’s Bulkington?” and ran out of the tavern to look for him.
It was now about nine o’clock, and the room seeming almost supernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to congratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to me just previous to the entrance of the seamen.
It was around nine o’clock now, and with the room feeling almost eerily quiet after all the chaos, I started to feel pleased with myself for coming up with a little plan just before the sailors had arrived.
No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you would a good deal rather not sleep with your own brother. I don’t know how it is, but people like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town, and that stranger a harpooneer, then your objections indefinitely multiply. Nor was there any earthly reason why I as a sailor should sleep two in a bed, more than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep two in a bed at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all sleep together in one apartment, but you have your own hammock, and cover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.
No one wants to share a bed with someone else. Honestly, you would much rather not even share one with your own brother. I’m not sure why, but people prefer their privacy when they’re sleeping. Now, imagine having to share a bed with a complete stranger in an unfamiliar inn, in an unfamiliar town, and that stranger happens to be a harpooner—your objections would skyrocket. And really, there was no logical reason why I, as a sailor, should have to share a bed any more than anyone else; sailors don’t share beds at sea, just like single kings don’t on land. Sure, we all sleep in the same space, but you get your own hammock, your own blanket, and sleep on your own terms.
The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I abominated the thought of sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a harpooneer, his linen or woollen, as the case might be, would not be of the tidiest, certainly none of the finest. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be home and going bedwards. Suppose now, he should tumble in upon me at midnight—how could I tell from what vile hole he had been coming?
The more I thought about this harpooner, the more I hated the idea of sharing a bed with him. It was reasonable to assume that, as a harpooner, his clothes—whether linen or wool—weren’t exactly the cleanest, and definitely not the nicest. I started feeling uncomfortable all over. Plus, it was getting late, and my respectable harpooner should already be home and heading to bed. What if he barged in on me at midnight—how could I know what filthy place he’d been coming from?
“Landlord! I’ve changed my mind about that harpooneer.—I shan’t sleep with him. I’ll try the bench here.”
"Landlord! I've changed my mind about that harpooner—I’m not sharing a bed with him. I’ll just sleep on this bench instead."
“Just as you please; I’m sorry I can’t spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it’s a plaguy rough board here”—feeling of the knots and notches. “But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I’ve got a carpenter’s plane there in the bar—wait, I say, and I’ll make ye snug enough.” So saying he procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning like an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was near spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven’s sake to quit—the bed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine plank. So gathering up the shavings with another grin, and throwing them into the great stove in the middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a brown study.
"Suit yourself; sorry I can’t offer you a tablecloth for a mattress, and this board’s pretty rough," he said, running his hand over the knots and notches. "But hold on a second, Skrimshander. I’ve got a carpenter’s plane in the bar—just wait, and I’ll fix you up." With that, he grabbed the plane, dusted off the bench with his old silk handkerchief, and got to work smoothing out my bed while grinning like a monkey. Shavings flew everywhere until the plane came to a jarring stop against a tough, unmovable knot. Nearly spraining his wrist, the landlord finally gave up when I told him to stop—seriously, the bed was fine, and no amount of planing was going to turn a pine plank into a cloud of eiderdown. Smiling again, he gathered up the shavings, threw them into the massive stove in the center of the room, and went about his business, leaving me to my thoughts.
I now took the measure of the bench, and found that it was a foot too short; but that could be mended with a chair. But it was a foot too narrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches higher than the planed one—so there was no yoking them. I then placed the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space against the wall, leaving a little interval between, for my back to settle down in. But I soon found that there came such a draught of cold air over me from under the sill of the window, that this plan would never do at all, especially as another current from the rickety door met the one from the window, and both together formed a series of small whirlwinds in the immediate vicinity of the spot where I had thought to spend the night.
I measured the bench and realized it was a foot too short, but I could fix that with a chair. However, it was also a foot too narrow, and the other bench in the room was about four inches taller than the one I’d smoothed down—so they couldn’t be matched up. I decided to place the first bench lengthwise along the only clear space by the wall, leaving a small gap for my back to fit into. But I quickly found that a strong draft of cold air was flowing over me from under the window sill, making this plan impossible, especially since another draft from the wobbly door collided with the one from the window, combining into a little series of whirlwinds right where I was planning to sleep.
The devil fetch that harpooneer, thought I, but stop, couldn’t I steal a march on him—bolt his door inside, and jump into his bed, not to be wakened by the most violent knockings? It seemed no bad idea; but upon second thoughts I dismissed it. For who could tell but what the next morning, so soon as I popped out of the room, the harpooneer might be standing in the entry, all ready to knock me down!
Damn that harpooner, I thought. But wait, couldn’t I get ahead of him—lock his door from the inside and jump into his bed so no amount of banging could wake me up? It didn’t seem like a bad idea at first, but on second thought, I decided against it. Who’s to say that the next morning, as soon as I stepped out of the room, the harpooner wouldn’t be waiting in the hallway, ready to knock me out?
Still, looking round me again, and seeing no possible chance of spending a sufferable night unless in some other person’s bed, I began to think that after all I might be cherishing unwarrantable prejudices against this unknown harpooneer. Thinks I, I’ll wait awhile; he must be dropping in before long. I’ll have a good look at him then, and perhaps we may become jolly good bedfellows after all—there’s no telling.
Still, as I looked around again and saw no chance of having a bearable night unless I used someone else’s bed, I started to wonder if maybe I was holding onto some unnecessary prejudices about this unknown harpooneer. I thought to myself, I’ll wait a bit; he’s bound to show up soon. I’ll take a good look at him then, and who knows, maybe we’ll end up being good roommates after all—there’s no way to tell.
But though the other boarders kept coming in by ones, twos, and threes, and going to bed, yet no sign of my harpooneer.
But even though the other boarders kept coming in one by one, in pairs, or in small groups and heading to bed, there was still no sign of my harpooner.
“Landlord!” said I, “what sort of a chap is he—does he always keep such late hours?” It was now hard upon twelve o’clock.
"Landlord!" I said, "what kind of guy is he—does he always stay out this late?" It was almost midnight now.
The landlord chuckled again with his lean chuckle, and seemed to be mightily tickled at something beyond my comprehension. “No,” he answered, “generally he’s an early bird—airley to bed and airley to rise—yes, he’s the bird what catches the worm. But to-night he went out a peddling, you see, and I don’t see what on airth keeps him so late, unless, may be, he can’t sell his head.”
The landlord chuckled again with his dry laugh and seemed to be really amused by something I couldn’t understand. “No,” he said, “usually he’s an early bird—early to bed and early to rise—yep, he’s the one who catches the worm. But tonight he went out peddling, you see, and I can’t imagine what’s keeping him out so late, unless maybe he can’t sell his head.”
“Can’t sell his head?—What sort of a bamboozingly story is this you are telling me?” getting into a towering rage. “Do you pretend to say, landlord, that this harpooneer is actually engaged this blessed Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, in peddling his head around this town?”
"Can't sell his head? What kind of ridiculous story are you telling me?" he said, getting furious. "Are you seriously trying to tell me, landlord, that this harpooneer is actually spending this Saturday night—or rather Sunday morning—wandering around town trying to sell his head?"
“That’s precisely it,” said the landlord, “and I told him he couldn’t sell it here, the market’s overstocked.”
"Exactly," said the landlord. "I told him he couldn’t sell it here because the market’s already oversaturated."
“With what?” shouted I.
“With what?” I shouted.
“With heads to be sure; ain’t there too many heads in the world?”
"With heads, of course; aren't there way too many heads in the world?"
“I tell you what it is, landlord,” said I quite calmly, “you’d better stop spinning that yarn to me—I’m not green.”
"I'll tell you something, landlord," I said calmly, "you better stop telling me that story—I'm not naive."
“May be not,” taking out a stick and whittling a toothpick, “but I rayther guess you’ll be done brown if that ere harpooneer hears you a slanderin’ his head.”
"Maybe not," he said, pulling out a stick and carving it into a toothpick, "but I’d guess you’ll be in serious trouble if that harpooner hears you insulting his head."
“I’ll break it for him,” said I, now flying into a passion again at this unaccountable farrago of the landlord’s.
"I'll break it for him," I said, getting angry again at the landlord's ridiculous nonsense.
“It’s broke a’ready,” said he.
“It’s broken already,” he said.
“Broke,” said I—“broke, do you mean?”
"Broke," I said—"you mean broke?"
“Sartain, and that’s the very reason he can’t sell it, I guess.”
"Exactly, and that's probably why he can't sell it, I think."
“Landlord,” said I, going up to him as cool as Mt. Hecla in a snow-storm—“landlord, stop whittling. You and I must understand one another, and that too without delay. I come to your house and want a bed; you tell me you can only give me half a one; that the other half belongs to a certain harpooneer. And about this harpooneer, whom I have not yet seen, you persist in telling me the most mystifying and exasperating stories tending to beget in me an uncomfortable feeling towards the man whom you design for my bedfellow—a sort of connexion, landlord, which is an intimate and confidential one in the highest degree. I now demand of you to speak out and tell me who and what this harpooneer is, and whether I shall be in all respects safe to spend the night with him. And in the first place, you will be so good as to unsay that story about selling his head, which if true I take to be good evidence that this harpooneer is stark mad, and I’ve no idea of sleeping with a madman; and you, sir, you I mean, landlord, you, sir, by trying to induce me to do so knowingly, would thereby render yourself liable to a criminal prosecution.”
"Landlord," I said, walking up to him as calm as an icy mountain in a snowstorm, "stop carving that wood. You and I need to have an understanding, and we need to do it now. I come to your place looking for a bed; you tell me I can only have half of one because the other half is already taken by some harpooner. And about this harpooner, who I haven’t even met yet, you keep telling me these bizarre and aggravating tales that make me feel uneasy about the guy you want me to share a bed with—a situation, landlord, that’s pretty personal and private, to say the least. I’m now insisting that you tell me the truth about who this harpooner is and whether it’s going to be safe for me to stay the night with him. First off, take back that story about him selling heads, because if that’s true, it’s clear this harpooner is completely insane, and I’m not about to share a bed with a madman. And you, sir—you, landlord—by trying to get me to do this knowingly, could make yourself legally responsible for whatever happens."
“Wall,” said the landlord, fetching a long breath, “that’s a purty long sarmon for a chap that rips a little now and then. But be easy, be easy, this here harpooneer I have been tellin’ you of has just arrived from the south seas, where he bought up a lot of ’balmed New Zealand heads (great curios, you know), and he’s sold all on ’em but one, and that one he’s trying to sell to-night, cause to-morrow’s Sunday, and it would not do to be sellin’ human heads about the streets when folks is goin’ to churches. He wanted to, last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was goin’ out of the door with four heads strung on a string, for all the airth like a string of inions.”
"Well," said the landlord, taking a deep breath, "that’s a pretty long sermon for a guy who swears a bit now and then. But take it easy, take it easy. This harpooneer I’ve been telling you about just got back from the South Seas, where he picked up a bunch of embalmed New Zealand heads—amazing curiosities, you know—and he’s sold all of them except one. He’s trying to sell that last one tonight because tomorrow’s Sunday, and you can’t really be selling human heads on the streets when people are heading to church. He wanted to do it last Sunday, but I stopped him just as he was about to walk out the door with four heads strung together, looking just like a string of onions."
This account cleared up the otherwise unaccountable mystery, and showed that the landlord, after all, had had no idea of fooling me—but at the same time what could I think of a harpooneer who stayed out of a Saturday night clean into the holy Sabbath, engaged in such a cannibal business as selling the heads of dead idolators?
This explanation solved the otherwise puzzling mystery and proved that the landlord had no intention of tricking me—but still, what was I supposed to think of a harpooner who stayed out all Saturday night right into the sacred Sunday, involved in such a savage business as selling the heads of dead idolaters?
“Depend upon it, landlord, that harpooneer is a dangerous man.”
"Trust me, landlord, that harpooner is a dangerous guy."
“He pays reg’lar,” was the rejoinder. “But come, it’s getting dreadful late, you had better be turning flukes—it’s a nice bed; Sal and me slept in that ere bed the night we were spliced. There’s plenty of room for two to kick about in that bed; it’s an almighty big bed that. Why, afore we give it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny in the foot of it. But I got a dreaming and sprawling about one night, and somehow, Sam got pitched on the floor, and came near breaking his arm. Arter that, Sal said it wouldn’t do. Come along here, I’ll give ye a glim in a jiffy;” and so saying he lighted a candle and held it towards me, offering to lead the way. But I stood irresolute; when looking at a clock in the corner, he exclaimed “I vum it’s Sunday—you won’t see that harpooneer to-night; he’s come to anchor somewhere—come along then; do come; won’t ye come?”
"He pays regularly," he replied. "But come on, it's getting really late. You should head to bed—it's a nice one. Sal and I slept in that bed the night we got married. There's plenty of room for two to move around in that bed; it's a huge bed. Why, before we gave it up, Sal used to put our Sam and little Johnny at the foot of it. But one night, I started dreaming and tossing around, and somehow Sam fell on the floor and nearly broke his arm. After that, Sal said it wouldn’t work. Come on, I'll get you some light in no time," and as he said this, he lit a candle and held it out toward me, offering to show me the way. But I hesitated. Then, glancing at a clock in the corner, he burst out, "I swear, it's Sunday—you’re not going to see that harpooner tonight; he’s settled in somewhere. Come on, then; please come; won’t you come?"
I considered the matter a moment, and then up stairs we went, and I was ushered into a small room, cold as a clam, and furnished, sure enough, with a prodigious bed, almost big enough indeed for any four harpooneers to sleep abreast.
I thought about it for a moment, then we went upstairs, and I was shown into a small, freezing cold room, furnished, sure enough, with an enormous bed, almost big enough for four harpooners to sleep side by side.
“There,” said the landlord, placing the candle on a crazy old sea chest that did double duty as a wash-stand and centre table; “there, make yourself comfortable now, and good night to ye.” I turned round from eyeing the bed, but he had disappeared.
"Here you go," said the landlord, setting the candle down on an old, wobbly sea chest that served as both a washstand and a table. "Make yourself comfortable, and good night." I turned away from looking at the bed, but he was already gone.
Folding back the counterpane, I stooped over the bed. Though none of the most elegant, it yet stood the scrutiny tolerably well. I then glanced round the room; and besides the bedstead and centre table, could see no other furniture belonging to the place, but a rude shelf, the four walls, and a papered fireboard representing a man striking a whale. Of things not properly belonging to the room, there was a hammock lashed up, and thrown upon the floor in one corner; also a large seaman’s bag, containing the harpooneer’s wardrobe, no doubt in lieu of a land trunk. Likewise, there was a parcel of outlandish bone fish hooks on the shelf over the fire-place, and a tall harpoon standing at the head of the bed.
Pulling back the blanket, I leaned over the bed. While it wasn’t the most elegant, it held up reasonably well under inspection. I then looked around the room. Aside from the bed frame and the table in the center, there wasn’t much furniture—just a crude shelf, the four bare walls, and a decorated fireboard with a picture of a man striking a whale. As for personal items not part of the room, there was a hammock rolled up and tossed onto the floor in one corner, along with a large sailor's bag, likely holding the harpooner’s clothing instead of a typical suitcase. On the shelf above the fireplace, there was a bunch of strange fishbone hooks, and at the head of the bed stood a tall harpoon.
But what is this on the chest? I took it up, and held it close to the light, and felt it, and smelt it, and tried every way possible to arrive at some satisfactory conclusion concerning it. I can compare it to nothing but a large door mat, ornamented at the edges with little tinkling tags something like the stained porcupine quills round an Indian moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle of this mat, as you see the same in South American ponchos. But could it be possible that any sober harpooneer would get into a door mat, and parade the streets of any Christian town in that sort of guise? I put it on, to try it, and it weighed me down like a hamper, being uncommonly shaggy and thick, and I thought a little damp, as though this mysterious harpooneer had been wearing it of a rainy day. I went up in it to a bit of glass stuck against the wall, and I never saw such a sight in my life. I tore myself out of it in such a hurry that I gave myself a kink in the neck.
What's this on the chest? I picked it up, held it close to the light, touched it, smelled it, and tried everything I could think of to figure out what it was. The only thing I could compare it to was a big doormat, decorated around the edges with little jingling tags, sort of like the dyed porcupine quills you'd see on an Indigenous moccasin. There was a hole or slit in the middle, like you'd find in South American ponchos. But could any sane harpooneer really wear a doormat and walk around any respectable town dressed like that? I decided to try it on, and it weighed me down like a basket—super shaggy and thick, and it felt a bit damp, as if this strange harpooneer had been wearing it on a rainy day. I went over to a piece of glass stuck to the wall to take a look at myself, and I swear, I’d never seen anything like it. I tore it off so fast I twisted my neck.
I sat down on the side of the bed, and commenced thinking about this head-peddling harpooneer, and his door mat. After thinking some time on the bed-side, I got up and took off my monkey jacket, and then stood in the middle of the room thinking. I then took off my coat, and thought a little more in my shirt sleeves. But beginning to feel very cold now, half undressed as I was, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooneer’s not coming home at all that night, it being so very late, I made no more ado, but jumped out of my pantaloons and boots, and then blowing out the light tumbled into bed, and commended myself to the care of heaven.
I sat down on the edge of the bed and started thinking about this harpooner who sells heads, and his doormat. After sitting and thinking for a while, I got up, took off my jacket, and stood in the middle of the room, still lost in thought. Then I took off my coat and kept thinking in just my shirt sleeves. But I started feeling really cold, being half-dressed like that, and remembering what the landlord said about the harpooner probably not coming home at all that night since it was so late, I didn’t waste any more time. I quickly took off my pants and boots, blew out the light, jumped into bed, and entrusted myself to heaven’s care.
Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn-cobs or broken crockery, there is no telling, but I rolled about a good deal, and could not sleep for a long time. At last I slid off into a light doze, and had pretty nearly made a good offing towards the land of Nod, when I heard a heavy footfall in the passage, and saw a glimmer of light come into the room from under the door.
Whether that mattress was stuffed with corn husks or broken pieces of crockery, I couldn't tell, but I tossed and turned a lot and couldn't fall asleep for a long time. Eventually, I drifted into a light nap and was just about on my way to deep sleep when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway and noticed a faint light shining into the room from under the door.
Lord save me, thinks I, that must be the harpooneer, the infernal head-peddler. But I lay perfectly still, and resolved not to say a word till spoken to. Holding a light in one hand, and that identical New Zealand head in the other, the stranger entered the room, and without looking towards the bed, placed his candle a good way off from me on the floor in one corner, and then began working away at the knotted cords of the large bag I before spoke of as being in the room. I was all eagerness to see his face, but he kept it averted for some time while employed in unlacing the bag’s mouth. This accomplished, however, he turned round—when, good heavens! what a sight! Such a face! It was of a dark, purplish, yellow colour, here and there stuck over with large blackish looking squares. Yes, it’s just as I thought, he’s a terrible bedfellow; he’s been in a fight, got dreadfully cut, and here he is, just from the surgeon. But at that moment he chanced to turn his face so towards the light, that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man—a whaleman too—who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all. But, after some difficulty having opened his bag, he commenced fumbling in it, and presently pulled out a sort of tomahawk, and a seal-skin wallet with the hair on. Placing these on the old chest in the middle of the room, he then took the New Zealand head—a ghastly thing enough—and crammed it down into the bag. He now took off his hat—a new beaver hat—when I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise. There was no hair on his head—none to speak of at least—nothing but a small scalp-knot twisted up on his forehead. His bald purplish head now looked for all the world like a mildewed skull. Had not the stranger stood between me and the door, I would have bolted out of it quicker than ever I bolted a dinner.
Lord, help me, I thought, that must be the harpooneer—the terrifying head-seller. But I stayed completely still, deciding not to say a word until he spoke first. Holding a light in one hand and that same New Zealand head in the other, the stranger walked into the room. Without even glancing at the bed, he set his candle far away from me on the floor in one corner, then began working on the knotted cords of the big bag I mentioned earlier being in the room. I was dying to see his face, but he kept it turned away as he focused on unlacing the bag's opening. Once he finished, however, he turned around—and oh my God, what a sight! What a face! It was dark, purplish yellow, scattered with large, blackish-looking squares. Oh no, just as I guessed, he’s a terrifying guy to share a bed with. He must’ve been in a fight, got horribly injured, and came straight from the doctor. But then, as he turned his face toward the light, I realized those black squares on his cheeks weren’t bandages at all. They were some kind of stains. At first, I had no idea what to make of this, but then it hit me. I remembered hearing a story about a white man—a whaler, no less—who fell in with cannibals at some point and got tattooed by them. I figured this harpooneer must’ve had a similar experience during one of his long voyages. And really, when it comes down to it, so what? It’s just his appearance; a person can be honest regardless of what their skin looks like. But still, what could explain his bizarre complexion—the part that had nothing to do with the tattooed squares? Maybe it was just a deep tan from traveling in tropical regions. But I’d never heard of the sun turning a white man purplish yellow. Then again, I’d never been to the South Seas, so maybe the sunlight there causes these strange effects. All these thoughts raced through my mind in an instant, yet the harpooneer didn’t seem to notice me at all. After struggling a bit to open his bag, he started rummaging around and soon took out a tomahawk and a seal-skin wallet, still with the fur on. He placed these items on the old chest in the room’s center, then grabbed the New Zealand head—a horrifying thing—and stuffed it into the bag. Removing his hat—a new, fancy beaver hat—he surprised me all over again. He was bald—completely bald, aside from a small scalp-knot twisted on his forehead. His bare, purplish head looked exactly like a rotting skull. If the stranger hadn’t been blocking the door, I would’ve bolted out of there faster than I’ve ever finished a meal.
Even as it was, I thought something of slipping out of the window, but it was the second floor back. I am no coward, but what to make of this head-peddling purple rascal altogether passed my comprehension. Ignorance is the parent of fear, and being completely nonplussed and confounded about the stranger, I confess I was now as much afraid of him as if it was the devil himself who had thus broken into my room at the dead of night. In fact, I was so afraid of him that I was not game enough just then to address him, and demand a satisfactory answer concerning what seemed inexplicable in him.
Even as things were, I considered sneaking out the window, but I was on the second floor in the back of the building. I'm not a coward, but I had no idea what to think about this head-selling purple weirdo—it completely baffled me. Ignorance breeds fear, and since I was totally confused and overwhelmed by this stranger, I admit I was just as scared of him as if the devil himself had broken into my room in the middle of the night. Honestly, I was so terrified that I didn’t have the courage to confront him right then and demand a clear explanation for everything that seemed so strange about him.
Meanwhile, he continued the business of undressing, and at last showed his chest and arms. As I live, these covered parts of him were checkered with the same squares as his face; his back, too, was all over the same dark squares; he seemed to have been in a Thirty Years’ War, and just escaped from it with a sticking-plaster shirt. Still more, his very legs were marked, as if a parcel of dark green frogs were running up the trunks of young palms. It was now quite plain that he must be some abominable savage or other shipped aboard of a whaleman in the South Seas, and so landed in this Christian country. I quaked to think of it. A peddler of heads too—perhaps the heads of his own brothers. He might take a fancy to mine—heavens! look at that tomahawk!
Meanwhile, he kept getting undressed, and eventually revealed his chest and arms. I swear, the skin there was patterned with the same squares as his face; his back was also completely covered in the same dark markings. He looked like he’d been through a long, brutal war and came out of it wearing a patched-up shirt of sticking plasters. Even more disturbing, his legs had markings that looked like dark green frogs scaling the trunks of young palm trees. It was clear now—he had to be some kind of savage, picked up by a whaling ship in the South Seas and dropped off in this civilized country. The thought made me shiver. A dealer in heads, too—maybe even the heads of his own people. What if he decided he liked mine? Good heavens, just look at that tomahawk!
But there was no time for shuddering, for now the savage went about something that completely fascinated my attention, and convinced me that he must indeed be a heathen. Going to his heavy grego, or wrapall, or dreadnaught, which he had previously hung on a chair, he fumbled in the pockets, and produced at length a curious little deformed image with a hunch on its back, and exactly the colour of a three days’ old Congo baby. Remembering the embalmed head, at first I almost thought that this black manikin was a real baby preserved in some similar manner. But seeing that it was not at all limber, and that it glistened a good deal like polished ebony, I concluded that it must be nothing but a wooden idol, which indeed it proved to be. For now the savage goes up to the empty fire-place, and removing the papered fire-board, sets up this little hunch-backed image, like a tenpin, between the andirons. The chimney jambs and all the bricks inside were very sooty, so that I thought this fire-place made a very appropriate little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.
But there wasn’t any time to recoil, because the man started doing something that completely grabbed my attention and convinced me he must really be a heathen. He went over to his big coat—whether you’d call it a cloak, a wrap, or a thick jacket—that he had hung on a chair earlier. Digging around in the pockets, he finally pulled out a strange little distorted figure with a hunchback, the color of a three-day-old baby from Congo. Remembering the embalmed head I’d seen before, I almost thought this small figure might actually be a real baby preserved in some similar way. But I noticed it wasn’t pliable at all and had a shiny look, like polished ebony, so I figured it had to be just a wooden idol. And I was right. The man went over to the empty fireplace, took away the paper cover placed over the opening, and set up this little hunched figure like a bowling pin between the fireplace andirons. The chimney sides and the bricks inside were all covered in soot, and I couldn’t help but think this fireplace made a strangely fitting little shrine or chapel for his Congo idol.
I now screwed my eyes hard towards the half hidden image, feeling but ill at ease meantime—to see what was next to follow. First he takes about a double handful of shavings out of his grego pocket, and places them carefully before the idol; then laying a bit of ship biscuit on top and applying the flame from the lamp, he kindled the shavings into a sacrificial blaze. Presently, after many hasty snatches into the fire, and still hastier withdrawals of his fingers (whereby he seemed to be scorching them badly), he at last succeeded in drawing out the biscuit; then blowing off the heat and ashes a little, he made a polite offer of it to the little negro. But the little devil did not seem to fancy such dry sort of fare at all; he never moved his lips. All these strange antics were accompanied by still stranger guttural noises from the devotee, who seemed to be praying in a sing-song or else singing some pagan psalmody or other, during which his face twitched about in the most unnatural manner. At last extinguishing the fire, he took the idol up very unceremoniously, and bagged it again in his grego pocket as carelessly as if he were a sportsman bagging a dead woodcock.
I squinted hard at the half-hidden figure, feeling pretty uneasy as I waited to see what would happen next. First, he pulled out a double handful of shavings from his coat pocket and carefully placed them in front of the idol. Then, he put a piece of ship biscuit on top and, using the flame from the lamp, set the shavings on fire like a ritual offering. After several quick grabs at the fire and even quicker jerks of his fingers, as if he were burning himself, he finally managed to pull out the biscuit. Blowing off the heat and ashes, he politely offered it to the little figure. But the little creature didn’t seem interested in such dry food—it didn’t even move its lips. All of these odd actions were paired with even stranger guttural sounds from the man, as though he were praying in some chant-like way or singing a pagan hymn, while his face contorted in the strangest, most unnatural manner. Finally, after putting out the fire, he grabbed the idol without any ceremony and stuffed it back into his coat pocket, as casually as a hunter tossing a dead bird into his bag.
All these queer proceedings increased my uncomfortableness, and seeing him now exhibiting strong symptoms of concluding his business operations, and jumping into bed with me, I thought it was high time, now or never, before the light was put out, to break the spell in which I had so long been bound.
All these strange actions made me even more uncomfortable, and seeing him now showing clear signs of wrapping up his business and getting into bed with me, I decided it was now or never, before the light went out, to break the tension that had kept me frozen for so long.
But the interval I spent in deliberating what to say, was a fatal one. Taking up his tomahawk from the table, he examined the head of it for an instant, and then holding it to the light, with his mouth at the handle, he puffed out great clouds of tobacco smoke. The next moment the light was extinguished, and this wild cannibal, tomahawk between his teeth, sprang into bed with me. I sang out, I could not help it now; and giving a sudden grunt of astonishment he began feeling me.
The time I spent deciding what to say turned out to be a big mistake. Picking up his tomahawk from the table, he inspected the head of it for a moment, then held it up to the light. Placing his mouth on the handle, he blew out huge clouds of tobacco smoke. In the next instant, the light went out, and this wild cannibal, with the tomahawk clamped in his teeth, jumped into bed with me. I couldn't help it—I yelled out. Letting out a surprised grunt, he started feeling around, touching me.
Stammering out something, I knew not what, I rolled away from him against the wall, and then conjured him, whoever or whatever he might be, to keep quiet, and let me get up and light the lamp again. But his guttural responses satisfied me at once that he but ill comprehended my meaning.
Mumbling something—I had no idea what—I moved away from him toward the wall and begged him, whoever or whatever he was, to stay quiet and let me get up to light the lamp again. But his gruff replies quickly made it clear that he barely understood what I meant.
“Who-e debel you?”—he at last said—“you no speak-e, dam-me, I kill-e.” And so saying the lighted tomahawk began flourishing about me in the dark.
"Who the devil are you?" he finally said. "If you don't speak, damn it, I'll kill you." And with that, he started waving the lit tomahawk around me in the dark.
“Landlord, for God’s sake, Peter Coffin!” shouted I. “Landlord! Watch! Coffin! Angels! save me!”
"Landlord, for God's sake, Peter Coffin!" I shouted. "Landlord! Help! Coffin! Angels, save me!"
“Speak-e! tell-ee me who-ee be, or dam-me, I kill-e!” again growled the cannibal, while his horrid flourishings of the tomahawk scattered the hot tobacco ashes about me till I thought my linen would get on fire. But thank heaven, at that moment the landlord came into the room light in hand, and leaping from the bed I ran up to him.
"Speak! Tell me who you are, or damn it, I'll kill you!" the cannibal growled again, waving the tomahawk wildly, scattering hot tobacco ashes all over me until I thought my clothes might catch fire. But thank goodness, just then the landlord came into the room with a light in hand, and I jumped out of bed and ran straight to him.
“Don’t be afraid now,” said he, grinning again, “Queequeg here wouldn’t harm a hair of your head.”
"Don’t be scared now," he said with a grin, "Queequeg here wouldn’t hurt a single hair on your head."
“Stop your grinning,” shouted I, “and why didn’t you tell me that that infernal harpooneer was a cannibal?”
"Stop smiling," I yelled, "and why didn’t you tell me that cursed harpooneer was a cannibal?"
“I thought ye know’d it;—didn’t I tell ye, he was a peddlin’ heads around town?—but turn flukes again and go to sleep. Queequeg, look here—you sabbee me, I sabbee—you this man sleepe you—you sabbee?”
"I thought you knew that—didn't I tell you he was going around selling heads in town?—but never mind, just lie down and go to sleep again. Queequeg, listen—you understand me, I understand you—you, this man sleeps with you—you understand?"
“Me sabbee plenty”—grunted Queequeg, puffing away at his pipe and sitting up in bed.
"Got it, I understand a lot," grunted Queequeg, puffing on his pipe and sitting up in bed.
“You gettee in,” he added, motioning to me with his tomahawk, and throwing the clothes to one side. He really did this in not only a civil but a really kind and charitable way. I stood looking at him a moment. For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. What’s all this fuss I have been making about, thought I to myself—the man’s a human being just as I am: he has just as much reason to fear me, as I have to be afraid of him. Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.
"Get in," he said, gesturing to me with his tomahawk and tossing the clothes aside. He actually did this in a way that was not only polite but also genuinely kind and thoughtful. I stood there looking at him for a moment. Despite all his tattoos, he was, overall, a clean and decent-looking person. What was all the fuss about, I thought to myself—the man’s just as human as I am. He has just as much reason to be scared of me as I have to be scared of him. It’s better to share a bed with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian.
“Landlord,” said I, “tell him to stash his tomahawk there, or pipe, or whatever you call it; tell him to stop smoking, in short, and I will turn in with him. But I don’t fancy having a man smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Besides, I ain’t insured.”
"Hey landlord," I said, "tell him to put away his tomahawk, pipe, or whatever it's called. Tell him to stop smoking, basically, and I'll share the bed with him. But I’m not cool with someone smoking in bed with me. It’s dangerous. Plus, I’m not insured."
This being told to Queequeg, he at once complied, and again politely motioned me to get into bed—rolling over to one side as much as to say—“I won’t touch a leg of ye.”
When Queequeg heard this, he immediately agreed and politely motioned for me to get into bed again—rolling over to one side as if to say, "I won't lay a hand on you."
“Good night, landlord,” said I, “you may go.”
"Good night, landlord," I said. "You can leave now."
I turned in, and never slept better in my life.
I went to bed and had the best sleep of my life.
CHAPTER 4. The Counterpane.
Upon waking next morning about daylight, I found Queequeg’s arm thrown over me in the most loving and affectionate manner. You had almost thought I had been his wife. The counterpane was of patchwork, full of odd little parti-coloured squares and triangles; and this arm of his tattooed all over with an interminable Cretan labyrinth of a figure, no two parts of which were of one precise shade—owing I suppose to his keeping his arm at sea unmethodically in sun and shade, his shirt sleeves irregularly rolled up at various times—this same arm of his, I say, looked for all the world like a strip of that same patchwork quilt. Indeed, partly lying on it as the arm did when I first awoke, I could hardly tell it from the quilt, they so blended their hues together; and it was only by the sense of weight and pressure that I could tell that Queequeg was hugging me.
When I woke up the next morning at dawn, I found Queequeg’s arm draped over me in the most affectionate and caring way. You’d almost think I was his wife. The quilt was patchwork, made up of all sorts of little multicolored squares and triangles. His arm, completely covered in tattoos that formed an endless maze-like design, was made up of colors that didn’t quite match—probably because he’d been out at sea, exposing it unevenly to the sun and shade, with his shirt sleeves rolled up randomly. That arm of his, I have to say, looked exactly like a piece of that patchwork quilt. In fact, as it lay partially on the quilt when I woke up, I could barely tell where the quilt ended and his arm began—everything blended together so well. It was only from the weight and pressure that I realized Queequeg was hugging me.
My sensations were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a child, I well remember a somewhat similar circumstance that befell me; whether it was a reality or a dream, I never could entirely settle. The circumstance was this. I had been cutting up some caper or other—I think it was trying to crawl up the chimney, as I had seen a little sweep do a few days previous; and my stepmother who, somehow or other, was all the time whipping me, or sending me to bed supperless,—my mother dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and packed me off to bed, though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon of the 21st June, the longest day in the year in our hemisphere. I felt dreadfully. But there was no help for it, so up stairs I went to my little room in the third floor, undressed myself as slowly as possible so as to kill time, and with a bitter sigh got between the sheets.
My feelings were strange. Let me try to explain them. When I was a child, I clearly remember a somewhat similar situation that happened to me—though I’ve never been able to fully decide if it was real or just a dream. Here’s what happened: I had been up to some mischief—I think I was trying to crawl up the chimney, like I’d seen a little chimney sweep do a few days earlier. My stepmother, who always seemed to either be whipping me or sending me to bed without dinner, dragged me by the legs out of the chimney and sent me straight to bed, even though it was only two in the afternoon on June 21st, the longest day of the year in our part of the world. I felt awful. But there was no way out of it, so I trudged up to my little room on the third floor. I undressed as slowly as I could to pass the time and, with a heavy sigh, got into bed.
I lay there dismally calculating that sixteen entire hours must elapse before I could hope for a resurrection. Sixteen hours in bed! the small of my back ached to think of it. And it was so light too; the sun shining in at the window, and a great rattling of coaches in the streets, and the sound of gay voices all over the house. I felt worse and worse—at last I got up, dressed, and softly going down in my stockinged feet, sought out my stepmother, and suddenly threw myself at her feet, beseeching her as a particular favour to give me a good slippering for my misbehaviour; anything indeed but condemning me to lie abed such an unendurable length of time. But she was the best and most conscientious of stepmothers, and back I had to go to my room. For several hours I lay there broad awake, feeling a great deal worse than I have ever done since, even from the greatest subsequent misfortunes. At last I must have fallen into a troubled nightmare of a doze; and slowly waking from it—half steeped in dreams—I opened my eyes, and the before sun-lit room was now wrapped in outer darkness. Instantly I felt a shock running through all my frame; nothing was to be seen, and nothing was to be heard; but a supernatural hand seemed placed in mine. My arm hung over the counterpane, and the nameless, unimaginable, silent form or phantom, to which the hand belonged, seemed closely seated by my bed-side. For what seemed ages piled on ages, I lay there, frozen with the most awful fears, not daring to drag away my hand; yet ever thinking that if I could but stir it one single inch, the horrid spell would be broken. I knew not how this consciousness at last glided away from me; but waking in the morning, I shudderingly remembered it all, and for days and weeks and months afterwards I lost myself in confounding attempts to explain the mystery. Nay, to this very hour, I often puzzle myself with it.
I lay there miserably, calculating that I had to wait sixteen whole hours before I could hope to get up again. Sixteen hours in bed! My lower back ached just thinking about it. And it was so bright outside too—the sun shining through the window, the sound of coaches clattering in the streets, and cheerful voices echoing all through the house. I felt worse and worse. Finally, I got up, got dressed, and quietly crept downstairs in my socks to find my stepmother. I suddenly threw myself at her feet and begged her, as a personal favor, to just give me a good spanking for my bad behavior—anything to avoid being forced to stay in bed for such an unbearable amount of time. But she was the kindest and most conscientious of stepmothers, so she sent me back to my room. For hours, I lay there wide awake, feeling worse than I’ve ever felt since, even through the worst things that have happened to me later in life. At some point, I must have drifted into a restless, nightmare-filled sleep, and when I began waking up—half caught between dreams and real life—I opened my eyes to find the once sunlight-filled room now cloaked in pitch-black darkness. Immediately, a jolt of fear shot through my entire body. There was nothing to see and nothing to hear, but I could feel a cold, supernatural hand placed in mine. My arm dangled over the edge of the bed, and the silent, incomprehensible form or ghost the hand belonged to seemed to be sitting right beside me. For what felt like an eternity, I lay there, frozen with overwhelming terror, too afraid to pull my hand away, yet constantly thinking that if I could just move it even an inch, I might break the horrifying spell. I have no idea how this sense of dread eventually faded, but when I woke up in the morning, I remembered it all with a shudder. For days, weeks, and even months afterward, I kept torturing myself with futile attempts to explain the mystery. Even now, I often find myself lost in thought, still trying to figure it out.
Now, take away the awful fear, and my sensations at feeling the supernatural hand in mine were very similar, in their strangeness, to those which I experienced on waking up and seeing Queequeg’s pagan arm thrown round me. But at length all the past night’s events soberly recurred, one by one, in fixed reality, and then I lay only alive to the comical predicament. For though I tried to move his arm—unlock his bridegroom clasp—yet, sleeping as he was, he still hugged me tightly, as though naught but death should part us twain. I now strove to rouse him—“Queequeg!”—but his only answer was a snore. I then rolled over, my neck feeling as if it were in a horse-collar; and suddenly felt a slight scratch. Throwing aside the counterpane, there lay the tomahawk sleeping by the savage’s side, as if it were a hatchet-faced baby. A pretty pickle, truly, thought I; abed here in a strange house in the broad day, with a cannibal and a tomahawk! “Queequeg!—in the name of goodness, Queequeg, wake!” At length, by dint of much wriggling, and loud and incessant expostulations upon the unbecomingness of his hugging a fellow male in that matrimonial sort of style, I succeeded in extracting a grunt; and presently, he drew back his arm, shook himself all over like a Newfoundland dog just from the water, and sat up in bed, stiff as a pike-staff, looking at me, and rubbing his eyes as if he did not altogether remember how I came to be there, though a dim consciousness of knowing something about me seemed slowly dawning over him. Meanwhile, I lay quietly eyeing him, having no serious misgivings now, and bent upon narrowly observing so curious a creature. When, at last, his mind seemed made up touching the character of his bedfellow, and he became, as it were, reconciled to the fact; he jumped out upon the floor, and by certain signs and sounds gave me to understand that, if it pleased me, he would dress first and then leave me to dress afterwards, leaving the whole apartment to myself. Thinks I, Queequeg, under the circumstances, this is a very civilized overture; but, the truth is, these savages have an innate sense of delicacy, say what you will; it is marvellous how essentially polite they are. I pay this particular compliment to Queequeg, because he treated me with so much civility and consideration, while I was guilty of great rudeness; staring at him from the bed, and watching all his toilette motions; for the time my curiosity getting the better of my breeding. Nevertheless, a man like Queequeg you don’t see every day, he and his ways were well worth unusual regarding.
Now, take away the intense fear, and the feeling of that supernatural hand in mine was just as bizarre as waking up to find Queequeg’s pagan arm thrown around me. Eventually, all the events of the past night came back to me, one by one, with startling clarity, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous situation. Even though I tried to move his arm—prying apart his bridegroom-like grip—he was still fast asleep and held onto me tightly, like only death could separate us. I tried waking him up. “Queequeg!” I called, but all I got in response was a loud snore. I rolled over, my neck feeling like it was caught in a yoke, and suddenly felt a slight scratch. Pulling off the blanket, I saw his tomahawk lying beside him, like some kind of hatchet-faced baby. What a scene this was, I thought to myself: lying here in some strange house, in broad daylight, next to a cannibal and his tomahawk! “Queequeg! For goodness’ sake, Queequeg, wake up!” After a lot of struggling and loudly complaining about how inappropriate it was for him to keep hugging me like a newlywed, I finally managed to get a grunt out of him. Eventually, he pulled back his arm, shook himself all over like a wet dog, and sat up in bed, stiff as a rod, looking at me and rubbing his eyes as if trying to figure out how I got there. He seemed to vaguely remember me, though, like some foggy memory slowly coming into focus. Meanwhile, I just lay there, watching him calmly now, with no serious worries, completely intent on studying this fascinating character. Once he seemed to have accepted the situation and figured out who I was, he jumped out of bed and signaled in his own way that he’d get dressed first and then leave so I could have the room to myself to get ready. I thought to myself, “Queequeg, for the circumstances, this is remarkably considerate of you.” The truth is, these so-called savages have this natural sense of refinement, no matter what anyone says. It’s amazing how innately polite they can be. I have to give Queequeg credit for his kindness and thoughtfulness, especially since I wasn’t exactly polite myself—lying in bed, staring at him and closely observing every part of his morning routine. My curiosity had completely overpowered my manners. Still, someone like Queequeg isn’t someone you come across every day, and his habits were absolutely worth paying close attention to.
He commenced dressing at top by donning his beaver hat, a very tall one, by the by, and then—still minus his trowsers—he hunted up his boots. What under the heavens he did it for, I cannot tell, but his next movement was to crush himself—boots in hand, and hat on—under the bed; when, from sundry violent gaspings and strainings, I inferred he was hard at work booting himself; though by no law of propriety that I ever heard of, is any man required to be private when putting on his boots. But Queequeg, do you see, was a creature in the transition stage—neither caterpillar nor butterfly. He was just enough civilized to show off his outlandishness in the strangest possible manners. His education was not yet completed. He was an undergraduate. If he had not been a small degree civilized, he very probably would not have troubled himself with boots at all; but then, if he had not been still a savage, he never would have dreamt of getting under the bed to put them on. At last, he emerged with his hat very much dented and crushed down over his eyes, and began creaking and limping about the room, as if, not being much accustomed to boots, his pair of damp, wrinkled cowhide ones—probably not made to order either—rather pinched and tormented him at the first go off of a bitter cold morning.
He started getting dressed from the top down by putting on his tall beaver hat first—really tall, by the way—and then, still without his pants, he went looking for his boots. Why he did this in such an order, I have no idea, but his next move was to crawl under the bed—with his boots in hand and his hat on. From the series of grunts and struggles that followed, I guessed he was trying to put his boots on under there. Though, as far as I’ve ever heard, there’s no rule of etiquette saying a man has to hide while putting on his boots. But here’s the thing about Queequeg: he was in a kind of transitional phase—not quite a caterpillar, but not yet a butterfly either. He was just civilized enough for his unusual habits to show in the weirdest ways. He wasn’t done learning yet. He was like a college student, still figuring things out. If he hadn’t had some level of civilization, he probably wouldn’t have bothered with boots at all; but if he had been fully civilized, he surely wouldn’t have thought to crawl under the bed to put them on. Eventually, he came out with his hat all bent and squashed down over his eyes, and he started hobbling around the room, creaking and limping. It seemed like he wasn’t very used to wearing boots, and the pair he had—damp, wrinkled cowhide ones that clearly weren’t custom-made—were pinching and bothering him, especially on such a bitterly cold morning.
Seeing, now, that there were no curtains to the window, and that the street being very narrow, the house opposite commanded a plain view into the room, and observing more and more the indecorous figure that Queequeg made, staving about with little else but his hat and boots on; I begged him as well as I could, to accelerate his toilet somewhat, and particularly to get into his pantaloons as soon as possible. He complied, and then proceeded to wash himself. At that time in the morning any Christian would have washed his face; but Queequeg, to my amazement, contented himself with restricting his ablutions to his chest, arms, and hands. He then donned his waistcoat, and taking up a piece of hard soap on the wash-stand centre table, dipped it into water and commenced lathering his face. I was watching to see where he kept his razor, when lo and behold, he takes the harpoon from the bed corner, slips out the long wooden stock, unsheathes the head, whets it a little on his boot, and striding up to the bit of mirror against the wall, begins a vigorous scraping, or rather harpooning of his cheeks. Thinks I, Queequeg, this is using Rogers’s best cutlery with a vengeance. Afterwards I wondered the less at this operation when I came to know of what fine steel the head of a harpoon is made, and how exceedingly sharp the long straight edges are always kept.
Noticing that there were no curtains on the window and that the street outside was so narrow the house across could easily see straight into the room, I became increasingly aware of how inappropriate Queequeg’s appearance was—wandering around wearing little more than his hat and boots. I asked him as politely as I could to hurry up and get dressed, especially to put on his pants. He agreed and then started to wash himself. At that time of the morning, any regular person would’ve washed their face, but to my surprise, Queequeg limited his washing to just his chest, arms, and hands. After that, he put on his vest, grabbed a piece of hard soap from the wash-stand table, dipped it in water, and began lathering his face. I was curious to see where he kept his razor, but to my shock, he grabbed the harpoon stuck in the corner by the bed, removed the long wooden handle, unsheathed the blade, sharpened it a bit on his boot, and then strode over to the small mirror on the wall to start shaving—or rather, harpooning—his cheeks. I thought to myself, Queequeg, this is taking premium cutlery to a whole new level. Later, I was less surprised by this when I learned just how high-quality the steel in harpoon heads is and how incredibly sharp their long, straight edges are kept.
The rest of his toilet was soon achieved, and he proudly marched out of the room, wrapped up in his great pilot monkey jacket, and sporting his harpoon like a marshal’s baton.
The rest of his dressing was done quickly, and he confidently strode out of the room, wrapped in his big pilot's monkey jacket and carrying his harpoon like a marshal's baton.
CHAPTER 5. Breakfast.
I quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the grinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him, though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my bedfellow.
I quickly did the same and went down to the bar, greeting the grinning landlord with a friendly attitude. I didn’t hold any grudge against him, even though he had pulled quite a prank on me when it came to my roommate situation.
However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing; the more’s the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and be spent in that way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about him, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.
A good laugh is a really great thing, and unfortunately, it's a bit too rare these days—what a shame. So, if someone can provide material for a good joke, they shouldn't hold back; instead, they should happily let themselves be part of it and embrace that role. And if someone has something naturally funny about them, rest assured there's more to that person than you might initially think.
The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the night previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were nearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates, and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky beards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning gowns.
The barroom was now packed with the boarders who had been arriving the night before, and I hadn’t had a proper chance to check them out until now. Most of them were whalemen—chief mates, second mates, third mates, sea carpenters, sea coopers, sea blacksmiths, harpooners, and ship keepers. They were a rugged and tough-looking group with bushy beards—an unkempt, scruffy bunch, all wearing monkey jackets as if they were robes for the morning.
You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This young fellow’s healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly bleached withal; he doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes’ western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.
You could easily tell how long each person had been on land. This young guy’s healthy cheek is the color of a sun-ripened pear and seems like it might even smell musky; he can’t have been off his Indian voyage for more than three days. The man next to him is a few shades lighter; you could describe him as having a touch of satinwood to his complexion. The third man’s skin still carries a tropical tan, though it’s slightly faded—he must have been on shore for a few weeks. But who could compare to Queequeg’s face? His skin, streaked with different shades, was like the western slope of the Andes, displaying a range of contrasting climates, one after the other.
“Grub, ho!” now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.
"Food's ready!" the landlord shouted, throwing open a door, and we went in for breakfast.
They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though: Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo’s performances—this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort of thing is to be had anywhere.
They say that men who have traveled the world often become relaxed and confident in social situations. But not always: Ledyard, the famous New England explorer, and Mungo Park, the Scottish one—of all people, they were the least confident in a formal setting. Maybe crossing Siberia in a dog-drawn sled, like Ledyard did, or taking a long, lonely walk on an empty stomach through the heart of Africa, as poor Mungo did, isn’t exactly the best way to develop refined social graces. Still, for the most part, that kind of polish can be picked up just about anywhere.
These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that after we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise, nearly every man maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas—entire strangers to them—and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table—all of the same calling, all of kindred tastes—looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior whalemen!
These thoughts come to mind because, after we all sat down at the table and I was ready to hear some great whaling stories, to my surprise, almost everyone stayed completely silent. Not only that, but they looked uncomfortable. Honestly, here were a bunch of seasoned sailors—guys who had no hesitation charging at massive whales in the open ocean, total strangers to fear—fighting them to the death without even blinking. Yet here they were, sitting around at a casual breakfast table, all in the same line of work, all sharing the same interests, looking at each other awkwardly, like they'd never been out of sight of some sheep pasture in the Green Mountains. What a strange thing to see—these shy, awkward sailors, these hesitant whaling warriors!
But as for Queequeg—why, Queequeg sat there among them—at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him. But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people’s estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.
As for Queequeg—well, Queequeg sat there with them—right at the head of the table, as luck would have it—totally calm and collected. I can’t exactly vouch for his manners, though. Even his biggest fan couldn’t excuse him for bringing his harpoon to breakfast and casually using it to reach across the table—putting several heads at serious risk—and snagging the beefsteaks for himself. But that was undoubtedly done with remarkable composure, and everyone knows that, in most people’s eyes, doing something coolly is the epitome of elegance.
We will not speak of all Queequeg’s peculiarities here; how he eschewed coffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to beefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew like the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat on, when I sallied out for a stroll.
We won’t go into all of Queequeg’s quirks here—like how he avoided coffee and pastries, focusing entirely on rare beefsteaks. Let’s just say that after breakfast, he went into the common room like everyone else, lit his tomahawk pipe, and sat there calmly smoking and digesting, with his trusty hat still on, while I headed out for a walk.
CHAPTER 6. The Street.
If I had been astonished at first catching a glimpse of so outlandish an individual as Queequeg circulating among the polite society of a civilized town, that astonishment soon departed upon taking my first daylight stroll through the streets of New Bedford.
I was shocked at first to see someone as unusual as Queequeg mingling with the polite society of a civilized town, but that shock quickly faded during my first daytime walk through the streets of New Bedford.
In thoroughfares nigh the docks, any considerable seaport will frequently offer to view the queerest looking nondescripts from foreign parts. Even in Broadway and Chestnut streets, Mediterranean mariners will sometimes jostle the affrighted ladies. Regent Street is not unknown to Lascars and Malays; and at Bombay, in the Apollo Green, live Yankees have often scared the natives. But New Bedford beats all Water Street and Wapping. In these last-mentioned haunts you see only sailors; but in New Bedford, actual cannibals stand chatting at street corners; savages outright; many of whom yet carry on their bones unholy flesh. It makes a stranger stare.
In the streets near the docks, any major port city will often showcase the strangest-looking individuals from overseas. Even on Broadway or Chestnut Street, Mediterranean sailors sometimes bump into startled women. Regent Street isn’t unfamiliar with Lascars and Malays, and in Bombay, on Apollo Green, American sailors have often startled the locals. But New Bedford surpasses Water Street and Wapping. In those places, you’ll only see sailors; but in New Bedford, you’ll find actual cannibals chatting on street corners—full-blown savages, some of whom still have traces of human flesh on their bones. It’s enough to make any newcomer stop and stare.
But, besides the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians, and Brighggians, and, besides the wild specimens of the whaling-craft which unheeded reel about the streets, you will see other sights still more curious, certainly more comical. There weekly arrive in this town scores of green Vermonters and New Hampshire men, all athirst for gain and glory in the fishery. They are mostly young, of stalwart frames; fellows who have felled forests, and now seek to drop the axe and snatch the whale-lance. Many are as green as the Green Mountains whence they came. In some things you would think them but a few hours old. Look there! that chap strutting round the corner. He wears a beaver hat and swallow-tailed coat, girdled with a sailor-belt and sheath-knife. Here comes another with a sou’-wester and a bombazine cloak.
Aside from the Feegeeans, Tongatobooarrs, Erromanggoans, Pannangians, and Brighggians, and aside from the rough characters of the whaling trade stumbling unchecked through the streets, you’ll witness even stranger, and certainly funnier, sights. Every week, countless eager Vermonters and New Hampshire men pour into this town, hungry for wealth and adventure in the whaling business. Most of them are young and strong, guys who’ve been chopping down forests but now want to trade their axes for harpoons. Many are as inexperienced as the Green Mountains they come from. In some ways, they seem like they were born just yesterday. Look over there—see that guy strutting around the corner? He’s wearing a beaver hat and a swallow-tail coat, cinched with a sailor’s belt and sheath knife. And here comes another, sporting a sou’wester and a bombazine cloak.
No town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one—I mean a downright bumpkin dandy—a fellow that, in the dog-days, will mow his two acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands. Now when a country dandy like this takes it into his head to make a distinguished reputation, and joins the great whale-fishery, you should see the comical things he does upon reaching the seaport. In bespeaking his sea-outfit, he orders bell-buttons to his waistcoats; straps to his canvas trowsers. Ah, poor Hay-Seed! how bitterly will burst those straps in the first howling gale, when thou art driven, straps, buttons, and all, down the throat of the tempest.
No city-bred fashionista can compare to a country-bred one—I’m talking about a full-on rustic dandy—a guy who, in the scorching summer heat, mows two acres wearing leather gloves just to avoid getting his hands tanned. Now, when a country dandy like this decides to make a name for himself and joins the grand whale-hunting expedition, you’ve got to see the ridiculous things he does when he gets to the port. While ordering his sea gear, he asks for fancy buttons on his vests and straps on his canvas pants. Oh, poor farm boy! How harshly those straps will snap in the first raging storm, when you’re tossed around—straps, buttons, and all—straight into the fury of the tempest.
But think not that this famous town has only harpooneers, cannibals, and bumpkins to show her visitors. Not at all. Still New Bedford is a queer place. Had it not been for us whalemen, that tract of land would this day perhaps have been in as howling condition as the coast of Labrador. As it is, parts of her back country are enough to frighten one, they look so bony. The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to live in, in all New England. It is a land of oil, true enough: but not like Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine. The streets do not run with milk; nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs. Yet, in spite of this, nowhere in all America will you find more patrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New Bedford. Whence came they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of a country?
But don’t think this famous town only has harpooners, cannibals, and bumpkins for visitors to see. Not at all. Still, New Bedford is a strange place. If it weren’t for us whalemen, that stretch of land might still be as barren and wild as the coast of Labrador. Even now, parts of its countryside are so rugged they’re almost intimidating, with their stark, bony appearance. The town itself is probably the most expensive place to live in all of New England. It’s a land of oil, sure enough—but not like the promised land of Canaan; it’s also a land of corn and wine. The streets don’t flow with milk, and in the springtime, they’re not paved with fresh eggs. Yet, despite that, nowhere else in America will you find houses as grand or parks and gardens as lush as in New Bedford. How did they get there? How were they built on what was once such a rough and scraggy landscape?
Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty mansion, and your question will be answered. Yes; all these brave houses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans. One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the bottom of the sea. Can Herr Alexander perform a feat like that?
Go take a look at the iron decorative harpoons around that tall mansion over there, and you'll find your answer. Yes, all these impressive houses and beautiful gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian Oceans. Every single one of them was harpooned and hauled up here from the depths of the sea. Can Herr Alexander pull off something like that?
In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their daughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece. You must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say, they have reservoirs of oil in every house, and every night recklessly burn their lengths in spermaceti candles.
In New Bedford, they say fathers give whales as dowries to their daughters and set aside a few porpoises each for their nieces. You’ve got to visit New Bedford to witness a dazzling wedding; they say every house has reservoirs of oil, and every night they burn through spermaceti candles like there’s no tomorrow.
In summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples—long avenues of green and gold. And in August, high in air, the beautiful and bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise, proffer the passer-by their tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms. So omnipotent is art; which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright terraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at creation’s final day.
In the summertime, the town is lovely to behold, with its beautiful maple trees lining long avenues of green and gold. In August, the tall and graceful horse-chestnuts rise high in the air, their candle-like flowers offering upright cones of clustered blossoms to anyone passing by. Such is the power of human creativity, which has transformed many areas of New Bedford into vibrant terraces of flowers, even on the barren, rocky leftovers discarded at the end of creation.
And the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses. But roses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks is perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens. Elsewhere match that bloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young girls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off shore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of the Puritanic sands.
The women of New Bedford blossom like their own red roses. But roses only bloom in summer, while the vibrant glow of their cheeks lasts year-round, as constant as sunlight in the highest heavens. You won't find a match for their beauty anywhere else, except maybe in Salem, where I've heard the young women have such a sweet, musky scent that their sailor boyfriends can smell them from miles away, as if they were approaching the fragrant Moluccas instead of the austere Puritan shores.
CHAPTER 7. The Chapel.
In this same New Bedford there stands a Whaleman’s Chapel, and few are the moody fishermen, shortly bound for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, who fail to make a Sunday visit to the spot. I am sure that I did not.
In this same New Bedford, there’s a Whaleman’s Chapel, and hardly any of the contemplative fishermen, soon heading for the Indian Ocean or Pacific, skip a Sunday visit to the place. I know I didn’t.
Returning from my first morning stroll, I again sallied out upon this special errand. The sky had changed from clear, sunny cold, to driving sleet and mist. Wrapping myself in my shaggy jacket of the cloth called bearskin, I fought my way against the stubborn storm. Entering, I found a small scattered congregation of sailors, and sailors’ wives and widows. A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by the shrieks of the storm. Each silent worshipper seemed purposely sitting apart from the other, as if each silent grief were insular and incommunicable. The chaplain had not yet arrived; and there these silent islands of men and women sat steadfastly eyeing several marble tablets, with black borders, masoned into the wall on either side the pulpit. Three of them ran something like the following, but I do not pretend to quote:—
Coming back from my morning walk, I headed out again on this particular errand. The weather had shifted from clear and sunny but cold, to sleet and mist being driven by the wind. Wrapping myself in my thick, shaggy bearskin jacket, I pushed through the stubborn storm. When I went inside, I saw a small, scattered group of sailors, along with sailors' wives and widows. A muffled silence filled the room, broken now and then by the howls of the storm. Each quiet figure seemed deliberately seated apart from the others, as if their private sorrows were isolated and impossible to share. The chaplain hadn't arrived yet, and these silent men and women sat like solitary islands, solemnly gazing at several marble plaques with black borders that were built into the wall on either side of the pulpit. Three of the inscriptions read something like this, though I’m not quoting them exactly:—
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN TALBOT, Who, at the age of eighteen, was lost overboard, Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS SISTER.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN TALBOT, Who, at the age of eighteen, fell overboard, Near the Isle of Desolation, off Patagonia, November 1st, 1836. THIS PLAQUE Is placed in his Memory BY HIS SISTER.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT LONG, WILLIS ELLERY, NATHAN COLEMAN, WALTER CANNY, SETH MACY, AND SAMUEL GLEIG, Forming one of the boats’ crews OF THE SHIP ELIZA Who were towed out of sight by a Whale, On the Off-shore Ground in the PACIFIC, December 31st, 1839. THIS MARBLE Is here placed by their surviving SHIPMATES.
In Loving Memory of Robert Long, Willis Ellery, Nathan Coleman, Walter Canny, Seth Macy, and Samuel Gleig, who were part of one of the boat crews of the ship Eliza. They were pulled out of sight by a whale on the Offshore Ground in the Pacific on December 31st, 1839. This memorial is placed here by their surviving shipmates.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF The late CAPTAIN EZEKIEL HARDY, Who in the bows of his boat was killed by a Sperm Whale on the coast of Japan, August 3d, 1833. THIS TABLET Is erected to his Memory BY HIS WIDOW.
Dedicated to the memory of the late Captain Ezekiel Hardy, who was killed in the bow of his boat by a sperm whale off the coast of Japan, August 3rd, 1833. This tablet is placed in his honor by his widow.
Shaking off the sleet from my ice-glazed hat and jacket, I seated myself near the door, and turning sideways was surprised to see Queequeg near me. Affected by the solemnity of the scene, there was a wondering gaze of incredulous curiosity in his countenance. This savage was the only person present who seemed to notice my entrance; because he was the only one who could not read, and, therefore, was not reading those frigid inscriptions on the wall. Whether any of the relatives of the seamen whose names appeared there were now among the congregation, I knew not; but so many are the unrecorded accidents in the fishery, and so plainly did several women present wear the countenance if not the trappings of some unceasing grief, that I feel sure that here before me were assembled those, in whose unhealing hearts the sight of those bleak tablets sympathetically caused the old wounds to bleed afresh.
Shaking the sleet off my ice-covered hat and jacket, I sat down near the door. Turning to the side, I was surprised to see Queequeg sitting close by. Moved by the solemnity of the place, there was a look of curious disbelief on his face. Out of everyone there, Queequeg was the only one who seemed to notice I had come in—probably because he was the only person who couldn’t read and was therefore not staring at the cold inscriptions on the wall. I had no idea if any of the relatives of the sailors whose names were listed there were among the congregation, but given the countless unrecorded accidents in whaling—and seeing how some of the women present wore expressions, if not outward signs, of enduring sorrow—I was convinced these were people whose hearts carried wounds that would never heal. And the sight of those stark memorial tablets seemed to reopen those old scars anew.
Oh! ye whose dead lie buried beneath the green grass; who standing among flowers can say—here, here lies my beloved; ye know not the desolation that broods in bosoms like these. What bitter blanks in those black-bordered marbles which cover no ashes! What despair in those immovable inscriptions! What deadly voids and unbidden infidelities in the lines that seem to gnaw upon all Faith, and refuse resurrections to the beings who have placelessly perished without a grave. As well might those tablets stand in the cave of Elephanta as here.
Oh! You, whose loved ones are buried beneath the green grass; who can stand among flowers and say—here, *here* lies my beloved; you cannot understand the emptiness that weighs on hearts like these. What painful voids in those black-edged gravestones that cover no remains! What hopelessness in those unchanging inscriptions! What profound emptiness and unspoken doubts in the words that seem to erode all faith, denying resurrection to those who have vanished without a trace or a grave. Those tablets might as well stand in the cave of Elephanta as they do here.
In what census of living creatures, the dead of mankind are included; why it is that a universal proverb says of them, that they tell no tales, though containing more secrets than the Goodwin Sands; how it is that to his name who yesterday departed for the other world, we prefix so significant and infidel a word, and yet do not thus entitle him, if he but embarks for the remotest Indies of this living earth; why the Life Insurance Companies pay death-forfeitures upon immortals; in what eternal, unstirring paralysis, and deadly, hopeless trance, yet lies antique Adam who died sixty round centuries ago; how it is that we still refuse to be comforted for those who we nevertheless maintain are dwelling in unspeakable bliss; why all the living so strive to hush all the dead; wherefore but the rumor of a knocking in a tomb will terrify a whole city. All these things are not without their meanings.
In what count of all living things are the dead included; why is it that a common saying claims they tell no tales, even though they hold more secrets than the Goodwin Sands; how is it that we add such a meaningful and skeptical word to the name of someone who just passed away, yet don’t do the same if they’re merely traveling to the farthest parts of this world; why do Life Insurance Companies pay out claims for deaths when the insured are theoretically immortal; in what eternal, motionless paralysis and hopeless trance does ancient Adam still lie, even though he died six thousand years ago; how is it that we refuse to be comforted for those whom we believe are living in indescribable bliss; why do the living so desperately try to silence the dead; and why can a mere rumor of a knocking from a tomb terrify an entire city? All these things are full of meaning.
But Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.
But faith, like a jackal, thrives among the graves, and even from these dead doubts, she finds her strongest hope.
It needs scarcely to be told, with what feelings, on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, I regarded those marble tablets, and by the murky light of that darkened, doleful day read the fate of the whalemen who had gone before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate may be thine. But somehow I grew merry again. Delightful inducements to embark, fine chance for promotion, it seems—aye, a stove boat will make me an immortal by brevet. Yes, there is death in this business of whaling—a speechlessly quick chaotic bundling of a man into Eternity. But what then? Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Methinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me. And therefore three cheers for Nantucket; and come a stove boat and stove body when they will, for stave my soul, Jove himself cannot.
It hardly needs to be said how I felt on the eve of a Nantucket voyage, standing before those marble tablets and reading, by the dim light of that gloomy day, about the fate of the whalemen who had come before me. Yes, Ishmael, the same fate could be yours. But somehow, I found myself in better spirits again. What a delightful job to sign up for—great chance for advancement, or so it seems. Sure, a smashed-up boat might earn me immortality by default. Yes, there’s death in the whaling trade—a disturbingly quick and chaotic plunge into eternity. But so what? I think we’ve misunderstood the whole concept of Life and Death. I think what they call my shadow on earth is actually my true essence. I think, when it comes to spiritual things, we’re a lot like oysters looking at the sun through the water, believing the murky water to be the clearest air. I think my body is just the leftovers of my better self. In fact, take my body, whoever wants it—go ahead, take it. It’s not really me. So, here’s to Nantucket! Bring on the smashed boats and broken bodies whenever they may come—because not even Jove himself can destroy my soul. Three cheers for that!
CHAPTER 8. The Pulpit.
I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable robustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon admitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation, sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he was a very great favourite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom—the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow. No one having previously heard his history, could for the first time behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that adventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one by one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner; when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.
I hadn’t been sitting for long when an older man with a certain dignified strength walked in. The storm-battered door swung open as he entered, and immediately everyone in the congregation gave him a quick, curious look, making it clear that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the well-known Father Mapple, as the whalers called him—a big favorite among them. In his younger days, he had been a sailor and a harpooner, but for many years now, he had devoted his life to being a minister. At the time I’m writing about, Father Mapple was in the rugged winter of a strong old age—the kind of old age that seems to be stepping into a second youth, as if spring were starting to bloom again through his deep-set wrinkles, with life shining faintly through like fresh greenery beneath February’s snow. Anyone hearing his life story for the first time couldn’t help but find him fascinating, since he had certain unique quirks that clearly came from his bold, seafaring life. When he came in, I noticed he didn’t have an umbrella and definitely hadn’t arrived in a carriage; his tarpaulin hat was dripping with melting sleet, and his heavy, water-soaked pilot jacket seemed to weigh him down, almost dragging him toward the floor. Nonetheless, he removed his hat, coat, and overshoes one by one, hanging them in a small space in the corner. Then, dressed in a neat suit, he calmly made his way to the pulpit.
Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the floor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the architect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and finished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of red worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely headed, and stained with a mahogany colour, the whole contrivance, considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad taste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still reverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if ascending the main-top of his vessel.
Like most old-school pulpits, it was very tall, and since a regular staircase up to such a height would, because of its steep angle with the floor, take up too much space in the already small chapel, the architect, it seemed, had taken a suggestion from Father Mapple and built the pulpit without stairs, replacing them with a vertical ladder like the ones used to climb onto a ship from a boat at sea. The wife of a whaling captain had donated a beautiful pair of red worsted ropes for the ladder, which, being neatly finished and stained a mahogany color, made the whole setup, considering the type of chapel it was, not look bad at all. Pausing for a moment at the base of the ladder, with both hands gripping the decorative knobs on the ropes, Father Mapple glanced upward, then, with the skill of a sailor but still with a sense of reverence, climbed hand over hand up the steps as though he were scaling the mast of his ship.
The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case with swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of wood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship, these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn round, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder step by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him impregnable in his little Quebec.
The vertical parts of this side ladder, as is common with swinging ones, were made of cloth-covered rope, while the steps were wooden. This meant that each step had a bit of flexibility. When I first saw the pulpit, I couldn’t help but notice that, while useful for a ship, those flexible joints seemed unnecessary here. I wasn’t expecting Father Mapple, after reaching the top, to slowly turn around, lean over the pulpit, and carefully pull the ladder up step by step until it was tucked inside, leaving him securely isolated in his little fortress, like a mini Quebec.
I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this. Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen. Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties and connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a self-containing stronghold—a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial well of water within the walls.
I thought about it for a while without fully understanding the reason for this. Father Mapple had such a strong reputation for sincerity and holiness that I couldn't believe he was seeking attention with some kind of performance trick. No, I thought, there must be a serious reason for this, and it probably symbolizes something deeper. Could it be that by physically isolating himself like that, he's showing his spiritual detachment for the moment from all worldly ties and connections? Yes, because, nourished by the "meat and wine" of the word, the devoted servant of God finds this pulpit to be a self-sustaining fortress—a high Ehrenbreitstein, with a never-ending spring of water within its walls.
But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place, borrowed from the chaplain’s former sea-farings. Between the marble cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel’s face; and this bright face shed a distinct spot of radiance upon the ship’s tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into the Victory’s plank where Nelson fell. “Ah, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy helm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling off—serenest azure is at hand.”
But the side ladder wasn’t the only unusual feature of the place, brought in from the chaplain’s past experiences at sea. Between the marble memorials on either side of the pulpit, the wall behind it was decorated with a large painting of a brave ship battling a fierce storm off a jagged coastline with black rocks and foamy waves. But high above the flying spray and dark storm clouds was a small patch of sunlight, from which an angel’s face shone down; this radiant face cast a bright beam onto the ship’s storm-tossed deck, similar to the silver plaque now embedded in the plank of the Victory where Nelson fell. “Oh, noble ship,” the angel seemed to say, “keep fighting, keep steering strong; look! The sun is breaking through, the clouds are clearing—calm, clear skies are just ahead.”
Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that had achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the likeness of a ship’s bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a projecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship’s fiddle-headed beak.
The pulpit itself also carried a bit of that same nautical feel seen in the ladder and the picture. Its paneled front was shaped like the rounded bow of a ship, and the Holy Bible sat on a jutting piece of carved wood designed to resemble a ship's decorative, fiddle-shaped beak.
What could be more full of meaning?—for the pulpit is ever this earth’s foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God’s quick wrath is first descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favourable winds. Yes, the world’s a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.
What could be more meaningful?—the pulpit is always the leading part of this world; everything else follows behind it. The pulpit guides the world. From there, God’s sudden wrath is first seen, and it must endure the initial impact. From there, the God of gentle or harsh winds is first called upon for favorable weather. Yes, the world is like a ship on its journey forward, not yet finished with its voyage; and the pulpit is its bow.
CHAPTER 9. The Sermon.
Father Mapple rose, and in a mild voice of unassuming authority ordered the scattered people to condense. “Starboard gangway, there! side away to larboard—larboard gangway to starboard! Midships! midships!”
Father Mapple stood up and, in a calm voice with quiet authority, instructed the scattered crowd to gather closer. “Starboard gangway, over there! Move to larboard—larboard gangway, shift to starboard! Midships! Midships!”
There was a low rumbling of heavy sea-boots among the benches, and a still slighter shuffling of women’s shoes, and all was quiet again, and every eye on the preacher.
There was a low rumble of heavy sea boots moving among the benches, followed by a softer shuffle of women’s shoes. Then everything fell silent again, and every eye was fixed on the preacher.
He paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit’s bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea.
He paused briefly; then knelt at the front of the pulpit, folded his large brown hands across his chest, closed his eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply heartfelt that it felt as though he was kneeling and praying at the ocean floor.
This ended, in prolonged solemn tones, like the continual tolling of a bell in a ship that is foundering at sea in a fog—in such tones he commenced reading the following hymn; but changing his manner towards the concluding stanzas, burst forth with a pealing exultation and joy—
This ended in long, serious tones, like the constant ringing of a bell on a ship sinking at sea in fog. In those same tones, he began reading the following hymn, but as he reached the final verses, his demeanor shifted, and he erupted with a triumphant and joyful energy.
“The ribs and terrors in the whale,
Arched over me a dismal gloom,
While all God’s sun-lit waves rolled by,
And lift me deepening down to doom.
“I saw the opening maw of hell,
With endless pains and sorrows there;
Which none but they that feel can tell—
Oh, I was plunging to despair.
“In black distress, I called my God,
When I could scarce believe him mine,
He bowed his ear to my complaints—
No more the whale did me confine.
“With speed he flew to my relief,
As on a radiant dolphin borne;
Awful, yet bright, as lightning shone
The face of my Deliverer God.
“My song for ever shall record
That terrible, that joyful hour;
I give the glory to my God,
His all the mercy and the power.”
“The ribs and terrors of the whale,
Arched over me in a dismal gloom,
While all of God's sunlit waves rolled by,
And pulled me deeper down to doom.
“I saw the gaping maw of hell,
With endless pain and sorrow there;
None but those who feel can tell—
Oh, I was plunging into despair.
“In black distress, I cried out to my God,
When I could hardly believe He was mine,
He listened to my complaints—
No longer did the whale confine me.
“With speed He flew to my rescue,
As if carried on a radiant dolphin;
Awful, yet bright, like lightning shone
The face of my Deliverer God.
“My song will forever remember
That terrible, that joyful hour;
I give the glory to my God,
His is all the mercy and the power.”Nearly all joined in singing this hymn, which swelled high above the howling of the storm. A brief pause ensued; the preacher slowly turned over the leaves of the Bible, and at last, folding his hand down upon the proper page, said: “Beloved shipmates, clinch the last verse of the first chapter of Jonah—‘And God had prepared a great fish to swallow up Jonah.’”
Almost everyone joined in singing this hymn, their voices rising above the storm's howling. There was a brief pause; the preacher slowly flipped through the pages of the Bible. Finally, resting his hand on the right page, he said, "Dear shipmates, focus on the last verse of the first chapter of Jonah: ‘And God had prepared a great fish to swallow Jonah.’"
“Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters—four yarns—is one of the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures. Yet what depths of the soul does Jonah’s deep sealine sound! what a pregnant lesson to us is this prophet! What a noble thing is that canticle in the fish’s belly! How billow-like and boisterously grand! We feel the floods surging over us; we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the waters; sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us! But what is this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it is a two-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men, and a lesson to me as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us all, because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly awakened fears, the swift punishment, repentance, prayers, and finally the deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men, the sin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the command of God—never mind now what that command was, or how conveyed—which he found a hard command. But all the things that God would have us do are hard for us to do—remember that—and hence, he oftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we must disobey ourselves; and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein the hardness of obeying God consists.
"Shipmates, this book, with only four chapters—four stories—is one of the smallest threads in the vast cable of the Scriptures. Yet, how deeply does Jonah’s ocean-line of a story reach into the soul! What a powerful lesson this prophet brings us! And what a beautiful thing is that hymn from the belly of the fish! So wild and majestic, like towering waves! We feel the waters crashing over us; we sink with him to the seaweed-covered depths; surrounded by all the muck and mire of the ocean! But what is the lesson the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it’s a two-fold lesson; one for all of us as flawed human beings, and one for me as a guide in God’s service. For all of us as sinners, it’s a lesson because it’s the story of sin, stubbornness, sudden fear, swift punishment, repentance, prayer, and ultimately, Jonah’s rescue and rejoicing. Like all sinners, Jonah’s sin—this son of Amittai—was in his deliberate disobedience of God’s command. It doesn’t matter right now what that command was or how it came to him; he found it difficult. But everything God wants us to do feels hard—remember that—and for this reason, He often commands rather than persuades. And if we’re going to obey God, we have to go against ourselves; and it’s in that conflict, in going against ourselves, where the difficulty of obeying God lies."
“With this sin of disobedience in him, Jonah still further flouts at God, by seeking to flee from Him. He thinks that a ship made by men will carry him into countries where God does not reign, but only the Captains of this earth. He skulks about the wharves of Joppa, and seeks a ship that’s bound for Tarshish. There lurks, perhaps, a hitherto unheeded meaning here. By all accounts Tarshish could have been no other city than the modern Cadiz. That’s the opinion of learned men. And where is Cadiz, shipmates? Cadiz is in Spain; as far by water, from Joppa, as Jonah could possibly have sailed in those ancient days, when the Atlantic was an almost unknown sea. Because Joppa, the modern Jaffa, shipmates, is on the most easterly coast of the Mediterranean, the Syrian; and Tarshish or Cadiz more than two thousand miles to the westward from that, just outside the Straits of Gibraltar. See ye not then, shipmates, that Jonah sought to flee world-wide from God? Miserable man! Oh! most contemptible and worthy of all scorn; with slouched hat and guilty eye, skulking from his God; prowling among the shipping like a vile burglar hastening to cross the seas. So disordered, self-condemning is his look, that had there been policemen in those days, Jonah, on the mere suspicion of something wrong, had been arrested ere he touched a deck. How plainly he’s a fugitive! no baggage, not a hat-box, valise, or carpet-bag,—no friends accompany him to the wharf with their adieux. At last, after much dodging search, he finds the Tarshish ship receiving the last items of her cargo; and as he steps on board to see its Captain in the cabin, all the sailors for the moment desist from hoisting in the goods, to mark the stranger’s evil eye. Jonah sees this; but in vain he tries to look all ease and confidence; in vain essays his wretched smile. Strong intuitions of the man assure the mariners he can be no innocent. In their gamesome but still serious way, one whispers to the other—“Jack, he’s robbed a widow;” or, “Joe, do you mark him; he’s a bigamist;” or, “Harry lad, I guess he’s the adulterer that broke jail in old Gomorrah, or belike, one of the missing murderers from Sodom.” Another runs to read the bill that’s stuck against the spile upon the wharf to which the ship is moored, offering five hundred gold coins for the apprehension of a parricide, and containing a description of his person. He reads, and looks from Jonah to the bill; while all his sympathetic shipmates now crowd round Jonah, prepared to lay their hands upon him. Frighted Jonah trembles, and summoning all his boldness to his face, only looks so much the more a coward. He will not confess himself suspected; but that itself is strong suspicion. So he makes the best of it; and when the sailors find him not to be the man that is advertised, they let him pass, and he descends into the cabin.
With his act of disobedience still weighing on him, Jonah takes his defiance of God even further by trying to run away from Him. He convinces himself that a human-made ship can take him to some distant land where God doesn’t rule, only earthly powers do. He sneaks around the docks of Joppa, looking for a ship heading to Tarshish. There might be a deeper meaning here that’s often overlooked. Experts believe Tarshish was the ancient name for what is now Cadiz. And where is Cadiz, crew? It’s in Spain, as far across the water from Joppa as Jonah could have possibly sailed in those times, when the Atlantic Ocean was barely explored. Remember, Joppa—modern-day Jaffa—is on the far eastern edge of the Mediterranean, on the Syrian coast, while Cadiz (or Tarshish) is over two thousand miles to the west, just beyond the Strait of Gibraltar. Don’t you see, crew, Jonah was trying to flee as far as he could, all the way across the known world, to escape God's reach? What a pitiful, despicable man! With his slouched hat and shifty gaze, hiding from God, sneaking around the ships like some lowly thief desperate to escape across the sea. His guilty demeanor was so obvious that, had there been police back then, Jonah would’ve been arrested on suspicion alone before he even set foot on a deck. It’s clear he’s on the run—no luggage, no hatbox, no bag or suitcase, no companions at the dock to say goodbye. After a lot of sneaking around, Jonah finally spots a ship heading for Tarshish as the crew finishes loading their cargo. As he climbs aboard to speak to the captain in the cabin, the sailors pause their work to take notice of the stranger with his sinister look. Jonah senses their suspicion, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t fake confidence or hide his unease. His forced smile only makes things worse. Something about him sends a warning to the men—it’s obvious he’s not innocent. In their playful but still serious way, one whispers to another, “Jack, looks like he’s robbed a widow,” or “Joe, you see that guy? He’s probably a bigamist,” or “Harry, I’d bet he’s the adulterer who escaped jail back in Gomorrah—or maybe he’s one of those murderers who went missing from Sodom.” Another sailor reads a notice posted on the post to which the ship is tied, offering a reward of five hundred gold coins for capturing a man who killed his own father. The notice includes a description of the suspect. The man glances from Jonah to the notice, while the rest of the sailors crowd around, ready to grab him. Terrified, Jonah starts to tremble. He musters all the courage he can to appear bold, but it only makes him look like more of a coward. He refuses to admit he’s suspicious, but that refusal only raises more doubt. Seeing no other choice, he plays it cool. When the sailors realize he doesn’t match the description in the notice, they let him go, and Jonah heads down into the cabin.
“‘Who’s there?’ cries the Captain at his busy desk, hurriedly making out his papers for the Customs—‘Who’s there?’ Oh! how that harmless question mangles Jonah! For the instant he almost turns to flee again. But he rallies. ‘I seek a passage in this ship to Tarshish; how soon sail ye, sir?’ Thus far the busy Captain had not looked up to Jonah, though the man now stands before him; but no sooner does he hear that hollow voice, than he darts a scrutinizing glance. ‘We sail with the next coming tide,’ at last he slowly answered, still intently eyeing him. ‘No sooner, sir?’—‘Soon enough for any honest man that goes a passenger.’ Ha! Jonah, that’s another stab. But he swiftly calls away the Captain from that scent. ‘I’ll sail with ye,’—he says,—‘the passage money how much is that?—I’ll pay now.’ For it is particularly written, shipmates, as if it were a thing not to be overlooked in this history, ‘that he paid the fare thereof’ ere the craft did sail. And taken with the context, this is full of meaning.
"‘Who’s there?’ the Captain calls out from his busy desk, hurriedly filling out paperwork for Customs. ‘Who’s there?’ Oh, how that simple question unsettles Jonah! For a moment, he almost turns to run away again. But he steadies himself. ‘I’m looking for a passage on this ship to Tarshish. When are you setting sail, sir?’ So far, the occupied Captain hasn’t even looked at Jonah, though the man is now standing right in front of him. But as soon as he hears Jonah’s hollow voice, he glances up sharply. ‘We sail with the next tide,’ he finally says slowly, studying Jonah closely. ‘Not sooner, sir?’—‘Soon enough for any honest man traveling as a passenger.’ Ouch, Jonah—that’s another cut. But Jonah quickly shifts the Captain’s focus. ‘I’ll sail with you,’ he says. ‘How much for the passage? I’ll pay right now.’ For it’s specifically noted, shipmates, as if it were an important detail not to be missed in this story, ‘that he paid the fare’ before the ship set sail. And within the larger context, this carries a lot of significance."
“Now Jonah’s Captain, shipmates, was one whose discernment detects crime in any, but whose cupidity exposes it only in the penniless. In this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely, and without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all frontiers. So Jonah’s Captain prepares to test the length of Jonah’s purse, ere he judge him openly. He charges him thrice the usual sum; and it’s assented to. Then the Captain knows that Jonah is a fugitive; but at the same time resolves to help a flight that paves its rear with gold. Yet when Jonah fairly takes out his purse, prudent suspicions still molest the Captain. He rings every coin to find a counterfeit. Not a forger, any way, he mutters; and Jonah is put down for his passage. ‘Point out my state-room, Sir,’ says Jonah now, ‘I’m travel-weary; I need sleep.’ ‘Thou lookest like it,’ says the Captain, ‘there’s thy room.’ Jonah enters, and would lock the door, but the lock contains no key. Hearing him foolishly fumbling there, the Captain laughs lowly to himself, and mutters something about the doors of convicts’ cells being never allowed to be locked within. All dressed and dusty as he is, Jonah throws himself into his berth, and finds the little state-room ceiling almost resting on his forehead. The air is close, and Jonah gasps. Then, in that contracted hole, sunk, too, beneath the ship’s water-line, Jonah feels the heralding presentiment of that stifling hour, when the whale shall hold him in the smallest of his bowels’ wards.
"Jonah's captain, crew, was a man who could spot guilt in anyone but only exploited it when there was no money to be gained. In this world, crew, sin with money can move about freely without needing to show any papers, while virtue, if it's broke, gets stopped at every checkpoint. So Jonah's captain decides to test how deep Jonah's pockets are before passing judgment. He charges Jonah triple the usual fare, and Jonah agrees to it. That’s when the captain figures out Jonah is running from something, but he’s also fine with aiding a getaway if it’s paid for in gold. Even so, when Jonah pulls out his purse, the captain's cautious nature kicks in. He tests every coin to make sure it’s not fake. ‘At least he’s not a counterfeiter,’ the captain mutters, and Jonah is granted his passage. ‘Show me to my room, Captain,’ Jonah says now, ‘I’m exhausted and need rest.’ ‘You sure look like it,’ the captain replies. ‘There’s your room.’ Jonah goes in and tries to lock the door, but there’s no key for the lock. Hearing Jonah fumbling around with it, the captain chuckles quietly to himself and murmurs something about how prisoners’ cells never have locks on the inside. Still dressed and covered in dust, Jonah collapses onto the small bed, noticing that the ceiling feels like it's almost pressing down on his face. The air is stifling, and Jonah struggles to breathe. In that cramped little cabin, sitting below the waterline of the ship, Jonah begins to feel a grim foreshadowing of the suffocating moment to come—when he’ll be trapped in the tightest part of the whale’s belly."
“Screwed at its axis against the side, a swinging lamp slightly oscillates in Jonah’s room; and the ship, heeling over towards the wharf with the weight of the last bales received, the lamp, flame and all, though in slight motion, still maintains a permanent obliquity with reference to the room; though, in truth, infallibly straight itself, it but made obvious the false, lying levels among which it hung. The lamp alarms and frightens Jonah; as lying in his berth his tormented eyes roll round the place, and this thus far successful fugitive finds no refuge for his restless glance. But that contradiction in the lamp more and more appals him. The floor, the ceiling, and the side, are all awry. ‘Oh! so my conscience hangs in me!’ he groans, ‘straight upwards, so it burns; but the chambers of my soul are all in crookedness!’
Attached to the wall on a pivot, a swinging lamp gently sways in Jonah’s room. As the ship tilts toward the dock under the weight of the last bales being loaded, the lamp, flame and all, moves slightly but keeps a constant slant relative to the room. Though perfectly straight on its own, it highlights the crooked, uneven surfaces surrounding it. The lamp unsettles Jonah; lying in his bunk, his restless eyes scan the room, and this fugitive, who has so far evaded capture, finds no escape for his anxious gaze. But the contradiction of the lamp troubles him more and more. The floor, ceiling, and walls are all uneven. "Oh, that’s how my conscience feels inside me!" he groans. "Burning straight and true, but the chambers of my soul are all twisted and distorted!"
“Like one who after a night of drunken revelry hies to his bed, still reeling, but with conscience yet pricking him, as the plungings of the Roman race-horse but so much the more strike his steel tags into him; as one who in that miserable plight still turns and turns in giddy anguish, praying God for annihilation until the fit be passed; and at last amid the whirl of woe he feels, a deep stupor steals over him, as over the man who bleeds to death, for conscience is the wound, and there’s naught to staunch it; so, after sore wrestlings in his berth, Jonah’s prodigy of ponderous misery drags him drowning down to sleep.
"Like someone who, after a night of heavy partying, stumbles to bed still dizzy, but with a guilty conscience nagging at them—like the Roman racehorse driven harder by its own spiked harness—as they toss and turn in nauseating misery, begging God for release until the torment finally subsides; and then, amidst the whirlwind of pain, a heavy numbness overtakes them, like a person bleeding out, because guilt is the wound and nothing can stop it. So, after battling with himself in his bunk, Jonah’s overwhelming burden of misery finally pulls him into a drowning sleep."
“And now the time of tide has come; the ship casts off her cables; and from the deserted wharf the uncheered ship for Tarshish, all careening, glides to sea. That ship, my friends, was the first of recorded smugglers! the contraband was Jonah. But the sea rebels; he will not bear the wicked burden. A dreadful storm comes on, the ship is like to break. But now when the boatswain calls all hands to lighten her; when boxes, bales, and jars are clattering overboard; when the wind is shrieking, and the men are yelling, and every plank thunders with trampling feet right over Jonah’s head; in all this raging tumult, Jonah sleeps his hideous sleep. He sees no black sky and raging sea, feels not the reeling timbers, and little hears he or heeds he the far rush of the mighty whale, which even now with open mouth is cleaving the seas after him. Aye, shipmates, Jonah was gone down into the sides of the ship—a berth in the cabin as I have taken it, and was fast asleep. But the frightened master comes to him, and shrieks in his dead ear, ‘What meanest thou, O, sleeper! arise!’ Startled from his lethargy by that direful cry, Jonah staggers to his feet, and stumbling to the deck, grasps a shroud, to look out upon the sea. But at that moment he is sprung upon by a panther billow leaping over the bulwarks. Wave after wave thus leaps into the ship, and finding no speedy vent runs roaring fore and aft, till the mariners come nigh to drowning while yet afloat. And ever, as the white moon shows her affrighted face from the steep gullies in the blackness overhead, aghast Jonah sees the rearing bowsprit pointing high upward, but soon beat downward again towards the tormented deep.
The time has come, and the ship lets go of its ropes. From the empty wharf, the uncheered ship bound for Tarshish leans and slowly glides into the sea. That ship, my friends, was history’s first recorded smuggler—the contraband being Jonah. But the sea rises up in rebellion, unwilling to carry the guilty load. A violent storm crashes down, threatening to break the ship apart. When the boatswain calls for everyone to throw overboard whatever they can lighten, crates, barrels, and jars crash into the water while the wind howls and the men shout, running frantically across the creaking deck, pounding above Jonah’s head. Through all this chaos, Jonah is sound asleep, deeply lost in a disturbing slumber. He doesn’t see the black storm sky or feel the shaking planks beneath him. He barely registers the distant roar of the massive whale that even now swims with its mouth wide open, charging toward him. Yes, crewmates, Jonah had gone below into the hold of the ship—what we’d call a berth below deck—and was fast asleep. But the terrified captain comes to him and yells in his ear, “What are you doing, you sleeper? Get up!” Jolted awake from his stupor by the desperate cry, Jonah stumbles to his feet and lurches onto the deck, grabbing hold of a rope to steady himself as he peers out at the sea. Just then, a massive wave bursts over the ship’s side, slamming into him. One wave after another crashes onto the deck, flooding it from front to back, nearly drowning the sailors even before the ship sinks. And as the pale moon occasionally reveals its frightened face between the steep valleys of black clouds above, Jonah sees the ship’s bowsprit rearing upward toward the sky, only to crash down again into the tortured sea below.
“Terrors upon terrors run shouting through his soul. In all his cringing attitudes, the God-fugitive is now too plainly known. The sailors mark him; more and more certain grow their suspicions of him, and at last, fully to test the truth, by referring the whole matter to high Heaven, they fall to casting lots, to see for whose cause this great tempest was upon them. The lot is Jonah’s; that discovered, then how furiously they mob him with their questions. ‘What is thine occupation? Whence comest thou? Thy country? What people? But mark now, my shipmates, the behavior of poor Jonah. The eager mariners but ask him who he is, and where from; whereas, they not only receive an answer to those questions, but likewise another answer to a question not put by them, but the unsolicited answer is forced from Jonah by the hard hand of God that is upon him.
Fears upon fears scream through his soul. In all his cowering postures, it’s now painfully obvious that he’s the one running from God. The sailors notice him; their suspicions grow stronger and stronger, and finally, to confirm the truth by appealing to a higher power, they decide to cast lots to figure out who is responsible for causing the terrible storm. The lot falls on Jonah; once that’s clear, they bombard him furiously with their questions. “What’s your job? Where do you come from? What’s your homeland? Who are your people?” But take note, my friends, of how poor Jonah reacts. The eager sailors only want to know who he is and where he’s from, but not only does he answer what they ask, he also reveals something they didn’t even question. This answer, unprompted, is forced out of Jonah by the heavy hand of God pressing down on him.
“‘I am a Hebrew,’ he cries—and then—‘I fear the Lord the God of Heaven who hath made the sea and the dry land!’ Fear him, O Jonah? Aye, well mightest thou fear the Lord God then! Straightway, he now goes on to make a full confession; whereupon the mariners became more and more appalled, but still are pitiful. For when Jonah, not yet supplicating God for mercy, since he but too well knew the darkness of his deserts,—when wretched Jonah cries out to them to take him and cast him forth into the sea, for he knew that for his sake this great tempest was upon them; they mercifully turn from him, and seek by other means to save the ship. But all in vain; the indignant gale howls louder; then, with one hand raised invokingly to God, with the other they not unreluctantly lay hold of Jonah.
"I’m a Hebrew," he shouts, "and I worship the Lord, the God of heaven who made both the sea and the land!" Worship Him, Jonah? Yeah, you'd better fear the Lord God *then*! Right away, he confesses everything, and the sailors grow more and more terrified, but they're still compassionate. When Jonah—still not begging God for mercy because he knows just how deeply he deserves this—cries out to them to throw him overboard, admitting that this raging storm is all because of him, they hold back. Instead, they try every other way to save the ship. But it’s no use; the furious storm only gets worse. Finally, with one hand lifted in a prayer to God and the other hesitantly grabbing hold of Jonah, they prepare to act.
“And now behold Jonah taken up as an anchor and dropped into the sea; when instantly an oily calmness floats out from the east, and the sea is still, as Jonah carries down the gale with him, leaving smooth water behind. He goes down in the whirling heart of such a masterless commotion that he scarce heeds the moment when he drops seething into the yawning jaws awaiting him; and the whale shoots-to all his ivory teeth, like so many white bolts, upon his prison. Then Jonah prayed unto the Lord out of the fish’s belly. But observe his prayer, and learn a weighty lesson. For sinful as he is, Jonah does not weep and wail for direct deliverance. He feels that his dreadful punishment is just. He leaves all his deliverance to God, contenting himself with this, that spite of all his pains and pangs, he will still look towards His holy temple. And here, shipmates, is true and faithful repentance; not clamorous for pardon, but grateful for punishment. And how pleasing to God was this conduct in Jonah, is shown in the eventual deliverance of him from the sea and the whale. Shipmates, I do not place Jonah before you to be copied for his sin but I do place him before you as a model for repentance. Sin not; but if you do, take heed to repent of it like Jonah.”
"And now, look at Jonah being taken like an anchor and dropped into the sea. Immediately, a calm, oily stillness spreads from the east, and the ocean becomes peaceful as Jonah takes the storm down with him, leaving calm waters behind. He descends into the swirling chaos of such uncontrollable upheaval that he barely notices the moment he plunges into the gaping jaws waiting for him; and the whale snaps shut all its ivory teeth, like so many white bolts, locking him in its prison. Then Jonah prayed to the Lord from inside the fish’s belly. But pay attention to his prayer and learn an important lesson. As sinful as he is, Jonah doesn’t cry or beg for immediate rescue. He understands that his terrible punishment is deserved. He leaves his salvation entirely in God’s hands, finding contentment in this: that despite all his suffering and torment, he will still turn his eyes toward God’s holy temple. And here, my friends, is true and sincere repentance—not loud cries for pardon, but gratitude for the punishment. How pleasing this attitude was to God is evident in Jonah’s eventual rescue from both the sea and the whale. Friends, I’m not presenting Jonah to you as an example to follow in his sin, but as a model for repentance. Don’t sin; but if you do, make sure to repent like Jonah did."
While he was speaking these words, the howling of the shrieking, slanting storm without seemed to add new power to the preacher, who, when describing Jonah’s sea-storm, seemed tossed by a storm himself. His deep chest heaved as with a ground-swell; his tossed arms seemed the warring elements at work; and the thunders that rolled away from off his swarthy brow, and the light leaping from his eye, made all his simple hearers look on him with a quick fear that was strange to them.
As he spoke these words, the howling and screaming of the slanting storm outside seemed to give the preacher even more energy. As he described Jonah’s sea storm, he himself seemed caught in the chaos of a storm. His broad chest rose and fell like crashing waves; his flailing arms mirrored the wild forces of nature; and the thunderous anger on his dark brow, combined with the flashes of light in his eyes, made all his simple listeners watch him with a sudden, unfamiliar fear.
There now came a lull in his look, as he silently turned over the leaves of the Book once more; and, at last, standing motionless, with closed eyes, for the moment, seemed communing with God and himself.
There was now a pause in his expression as he quietly flipped through the pages of the Book again; and finally, standing still with his eyes closed for a moment, he seemed to be reflecting, connecting with God and himself.
But again he leaned over towards the people, and bowing his head lowly, with an aspect of the deepest yet manliest humility, he spake these words:
But again, he leaned toward the crowd, bowed his head deeply, and, with a look of profound yet strong humility, spoke these words:
“Shipmates, God has laid but one hand upon you; both his hands press upon me. I have read ye by what murky light may be mine the lesson that Jonah teaches to all sinners; and therefore to ye, and still more to me, for I am a greater sinner than ye. And now how gladly would I come down from this mast-head and sit on the hatches there where you sit, and listen as you listen, while some one of you reads me that other and more awful lesson which Jonah teaches to me, as a pilot of the living God. How being an anointed pilot-prophet, or speaker of true things, and bidden by the Lord to sound those unwelcome truths in the ears of a wicked Nineveh, Jonah, appalled at the hostility he should raise, fled from his mission, and sought to escape his duty and his God by taking ship at Joppa. But God is everywhere; Tarshish he never reached. As we have seen, God came upon him in the whale, and swallowed him down to living gulfs of doom, and with swift slantings tore him along ‘into the midst of the seas,’ where the eddying depths sucked him ten thousand fathoms down, and ‘the weeds were wrapped about his head,’ and all the watery world of woe bowled over him. Yet even then beyond the reach of any plummet—‘out of the belly of hell’—when the whale grounded upon the ocean’s utmost bones, even then, God heard the engulphed, repenting prophet when he cried. Then God spake unto the fish; and from the shuddering cold and blackness of the sea, the whale came breeching up towards the warm and pleasant sun, and all the delights of air and earth; and ‘vomited out Jonah upon the dry land;’ when the word of the Lord came a second time; and Jonah, bruised and beaten—his ears, like two sea-shells, still multitudinously murmuring of the ocean—Jonah did the Almighty’s bidding. And what was that, shipmates? To preach the Truth to the face of Falsehood! That was it!
"Listen up, crew. God has only touched you lightly, but both His hands are pressing down on me. I’ve tried to teach you, as best as I can in my own murky understanding, the lesson Jonah gives to all sinners—especially to me, because I’m a bigger sinner than any of you. Right now, I’d gladly come down from this masthead, sit on the deck beside you, and listen as someone reads *me* that other, far more terrifying lesson Jonah teaches—one meant for me as a sinner and a guide of God’s will. You see, Jonah was chosen as a pilot-prophet, someone sent to speak the truth, even if it was harsh, and commanded by the Lord to deliver that truth to the wicked people of Nineveh. But terrified of the anger he’d stir up, Jonah ran from his mission. He tried to flee his duty and his God by boarding a ship at Joppa. Still, you can’t outrun God—Tarshish was never in reach for him. As we know, God found him, sent a whale to swallow him whole, dragging him down into the crushing depths of the sea. Jonah sank so far that the weeds wrapped around his head as the ocean’s dark, churning chaos swept over him, pulling him into despair itself. And yet, out of the deepest abyss—‘the belly of hell’—when the whale hit the seabed, God still heard Jonah’s repentant cry. Then God ordered the whale to release him. From the freezing, black depths of the ocean, the whale rose through to the warmth of the sunlit world above, vomited Jonah out onto dry land, and gave him another chance. The word of the Lord came to Jonah again, and though battered and shaken—his ears still echoing with the sounds of the sea—Jonah obeyed God’s command. And what was that command, crew? It was to preach the truth directly to falsehood. That’s what it was!"
“This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of the living God who slights it. Woe to him whom this world charms from Gospel duty! Woe to him who seeks to pour oil upon the waters when God has brewed them into a gale! Woe to him who seeks to please rather than to appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness! Woe to him who, in this world, courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would not be true, even though to be false were salvation! Yea, woe to him who, as the great Pilot Paul has it, while preaching to others is himself a castaway!”
"Listen up, crew, here’s the other lesson—and pity the captain of the living God who ignores it. Pity the one who lets the world distract him from his spiritual duty! Pity the one who tries to calm the storm when God Himself has stirred it into a gale! Pity the one who aims to please instead of to strike awe! Pity the one who values his reputation more than his righteousness! Pity the one who avoids disgrace instead of facing it! Pity the one who won’t hold to the truth, even if lying would save him! Yes, pity the one who, as the great Captain Paul says, preaches to others but ends up lost himself!"
He dropped and fell away from himself for a moment; then lifting his face to them again, showed a deep joy in his eyes, as he cried out with a heavenly enthusiasm,—“But oh! shipmates! on the starboard hand of every woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight, than the bottom of the woe is deep. Is not the main-truck higher than the kelson is low? Delight is to him—a far, far upward, and inward delight—who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight,—top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final breath—O Father!—chiefly known to me by Thy rod—mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this world’s, or mine own. Yet this is nothing: I leave eternity to Thee; for what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God?”
He sank into himself for a moment, then lifted his face again, a deep joy shining in his eyes as he called out with heavenly passion, “Oh, shipmates! On the starboard side of every sorrow, there’s a certain joy; and that joy rises higher than the deepest depth of the sorrow. Isn’t the main topmast higher than the keel is low? Joy belongs to the one who finds a far, far-reaching and inward happiness—someone who stands firm as their true, unyielding self against the proud rulers and commanders of this world. Joy belongs to the one whose strong arms still hold him up when the ship of this corrupt, deceitful world sinks under him. Joy belongs to the one who spares no compromise in seeking truth, who destroys all sin—even if it’s hidden in the robes of senators and judges. Joy—a supreme and triumphant joy—belongs to the one who bows to no law or lord except the Lord his God and remains loyal only to heaven. Joy belongs to the one who stands unwavering, no matter how fiercely the stormy seas of this chaotic mob rage against him, anchored firmly to the eternal foundation. And eternal joy and sweetness await the one who, when it’s time to rest, can draw their last breath and say, ‘O Father! Known to me through both Your guidance and Your discipline—whether mortal or immortal, I die here. I have tried to be Yours, more than I’ve been the world’s or even my own. But that doesn’t matter: I leave eternity to You; for what is man that he should outlast the life of his God?’”
He said no more, but slowly waving a benediction, covered his face with his hands, and so remained kneeling, till all the people had departed, and he was left alone in the place.
He didn’t say anything else but slowly gave a blessing, covered his face with his hands, and stayed kneeling like that until everyone had left, leaving him alone in the place.
CHAPTER 10. A Bosom Friend.
Returning to the Spouter-Inn from the Chapel, I found Queequeg there quite alone; he having left the Chapel before the benediction some time. He was sitting on a bench before the fire, with his feet on the stove hearth, and in one hand was holding close up to his face that little negro idol of his; peering hard into its face, and with a jack-knife gently whittling away at its nose, meanwhile humming to himself in his heathenish way.
When I got back to the Spouter-Inn from the chapel, I found Queequeg there by himself; he had left the chapel some time before the benediction. He was sitting on a bench in front of the fire, his feet propped up on the stove hearth. In one hand, he held that little black idol of his close to his face, staring intently at it while gently carving its nose with a pocketknife and humming to himself in his strange, pagan way.
But being now interrupted, he put up the image; and pretty soon, going to the table, took up a large book there, and placing it on his lap began counting the pages with deliberate regularity; at every fiftieth page—as I fancied—stopping a moment, looking vacantly around him, and giving utterance to a long-drawn gurgling whistle of astonishment. He would then begin again at the next fifty; seeming to commence at number one each time, as though he could not count more than fifty, and it was only by such a large number of fifties being found together, that his astonishment at the multitude of pages was excited.
But then he got interrupted and put the image away. After a bit, he walked over to the table, picked up a big book, and sat down with it on his lap. He started flipping through the pages methodically, counting them one by one. Every fifty pages—or so it seemed to me—he would pause for a moment, glance blankly around the room, and let out a long, bubbling whistle of amazement. Then he'd start over with the next fifty, acting like he couldn’t count past fifty. It seemed like he was only surprised by how many pages there were because he had to keep finding so many groups of fifty in the book.
With much interest I sat watching him. Savage though he was, and hideously marred about the face—at least to my taste—his countenance yet had a something in it which was by no means disagreeable. You cannot hide the soul. Through all his unearthly tattooings, I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils. And besides all this, there was a certain lofty bearing about the Pagan, which even his uncouthness could not altogether maim. He looked like a man who had never cringed and never had had a creditor. Whether it was, too, that his head being shaved, his forehead was drawn out in freer and brighter relief, and looked more expansive than it otherwise would, this I will not venture to decide; but certain it was his head was phrenologically an excellent one. It may seem ridiculous, but it reminded me of General Washington’s head, as seen in the popular busts of him. It had the same long regularly graded retreating slope from above the brows, which were likewise very projecting, like two long promontories thickly wooded on top. Queequeg was George Washington cannibalistically developed.
I watched him with great interest. Savage as he was, and although his face was grotesquely scarred—at least to my taste—there was still something about his expression that wasn’t unpleasant. You can’t hide the soul. Beneath all his otherworldly tattoos, I thought I could see signs of a simple, honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes—fiery black and bold—there were hints of a spirit fearless enough to face a thousand devils. On top of all that, he had a certain dignified air that even his rough manners couldn’t fully diminish. He looked like someone who had never bowed down to anyone and never owed anyone a debt. Maybe it was because his shaved head made his forehead appear smoother and brighter, giving it a more expansive look—but I won’t claim to know for sure. What I can say is his head was, phrenologically speaking, excellent. It might sound silly, but it reminded me of General Washington’s head as seen in popular busts of him. It had the same long, evenly sloping retreat from the brows, which were also very prominent, like two big, forested cliffs. Queequeg was George Washington, but in a cannibal’s form.
Whilst I was thus closely scanning him, half-pretending meanwhile to be looking out at the storm from the casement, he never heeded my presence, never troubled himself with so much as a single glance; but appeared wholly occupied with counting the pages of the marvellous book. Considering how sociably we had been sleeping together the night previous, and especially considering the affectionate arm I had found thrown over me upon waking in the morning, I thought this indifference of his very strange. But savages are strange beings; at times you do not know exactly how to take them. At first they are overawing; their calm self-collectedness of simplicity seems a Socratic wisdom. I had noticed also that Queequeg never consorted at all, or but very little, with the other seamen in the inn. He made no advances whatever; appeared to have no desire to enlarge the circle of his acquaintances. All this struck me as mighty singular; yet, upon second thoughts, there was something almost sublime in it. Here was a man some twenty thousand miles from home, by the way of Cape Horn, that is—which was the only way he could get there—thrown among people as strange to him as though he were in the planet Jupiter; and yet he seemed entirely at his ease; preserving the utmost serenity; content with his own companionship; always equal to himself. Surely this was a touch of fine philosophy; though no doubt he had never heard there was such a thing as that. But, perhaps, to be true philosophers, we mortals should not be conscious of so living or so striving. So soon as I hear that such or such a man gives himself out for a philosopher, I conclude that, like the dyspeptic old woman, he must have “broken his digester.”
While I was watching him closely, pretending to look out at the storm through the window, he didn’t even notice I was there. He didn’t so much as glance my way and seemed completely absorbed in counting the pages of that extraordinary book. Considering how we'd shared a bed the night before—and especially how I’d woken up to find his arm affectionately draped over me—I found his indifference pretty odd. But people like him can be strange; sometimes, you’re not quite sure how to deal with them. At first, they intimidate you; their calm, simple self-assurance feels almost like the wisdom of Socrates. I’d also noticed that Queequeg barely interacted with any of the other sailors at the inn. He didn’t try to make friends or seem interested in expanding his circle. All of this struck me as very peculiar, yet, thinking about it more, there was something almost noble about it. Here was a man from twenty thousand miles away—via Cape Horn, the only route to his home—dropped into a world as foreign to him as if he were on Jupiter. Still, he managed to seem completely at ease, serene, content with his own company, always steady in himself. Surely, this had to be a kind of quiet, profound philosophy—though he probably didn’t even know that word existed. Maybe, to truly live as a philosopher, we shouldn’t even be aware that we’re doing it. As soon as I find out someone calls themselves a philosopher, I tend to think, like an old woman who’s ruined her digestion, they’ve probably “broken their inner balance.”
As I sat there in that now lonely room; the fire burning low, in that mild stage when, after its first intensity has warmed the air, it then only glows to be looked at; the evening shades and phantoms gathering round the casements, and peering in upon us silent, solitary twain; the storm booming without in solemn swells; I began to be sensible of strange feelings. I felt a melting in me. No more my splintered heart and maddened hand were turned against the wolfish world. This soothing savage had redeemed it. There he sat, his very indifference speaking a nature in which there lurked no civilized hypocrisies and bland deceits. Wild he was; a very sight of sights to see; yet I began to feel myself mysteriously drawn towards him. And those same things that would have repelled most others, they were the very magnets that thus drew me. I’ll try a pagan friend, thought I, since Christian kindness has proved but hollow courtesy. I drew my bench near him, and made some friendly signs and hints, doing my best to talk with him meanwhile. At first he little noticed these advances; but presently, upon my referring to his last night’s hospitalities, he made out to ask me whether we were again to be bedfellows. I told him yes; whereat I thought he looked pleased, perhaps a little complimented.
As I sat there in that now lonely room, the fire burning low—at that soft glow stage, where after its initial heat it simply flickers, inviting you to just watch—the evening shadows and ghostly figures gathered around the windows, silently peering in at just the two of us. Outside, the storm roared in deep, solemn waves. I started feeling something strange. I felt myself softening. My broken heart and raging anger against the cruel, predatory world began to fade. This calming yet wild figure had healed something in me. There he sat, his very indifference showing a nature free from civilized lies and smooth pretenses. He was wild—truly a sight to behold—yet I started to feel an odd pull towards him. The same things that would have pushed most people away were, for me, like magnets drawing me in. "I'll try a pagan friend," I thought, "since Christian kindness has only been empty politeness." I slid my bench closer to him and made some friendly gestures, doing my best to engage with him. At first, he barely noticed my attempts. But soon, when I mentioned his hospitality the night before, he managed to ask if we would again be sharing a bed. I said yes; at that, I thought I saw a look of satisfaction on his face, maybe even a bit of pride.
We then turned over the book together, and I endeavored to explain to him the purpose of the printing, and the meaning of the few pictures that were in it. Thus I soon engaged his interest; and from that we went to jabbering the best we could about the various outer sights to be seen in this famous town. Soon I proposed a social smoke; and, producing his pouch and tomahawk, he quietly offered me a puff. And then we sat exchanging puffs from that wild pipe of his, and keeping it regularly passing between us.
We flipped through the book together, and I tried to explain to him the purpose of the printing and the meaning of the few pictures it contained. Pretty soon, I had his attention, and from there, we started chatting as best we could about the various sights around this well-known town. After a bit, I suggested we have a smoke. He pulled out his pouch and tomahawk and calmly offered me a puff. So, we sat there, taking turns with that exotic pipe of his, passing it back and forth between us.
If there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan’s breast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and left us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country’s phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be. In a countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage those old rules would not apply.
If there was still any hint of indifference toward me in the Pagan's heart, our friendly and relaxing smoke soon melted it away, leaving us close friends. He seemed to connect with me as naturally and effortlessly as I did with him. When our smoke was done, he pressed his forehead against mine, wrapped his arms around my waist, and declared that from then on we were married—meaning, in his culture, that we were best friends. He said he’d gladly die for me if it ever came to that. In a fellow countryman, this sudden burst of friendship might have seemed way too rushed, something to be wary of, but with this simple, genuine man, those usual rules didn’t apply.
After supper, and another social chat and smoke, we went to our room together. He made me a present of his embalmed head; took out his enormous tobacco wallet, and groping under the tobacco, drew out some thirty dollars in silver; then spreading them on the table, and mechanically dividing them into two equal portions, pushed one of them towards me, and said it was mine. I was going to remonstrate; but he silenced me by pouring them into my trowsers’ pockets. I let them stay. He then went about his evening prayers, took out his idol, and removed the paper fireboard. By certain signs and symptoms, I thought he seemed anxious for me to join him; but well knowing what was to follow, I deliberated a moment whether, in case he invited me, I would comply or otherwise.
After dinner, and another friendly chat and smoke, we went to our room together. He gave me his preserved head as a gift, pulled out his massive tobacco pouch, and, digging beneath the tobacco, took out about thirty dollars in silver coins. Then, spreading them out on the table and instinctively dividing them into two equal piles, he pushed one pile toward me and said it was mine. I was about to protest, but he stopped me by sliding the coins into my pants pockets. I left them there. After that, he started his evening prayers, took out his idol, and removed the paper covering from the fireboard. From certain gestures and hints, I could tell he wanted me to join him. But knowing what might come next, I paused for a moment to consider whether I would participate if he asked me or not.
I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? thought I. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth—pagans and all included—can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship?—to do the will of God—that is worship. And what is the will of God?—to do to my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me—that is the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do to me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him in his; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I kindled the shavings; helped prop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with Queequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world. But we did not go to sleep without some little chat.
I was a devoted Christian, raised in the heart of the unwavering Presbyterian Church. So how could I possibly join this wild idol worshipper in honoring his piece of wood? But then I asked myself, what is worship anyway? Do you really think, Ishmael, that the great God of heaven and earth—who embraces pagans and everyone else—could be jealous of a small, insignificant piece of black wood? That’s impossible! But again, what is worship? It’s doing God’s will—that’s what worship is. So what is God’s will? It’s treating others the way I want to be treated—that’s God’s will. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what would I want Queequeg to do for me? Well, I’d want him to join me in my Presbyterian way of worshipping. So, logically, I should join him in his way of worshipping—therefore, I guess I must become a bit of an idol worshipper myself! So I lit the shavings, helped steady the harmless little idol, shared burnt biscuits with Queequeg, bowed to it two or three times, gave it a kiss on the nose, and when all that was done, we got undressed and went to bed, completely at peace with our consciences and the rest of the world. But we didn’t fall asleep right away; we had a little chat first.
How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg—a cosy, loving pair.
I don't know why it is, but there's no place like a bed for sharing secrets with friends. They say husbands and wives share the deepest parts of their souls with each other there, and some older couples often lie awake talking about the past until almost morning. So, during the honeymoon phase of our friendship, there I lay with Queequeg—a comfortable, affectionate pair.
CHAPTER 11. Nightgown.
We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals, and Queequeg now and then affectionately throwing his brown tattooed legs over mine, and then drawing them back; so entirely sociable and free and easy were we; when, at last, by reason of our confabulations, what little nappishness remained in us altogether departed, and we felt like getting up again, though day-break was yet some way down the future.
We had been lying in bed like that, chatting and dozing off in short intervals, with Queequeg occasionally draping his brown tattooed legs over mine and then pulling them back; we were so completely relaxed and comfortable with each other. Eventually, after all our talking, any trace of sleepiness left us entirely, and we felt like getting up again, even though dawn was still a while away.
Yes, we became very wakeful; so much so that our recumbent position began to grow wearisome, and by little and little we found ourselves sitting up; the clothes well tucked around us, leaning against the head-board with our four knees drawn up close together, and our two noses bending over them, as if our kneepans were warming-pans. We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.
Yes, we became very awake—so much so that lying down started to feel uncomfortable. Slowly, we ended up sitting up, the blankets tucked snugly around us, leaning against the headboard with our four knees drawn up close, and our two noses resting over them, as if our kneecaps were serving as warmers. We felt cozy and secure, especially since it was so cold outside, and even chilly inside the room since there was no fire. I mean, to truly enjoy being warm, some small part of you has to be a little cold—because nothing in the world has meaning without contrast. Nothing exists in isolation. If you think you’re entirely comfortable and have been for a while, then you’ve lost the feeling of comfort. But if, like Queequeg and me in bed, the tip of your nose or the top of your head is slightly cold, then it makes the rest of you feel wonderfully, unmistakably warm. That’s why a bedroom should never have a fire; it’s one of those indulgent discomforts of wealthy living. The ultimate sense of cozy warmth comes from having only the blanket separating you from the chill of the outside air. In that moment, you’re like a single warm spark nestled in the center of an arctic crystal.
We had been sitting in this crouching manner for some time, when all at once I thought I would open my eyes; for when between sheets, whether by day or by night, and whether asleep or awake, I have a way of always keeping my eyes shut, in order the more to concentrate the snugness of being in bed. Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his eyes be closed; as if darkness were indeed the proper element of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey part. Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the unilluminated twelve-o’clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had felt such a strong repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love once comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy then. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord’s policy of insurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential comfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend. With our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the Tomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue hanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.
We had been sitting in this crouched position for a while when I suddenly thought I’d open my eyes. You see, whether it’s day or night, whether I’m asleep or awake in bed, I have this habit of keeping my eyes closed to fully enjoy the cozy feeling of being under the covers. After all, no one can truly feel their own sense of self except when their eyes are shut—it’s like darkness is where our true selves belong, even though light suits our physical bodies better. So, when I opened my eyes and left my pleasant little world of self-imposed darkness for the bleak, harsh reality of midnight’s dimness, it was not a pleasant feeling. I didn’t mind when Queequeg suggested we light a lamp since we were both wide awake, and besides, he really wanted to enjoy a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk pipe. I have to admit, even though I was so against him smoking in bed the night before, it’s funny how much our stiff prejudices soften when affection starts to bend them. Now, I actually enjoyed having Queequeg smoking beside me—even in bed—because he radiated such a peaceful, homey joy when he did. I wasn’t worried anymore about the landlord’s insurance policy. All I cared about was the intimate and comforting experience of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a true friend. Wrapped in our warm jackets, we passed the Tomahawk back and forth until a soft blue cloud of smoke formed above us, glowing faintly under the light of the newly lit lamp.
Whether it was that this undulating tester rolled the savage away to far distant scenes, I know not, but he now spoke of his native island; and, eager to hear his history, I begged him to go on and tell it. He gladly complied. Though at the time I but ill comprehended not a few of his words, yet subsequent disclosures, when I had become more familiar with his broken phraseology, now enable me to present the whole story such as it may prove in the mere skeleton I give.
Whether it was that this rocking canopy carried the restless soul of the savage away to far-off places, I’m not sure, but he started talking about his home island; and eager to hear his story, I asked him to continue and share it. He was happy to oblige. Although at the time I struggled to understand much of what he said, later revelations, after I had grown more accustomed to his broken language, now allow me to share the full story, even if it’s only in the bare outline I can offer.
CHAPTER 12. Biographical.
Queequeg was a native of Rokovoko, an island far away to the West and South. It is not down in any map; true places never are.
Queequeg was from Rokovoko, an island far off to the west and south. It’s not on any map; real places never are.
When a new-hatched savage running wild about his native woodlands in a grass clout, followed by the nibbling goats, as if he were a green sapling; even then, in Queequeg’s ambitious soul, lurked a strong desire to see something more of Christendom than a specimen whaler or two. His father was a High Chief, a King; his uncle a High Priest; and on the maternal side he boasted aunts who were the wives of unconquerable warriors. There was excellent blood in his veins—royal stuff; though sadly vitiated, I fear, by the cannibal propensity he nourished in his untutored youth.
When Queequeg was a young, untamed kid running through his native forests in just a simple grass loincloth, followed by curious goats like he was a fresh young tree, he already had a deep ambition to explore more of the world beyond just a couple of passing whaling ships. His father was a powerful Chief, a King; his uncle was a respected High Priest, and on his mother’s side, he had aunts married to fearless, unbeatable warriors. His bloodline was impressive—truly royal—though, unfortunately, it had been somewhat tainted by the cannibal tendencies he embraced during his uneducated youth.
A Sag Harbor ship visited his father’s bay, and Queequeg sought a passage to Christian lands. But the ship, having her full complement of seamen, spurned his suit; and not all the King his father’s influence could prevail. But Queequeg vowed a vow. Alone in his canoe, he paddled off to a distant strait, which he knew the ship must pass through when she quitted the island. On one side was a coral reef; on the other a low tongue of land, covered with mangrove thickets that grew out into the water. Hiding his canoe, still afloat, among these thickets, with its prow seaward, he sat down in the stern, paddle low in hand; and when the ship was gliding by, like a flash he darted out; gained her side; with one backward dash of his foot capsized and sank his canoe; climbed up the chains; and throwing himself at full length upon the deck, grappled a ring-bolt there, and swore not to let it go, though hacked in pieces.
A ship from Sag Harbor visited his father’s bay, and Queequeg looked for a way to travel to Christian lands. But the ship, already fully crewed, rejected his request; not even the influence of the King, his father, could change their minds. Still, Queequeg made a vow. On his own, he paddled his canoe to a distant strait he knew the ship would have to pass through when leaving the island. On one side was a coral reef, and on the other, a low strip of land covered with mangrove trees extending into the water. He hid his canoe, still floating, among the thickets with its front facing the sea, then sat in the back with his paddle ready. As soon as the ship began gliding by, he shot out like lightning, reached the ship’s side, and with a quick push of his foot, flipped and sank his canoe. He climbed up the chains, threw himself onto the deck, grabbed hold of a ring-bolt, and swore he wouldn’t let go—even if they cut him to pieces.
In vain the captain threatened to throw him overboard; suspended a cutlass over his naked wrists; Queequeg was the son of a King, and Queequeg budged not. Struck by his desperate dauntlessness, and his wild desire to visit Christendom, the captain at last relented, and told him he might make himself at home. But this fine young savage—this sea Prince of Wales, never saw the Captain’s cabin. They put him down among the sailors, and made a whaleman of him. But like Czar Peter content to toil in the shipyards of foreign cities, Queequeg disdained no seeming ignominy, if thereby he might happily gain the power of enlightening his untutored countrymen. For at bottom—so he told me—he was actuated by a profound desire to learn among the Christians, the arts whereby to make his people still happier than they were; and more than that, still better than they were. But, alas! the practices of whalemen soon convinced him that even Christians could be both miserable and wicked; infinitely more so, than all his father’s heathens. Arrived at last in old Sag Harbor; and seeing what the sailors did there; and then going on to Nantucket, and seeing how they spent their wages in that place also, poor Queequeg gave it up for lost. Thought he, it’s a wicked world in all meridians; I’ll die a pagan.
The captain threatened to throw him overboard in vain, even holding a cutlass over his bare wrists. Queequeg, the son of a king, wouldn’t move. Impressed by his fearless determination and wild ambition to visit Christian lands, the captain eventually gave in and told him he could stay. But this impressive young "savage," this sea-born Prince of Wales, never saw the captain’s cabin. They sent him to live with the sailors and turned him into a whaler. Yet like Czar Peter working in the shipyards of foreign cities, Queequeg didn’t shy away from any task, no matter how humbling, if it meant he might someday return to teach and elevate his uneducated people. Deep down—so he told me—his main goal was to learn from Christians the skills to make his people not only happier but also better than they already were. However, to his dismay, the behavior of whalemen quickly showed him that even Christians could be both miserable and wicked—far more so than the "heathens" back home. Finally arriving at old Sag Harbor and witnessing the sailors’ actions there, and later traveling to Nantucket to see how they spent their money, poor Queequeg lost hope. He thought to himself, it’s a wicked world everywhere; I might as well die a pagan.
And thus an old idolator at heart, he yet lived among these Christians, wore their clothes, and tried to talk their gibberish. Hence the queer ways about him, though now some time from home.
And so, even though he was an old idol worshipper at heart, he lived among these Christians, wore their clothes, and tried to speak their strange language. That’s why he had such odd manners, even though he’d been away from home for quite some time.
By hints, I asked him whether he did not propose going back, and having a coronation; since he might now consider his father dead and gone, he being very old and feeble at the last accounts. He answered no, not yet; and added that he was fearful Christianity, or rather Christians, had unfitted him for ascending the pure and undefiled throne of thirty pagan Kings before him. But by and by, he said, he would return,—as soon as he felt himself baptized again. For the nonce, however, he proposed to sail about, and sow his wild oats in all four oceans. They had made a harpooneer of him, and that barbed iron was in lieu of a sceptre now.
I subtly asked him if he had any plans to go back and have a coronation, considering his father was likely gone by now, being very old and frail the last time he heard about him. He replied no, not yet, and explained that he was worried Christianity—or rather, Christians—had made him unfit to take the pure and untainted throne of the thirty pagan kings before him. However, he said he would go back eventually—once he felt renewed, like being baptized again. For now, though, he wanted to sail around and live freely across all four oceans. They had turned him into a harpooner, and that sharp iron was his scepter for the time being.
I asked him what might be his immediate purpose, touching his future movements. He answered, to go to sea again, in his old vocation. Upon this, I told him that whaling was my own design, and informed him of my intention to sail out of Nantucket, as being the most promising port for an adventurous whaleman to embark from. He at once resolved to accompany me to that island, ship aboard the same vessel, get into the same watch, the same boat, the same mess with me, in short to share my every hap; with both my hands in his, boldly dip into the Potluck of both worlds. To all this I joyously assented; for besides the affection I now felt for Queequeg, he was an experienced harpooneer, and as such, could not fail to be of great usefulness to one, who, like me, was wholly ignorant of the mysteries of whaling, though well acquainted with the sea, as known to merchant seamen.
I asked him what his immediate plans were for the future. He said he planned to return to sea in his old line of work. I told him that I was planning to go whaling and mentioned my intention to sail from Nantucket, which seemed like the best port for an adventurous whaler like me to start from. Right away, he decided to join me on that island, sign onto the same ship, be part of the same watch, row in the same boat, share meals together—in short, to stick with me through everything. With both his hands in mine, he boldly committed to take on whatever fortune the world had in store for us. I eagerly agreed, not only because of the bond I now felt with Queequeg, but also because he was a skilled harpooneer and would undoubtedly be a great help to someone like me, who, while familiar with life at sea as a merchant sailor, knew nothing about the art of whaling.
His story being ended with his pipe’s last dying puff, Queequeg embraced me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blowing out the light, we rolled over from each other, this way and that, and very soon were sleeping.
When he finished his story with the last puff of his pipe, Queequeg hugged me, pressed his forehead against mine, and blew out the light. Then we rolled away from each other, tossing this way and that, and soon we were both asleep.
CHAPTER 13. Wheelbarrow.
Next morning, Monday, after disposing of the embalmed head to a barber, for a block, I settled my own and comrade’s bill; using, however, my comrade’s money. The grinning landlord, as well as the boarders, seemed amazingly tickled at the sudden friendship which had sprung up between me and Queequeg—especially as Peter Coffin’s cock and bull stories about him had previously so much alarmed me concerning the very person whom I now companied with.
The next morning, Monday, after selling the preserved head to a barber as a display stand, I settled both my bill and my friend’s bill—using my friend’s money, though. The grinning landlord, along with the other guests, seemed incredibly amused by the sudden friendship that had developed between me and Queequeg—especially since Peter Coffin’s wild stories about him had earlier scared me so much about the very person I was now hanging out with.
We borrowed a wheelbarrow, and embarking our things, including my own poor carpet-bag, and Queequeg’s canvas sack and hammock, away we went down to “the Moss,” the little Nantucket packet schooner moored at the wharf. As we were going along the people stared; not at Queequeg so much—for they were used to seeing cannibals like him in their streets,—but at seeing him and me upon such confidential terms. But we heeded them not, going along wheeling the barrow by turns, and Queequeg now and then stopping to adjust the sheath on his harpoon barbs. I asked him why he carried such a troublesome thing with him ashore, and whether all whaling ships did not find their own harpoons. To this, in substance, he replied, that though what I hinted was true enough, yet he had a particular affection for his own harpoon, because it was of assured stuff, well tried in many a mortal combat, and deeply intimate with the hearts of whales. In short, like many inland reapers and mowers, who go into the farmers’ meadows armed with their own scythes—though in no wise obliged to furnish them—even so, Queequeg, for his own private reasons, preferred his own harpoon.
We borrowed a wheelbarrow, loaded up our stuff—including my humble duffle bag, Queequeg’s canvas sack, and his hammock—and headed down to "The Moss," a small Nantucket packet schooner tied up at the dock. As we walked along, people stared—not so much at Queequeg, since they were used to seeing folks like him around town—but more at the way the two of us seemed so friendly. We didn’t pay them any mind, taking turns pushing the wheelbarrow, with Queequeg occasionally stopping to adjust the sheath on his harpoon tips. I asked why he bothered carrying such a cumbersome thing around on land and whether all whaling ships didn’t just supply their own harpoons. He basically explained that, while I wasn’t wrong, he was particularly attached to his harpoon since it was reliable, battle-tested in many deadly encounters, and had an intimate history with the hearts of whales. In short, much like farmers and field workers who bring their own scythes to harvest even though they don’t have to, Queequeg—out of personal preference—chose to bring his own harpoon.
Shifting the barrow from my hand to his, he told me a funny story about the first wheelbarrow he had ever seen. It was in Sag Harbor. The owners of his ship, it seems, had lent him one, in which to carry his heavy chest to his boarding house. Not to seem ignorant about the thing—though in truth he was entirely so, concerning the precise way in which to manage the barrow—Queequeg puts his chest upon it; lashes it fast; and then shoulders the barrow and marches up the wharf. “Why,” said I, “Queequeg, you might have known better than that, one would think. Didn’t the people laugh?”
Taking the wheelbarrow from me, he shared a funny story about the first wheelbarrow he’d ever seen. It was in Sag Harbor. Apparently, the owners of his ship had let him borrow one to carry his heavy chest to his boarding house. Not wanting to look clueless—though, in reality, he had no idea how to use the thing—Queequeg placed his chest on it, tied it down securely, then hoisted the entire wheelbarrow onto his shoulder and walked up the wharf. “Why, Queequeg,” I said, “you’d think you’d know better than that. Didn’t people laugh at you?”
Upon this, he told me another story. The people of his island of Rokovoko, it seems, at their wedding feasts express the fragrant water of young cocoanuts into a large stained calabash like a punchbowl; and this punchbowl always forms the great central ornament on the braided mat where the feast is held. Now a certain grand merchant ship once touched at Rokovoko, and its commander—from all accounts, a very stately punctilious gentleman, at least for a sea captain—this commander was invited to the wedding feast of Queequeg’s sister, a pretty young princess just turned of ten. Well; when all the wedding guests were assembled at the bride’s bamboo cottage, this Captain marches in, and being assigned the post of honor, placed himself over against the punchbowl, and between the High Priest and his majesty the King, Queequeg’s father. Grace being said,—for those people have their grace as well as we—though Queequeg told me that unlike us, who at such times look downwards to our platters, they, on the contrary, copying the ducks, glance upwards to the great Giver of all feasts—Grace, I say, being said, the High Priest opens the banquet by the immemorial ceremony of the island; that is, dipping his consecrated and consecrating fingers into the bowl before the blessed beverage circulates. Seeing himself placed next the Priest, and noting the ceremony, and thinking himself—being Captain of a ship—as having plain precedence over a mere island King, especially in the King’s own house—the Captain coolly proceeds to wash his hands in the punchbowl;—taking it I suppose for a huge finger-glass. “Now,” said Queequeg, “what you tink now?—Didn’t our people laugh?”
Here’s what he told me next. On his island, Rokovoko, it seems that at their wedding feasts, they squeeze the fragrant water from young coconuts into a large, decorated calabash, like a punchbowl. This punchbowl is always the centerpiece on the braided mat where the feast takes place. Once, a grand merchant ship stopped at Rokovoko, and its captain—apparently a very dignified and formal man for a sea captain—was invited to the wedding feast of Queequeg’s sister, a sweet young princess who had just turned ten. When all the guests were gathered at the bride’s bamboo cottage, the captain strode in and, being given the place of honor, sat across from the punchbowl, between the High Priest and Queequeg’s father, the King. After the blessing was said—because yes, those people say grace too, though, as Queequeg pointed out, unlike us who bow our heads to our plates, they instead look upward to the great Giver of all feasts, like ducks—after the blessing, the High Priest began the meal with the ancient tradition of the island. This involved dipping his sacred fingers into the bowl to consecrate the drink before it was served. Seeing himself seated next to the Priest and noticing the ritual, the captain, assuming that as the commander of a ship he outranked an island King—even in the King’s own house—calmly went ahead and washed his hands in the punchbowl. I guess he thought it was just a giant finger bowl. “Now,” said Queequeg, “what do you think of that? Didn’t our people laugh?”
At last, passage paid, and luggage safe, we stood on board the schooner. Hoisting sail, it glided down the Acushnet river. On one side, New Bedford rose in terraces of streets, their ice-covered trees all glittering in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of casks on casks were piled upon her wharves, and side by side the world-wandering whale ships lay silent and safely moored at last; while from others came a sound of carpenters and coopers, with blended noises of fires and forges to melt the pitch, all betokening that new cruises were on the start; that one most perilous and long voyage ended, only begins a second; and a second ended, only begins a third, and so on, for ever and for aye. Such is the endlessness, yea, the intolerableness of all earthly effort.
Finally, with our fare paid and luggage secured, we stood aboard the schooner. Hoisting the sail, it drifted down the Acushnet River. On one side, New Bedford rose in tiers of streets, with ice-covered trees sparkling in the crisp, cold air. Massive hills and stacks of barrels were piled up on the docks, and alongside them, the whale ships that had traveled the globe lay silent and securely docked at last. From other ships came the sounds of carpenters and coopers, mixed with the noises of fires and forges melting pitch—all signaling that new voyages were being prepared. One dangerous and lengthy journey ends, only for another to begin; and when the second ends, a third starts, and so on, endlessly. Such is the ceaseless, and indeed unbearable, nature of all human effort.
Gaining the more open water, the bracing breeze waxed fresh; the little Moss tossed the quick foam from her bows, as a young colt his snortings. How I snuffed that Tartar air!—how I spurned that turnpike earth!—that common highway all over dented with the marks of slavish heels and hoofs; and turned me to admire the magnanimity of the sea which will permit no records.
Reaching the more open water, the invigorating breeze grew stronger; the little Moss threw up quick splashes of foam from her bow, like a young colt tossing its snorts. How I inhaled that wild, untamed air!—how I rejected that dull, beaten earth!—that ordinary road covered with the marks of enslaved feet and hooves; and turned to admire the greatness of the sea, which allows no traces to remain.
At the same foam-fountain, Queequeg seemed to drink and reel with me. His dusky nostrils swelled apart; he showed his filed and pointed teeth. On, on we flew; and our offing gained, the Moss did homage to the blast; ducked and dived her bows as a slave before the Sultan. Sideways leaning, we sideways darted; every ropeyarn tingling like a wire; the two tall masts buckling like Indian canes in land tornadoes. So full of this reeling scene were we, as we stood by the plunging bowsprit, that for some time we did not notice the jeering glances of the passengers, a lubber-like assembly, who marvelled that two fellow beings should be so companionable; as though a white man were anything more dignified than a whitewashed negro. But there were some boobies and bumpkins there, who, by their intense greenness, must have come from the heart and centre of all verdure. Queequeg caught one of these young saplings mimicking him behind his back. I thought the bumpkin’s hour of doom was come. Dropping his harpoon, the brawny savage caught him in his arms, and by an almost miraculous dexterity and strength, sent him high up bodily into the air; then slightly tapping his stern in mid-somerset, the fellow landed with bursting lungs upon his feet, while Queequeg, turning his back upon him, lighted his tomahawk pipe and passed it to me for a puff.
At the same foaming fountain, Queequeg seemed to drink and sway along with me. His dark nostrils flared wide; he showed his filed and sharp teeth. On and on we raced, and as we moved farther out to sea, the Moss bowed to the wind, dipping and diving her bow like a servant before a king. Leaning sideways, we shot forward, every rope tingling like a live wire, the two tall masts bending like bamboo in a violent storm. So caught up were we in this wild scene as we stood by the plunging bowsprit that we didn’t immediately notice the mocking looks from the passengers—a clumsy bunch—who couldn’t fathom how two people could be so close; as if a white man were somehow inherently more noble than some “whitewashed” Black man. Among them were a few inexperienced fools who, with their overwhelming naivety, seemed to hail from the greenest parts of the countryside. Queequeg caught one of these young bumpkins mocking him from behind when he wasn’t looking. I thought the poor guy’s time had come. Letting go of his harpoon, the powerful savage grabbed him in his arms and, with incredible skill and strength, flung him high into the air. With a quick tap to his backside mid-flip, the guy landed on his feet, gasping for air, while Queequeg, turning away from him, calmly lit his tomahawk pipe and passed it to me for a puff.
“Capting! Capting!” yelled the bumpkin, running towards that officer; “Capting, Capting, here’s the devil.”
"Captain! Captain!" shouted the countryman, running toward the officer. "Captain, Captain, the devil is here!"
“Hallo, you sir,” cried the Captain, a gaunt rib of the sea, stalking up to Queequeg, “what in thunder do you mean by that? Don’t you know you might have killed that chap?”
"Hey, you there," shouted the Captain, a tall, skinny seafarer, striding up to Queequeg, "what the hell do you think you're doing? Don't you realize you could have killed that guy?"
“What him say?” said Queequeg, as he mildly turned to me.
"What did he say?" Queequeg asked calmly, turning to me.
“He say,” said I, “that you came near kill-e that man there,” pointing to the still shivering greenhorn.
"He says," I said, "that you almost killed that man there," pointing to the still-shaking newcomer.
“Kill-e,” cried Queequeg, twisting his tattooed face into an unearthly expression of disdain, “ah! him bevy small-e fish-e; Queequeg no kill-e so small-e fish-e; Queequeg kill-e big whale!”
"Kill," shouted Queequeg, twisting his tattooed face into an otherworldly expression of disdain, "ah! that's a very small fish; Queequeg doesn't kill such small fish; Queequeg kills big whales!"
“Look you,” roared the Captain, “I’ll kill-e you, you cannibal, if you try any more of your tricks aboard here; so mind your eye.”
"Listen," shouted the Captain, "I'll kill you, you cannibal, if you try any more of your stunts on this ship; so watch yourself."
But it so happened just then, that it was high time for the Captain to mind his own eye. The prodigious strain upon the main-sail had parted the weather-sheet, and the tremendous boom was now flying from side to side, completely sweeping the entire after part of the deck. The poor fellow whom Queequeg had handled so roughly, was swept overboard; all hands were in a panic; and to attempt snatching at the boom to stay it, seemed madness. It flew from right to left, and back again, almost in one ticking of a watch, and every instant seemed on the point of snapping into splinters. Nothing was done, and nothing seemed capable of being done; those on deck rushed towards the bows, and stood eyeing the boom as if it were the lower jaw of an exasperated whale. In the midst of this consternation, Queequeg dropped deftly to his knees, and crawling under the path of the boom, whipped hold of a rope, secured one end to the bulwarks, and then flinging the other like a lasso, caught it round the boom as it swept over his head, and at the next jerk, the spar was that way trapped, and all was safe. The schooner was run into the wind, and while the hands were clearing away the stern boat, Queequeg, stripped to the waist, darted from the side with a long living arc of a leap. For three minutes or more he was seen swimming like a dog, throwing his long arms straight out before him, and by turns revealing his brawny shoulders through the freezing foam. I looked at the grand and glorious fellow, but saw no one to be saved. The greenhorn had gone down. Shooting himself perpendicularly from the water, Queequeg, now took an instant’s glance around him, and seeming to see just how matters were, dived down and disappeared. A few minutes more, and he rose again, one arm still striking out, and with the other dragging a lifeless form. The boat soon picked them up. The poor bumpkin was restored. All hands voted Queequeg a noble trump; the captain begged his pardon. From that hour I clove to Queequeg like a barnacle; yea, till poor Queequeg took his last long dive.
Just then, it turned out the Captain needed to focus on his own problem. The immense strain on the mainsail had snapped the weather sheet, and the enormous boom was now swinging wildly back and forth, sweeping across the entire rear deck. The poor guy Queequeg had handled so roughly earlier was swept overboard; everyone was panicking, and trying to grab the boom to stop it seemed insane. It whipped from side to side so fast it was like the ticking of a stopwatch, and every second it looked like it might shatter into pieces. No one did anything, and no one seemed to think anything could be done; the crew on deck rushed to the bow, staring at the boom like it was the gaping maw of an angry whale. In the middle of all this chaos, Queequeg calmly dropped to his knees and crawled under the path of the boom. He grabbed a rope, tied one end to the bulwarks, and then, with the other end, expertly threw it like a lasso. He looped it around the boom as it swept over his head, and with the next sharp pull, he trapped it. The boom was secured, and the danger was over. The schooner was turned into the wind, and while the crew got the stern boat ready, Queequeg, stripped to the waist, dove in a long, graceful arc off the side. For more than three minutes, he was swimming like a dog, stretching his arms far ahead of him, his muscular shoulders flashing in and out of the icy foam. I watched this incredible man but didn’t see anyone for him to save. The unfortunate rookie had already gone under. Suddenly, Queequeg shot straight out of the water, took a quick look around, seemed to instantly grasp the situation, and dove back down out of sight. A few minutes later, he surfaced again, one arm still swimming powerfully, and with the other, he was pulling up a lifeless body. The boat soon picked them up. They managed to revive the poor guy. Everyone agreed Queequeg was a hero, and the captain formally apologized to him. From that moment, I stuck to Queequeg like a barnacle—and I stayed that way until the day he took his final dive.
Was there ever such unconsciousness? He did not seem to think that he at all deserved a medal from the Humane and Magnanimous Societies. He only asked for water—fresh water—something to wipe the brine off; that done, he put on dry clothes, lighted his pipe, and leaning against the bulwarks, and mildly eyeing those around him, seemed to be saying to himself—“It’s a mutual, joint-stock world, in all meridians. We cannibals must help these Christians.”
Was there ever such unawareness? He didn’t seem to think he deserved any kind of medal from the Humane or Magnanimous Societies. All he asked for was water—fresh water—just something to wash off the salt. After that, he changed into dry clothes, lit his pipe, and leaned against the railing. Calmly watching those around him, he seemed to be thinking to himself, "It’s a shared, interconnected world everywhere. We cannibals need to help these Christians."
CHAPTER 14. Nantucket.
Nothing more happened on the passage worthy the mentioning; so, after a fine run, we safely arrived in Nantucket.
Nothing else happened during the trip that’s worth mentioning, so after a smooth journey, we arrived safely in Nantucket.
Nantucket! Take out your map and look at it. See what a real corner of the world it occupies; how it stands there, away off shore, more lonely than the Eddystone lighthouse. Look at it—a mere hillock, and elbow of sand; all beach, without a background. There is more sand there than you would use in twenty years as a substitute for blotting paper. Some gamesome wights will tell you that they have to plant weeds there, they don’t grow naturally; that they import Canada thistles; that they have to send beyond seas for a spile to stop a leak in an oil cask; that pieces of wood in Nantucket are carried about like bits of the true cross in Rome; that people there plant toadstools before their houses, to get under the shade in summer time; that one blade of grass makes an oasis, three blades in a day’s walk a prairie; that they wear quicksand shoes, something like Laplander snow-shoes; that they are so shut up, belted about, every way inclosed, surrounded, and made an utter island of by the ocean, that to their very chairs and tables small clams will sometimes be found adhering, as to the backs of sea turtles. But these extravaganzas only show that Nantucket is no Illinois.
Nantucket! Pull up a map and check it out. See the tiny corner of the world it takes up, standing out there off the coast, lonelier than the Eddystone lighthouse. Look at it—a little hump of land, an elbow of sand; all beach with no real mainland behind it. There’s more sand there than you could use in twenty years as a replacement for blotting paper. Some playful folks will tell you they have to plant weeds because they don’t grow naturally; that they bring in Canada thistles; that they have to ship in plugs from overseas to seal leaks in oil casks; that pieces of wood in Nantucket are treated like holy relics in Rome; that people plant mushrooms around their houses just to have some shade in the summer; that a single blade of grass there is like an oasis, and three blades along your walk would count as a prairie; that they wear special quicksand shoes, kind of like snowshoes for Laplanders; that they’re so isolated, so surrounded and boxed in by the ocean, it’s practically its own little world—and sometimes even small clams cling to their chairs and tables, like you’d see on the backs of sea turtles. But all this exaggeration only proves one thing: Nantucket is no Illinois.
Look now at the wondrous traditional story of how this island was settled by the red-men. Thus goes the legend. In olden times an eagle swooped down upon the New England coast, and carried off an infant Indian in his talons. With loud lament the parents saw their child borne out of sight over the wide waters. They resolved to follow in the same direction. Setting out in their canoes, after a perilous passage they discovered the island, and there they found an empty ivory casket,—the poor little Indian’s skeleton.
Take a look at the amazing old story about how this island was settled by the Native Americans. Here's how the legend goes: A long time ago, an eagle swooped down on the New England coast and snatched up a Native American baby in its claws. The grieving parents watched helplessly as their child was carried away over the vast waters. Determined to follow, they set off in their canoes. After a dangerous journey, they arrived at the island, where they found an empty ivory casket containing the poor baby's skeleton.
What wonder, then, that these Nantucketers, born on a beach, should take to the sea for a livelihood! They first caught crabs and quohogs in the sand; grown bolder, they waded out with nets for mackerel; more experienced, they pushed off in boats and captured cod; and at last, launching a navy of great ships on the sea, explored this watery world; put an incessant belt of circumnavigations round it; peeped in at Behring’s Straits; and in all seasons and all oceans declared everlasting war with the mightiest animated mass that has survived the flood; most monstrous and most mountainous! That Himmalehan, salt-sea Mastodon, clothed with such portentousness of unconscious power, that his very panics are more to be dreaded than his most fearless and malicious assaults!
What wonder, then, that these Nantucketers, born on the shore, would turn to the sea to make a living? At first, they caught crabs and clams in the sand; gaining confidence, they waded out with nets to catch mackerel; as they grew more skilled, they rowed out in boats to fish for cod; and finally, they launched a fleet of massive ships onto the ocean, exploring the vast watery world. They circled the globe relentlessly, ventured into the Bering Strait, and in every season and every ocean, waged an endless battle against the greatest living creature to survive the flood—most monstrous and colossal! That Himalayan, saltwater mastodon, shrouded in an aura of unconscious power so immense that his very panic is more terrifying than his boldest or most malicious attacks!
And thus have these naked Nantucketers, these sea hermits, issuing from their ant-hill in the sea, overrun and conquered the watery world like so many Alexanders; parcelling out among them the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans, as the three pirate powers did Poland. Let America add Mexico to Texas, and pile Cuba upon Canada; let the English overswarm all India, and hang out their blazing banner from the sun; two thirds of this terraqueous globe are the Nantucketer’s. For the sea is his; he owns it, as Emperors own empires; other seamen having but a right of way through it. Merchant ships are but extension bridges; armed ones but floating forts; even pirates and privateers, though following the sea as highwaymen the road, they but plunder other ships, other fragments of the land like themselves, without seeking to draw their living from the bottomless deep itself. The Nantucketer, he alone resides and riots on the sea; he alone, in Bible language, goes down to it in ships; to and fro ploughing it as his own special plantation. There is his home; there lies his business, which a Noah’s flood would not interrupt, though it overwhelmed all the millions in China. He lives on the sea, as prairie cocks in the prairie; he hides among the waves, he climbs them as chamois hunters climb the Alps. For years he knows not the land; so that when he comes to it at last, it smells like another world, more strangely than the moon would to an Earthsman. With the landless gull, that at sunset folds her wings and is rocked to sleep between billows; so at nightfall, the Nantucketer, out of sight of land, furls his sails, and lays him to his rest, while under his very pillow rush herds of walruses and whales.
And so, these bare Nantucketers, these sea hermits, emerging from their little island in the ocean, have spread out and taken over the world's waters like so many Alexanders; dividing up the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian Oceans among themselves, just like the three pirate powers divided Poland. Let America add Mexico to Texas and stack Cuba on top of Canada; let the English flood into all of India and fly their blazing flag by the sun; two-thirds of this water-covered globe belong to the Nantucketer. The sea is his; he owns it like emperors own their empires, while other seafarers merely pass through it. Merchant ships are just floating bridges; warships are like traveling forts; even pirates and privateers, who roam the sea like highway robbers do roads, only rob other ships—pieces of land like themselves—without ever trying to live off the endless depths of the sea. The Nantucketer alone lives and thrives on the ocean; he alone, as the Bible puts it, goes down to the sea in ships, sailing back and forth to farm it like it’s his own personal estate. *There* is his home; *there* is his business, which wouldn’t stop even if another Noah’s flood covered the entire population of China. He lives on the sea as prairie birds live in the grasslands; he hides among the waves and scales them as mountain goats climb the Alps. For years, he doesn’t set foot on land, so when he finally does, it smells like a completely foreign world to him, even stranger than the moon would to someone from Earth. Like the gull that doesn’t need land, folding its wings at sunset to drift asleep on the waves, so too does the Nantucketer, far from the shore, drop his sails and lie down to rest, while under his pillow rush the herds of walruses and whales.
CHAPTER 15. Chowder.
It was quite late in the evening when the little Moss came snugly to anchor, and Queequeg and I went ashore; so we could attend to no business that day, at least none but a supper and a bed. The landlord of the Spouter-Inn had recommended us to his cousin Hosea Hussey of the Try Pots, whom he asserted to be the proprietor of one of the best kept hotels in all Nantucket, and moreover he had assured us that Cousin Hosea, as he called him, was famous for his chowders. In short, he plainly hinted that we could not possibly do better than try pot-luck at the Try Pots. But the directions he had given us about keeping a yellow warehouse on our starboard hand till we opened a white church to the larboard, and then keeping that on the larboard hand till we made a corner three points to the starboard, and that done, then ask the first man we met where the place was: these crooked directions of his very much puzzled us at first, especially as, at the outset, Queequeg insisted that the yellow warehouse—our first point of departure—must be left on the larboard hand, whereas I had understood Peter Coffin to say it was on the starboard. However, by dint of beating about a little in the dark, and now and then knocking up a peaceable inhabitant to inquire the way, we at last came to something which there was no mistaking.
It was pretty late in the evening when the little Moss finally anchored safely, and Queequeg and I went ashore. Because of the hour, we couldn’t take care of any business that day—except, of course, finding dinner and a place to sleep. The landlord of the Spouter-Inn had recommended his cousin, Hosea Hussey, who ran the Try Pots. He claimed it was one of the best-kept hotels in all of Nantucket and added that Cousin Hosea was well-known for his chowders. In fact, he strongly hinted that we couldn’t do any better than trying our luck at the Try Pots. The directions he gave, though, were confusing: he told us to keep a yellow warehouse on our right until we spotted a white church on the left, then keep the church on our left until we reached a corner three points to the right. After that, we were supposed to ask the first person we met where the place was. These tricky instructions left us pretty puzzled at first, especially since Queequeg was convinced the yellow warehouse—our starting point—should be on the left, while I was sure Peter Coffin had said it was on the right. After wandering around a bit in the dark and occasionally waking up a resident to ask for directions, we finally arrived at a place that was unmistakably it.
Two enormous wooden pots painted black, and suspended by asses’ ears, swung from the cross-trees of an old top-mast, planted in front of an old doorway. The horns of the cross-trees were sawed off on the other side, so that this old top-mast looked not a little like a gallows. Perhaps I was over sensitive to such impressions at the time, but I could not help staring at this gallows with a vague misgiving. A sort of crick was in my neck as I gazed up to the two remaining horns; yes, two of them, one for Queequeg, and one for me. It’s ominous, thinks I. A Coffin my Innkeeper upon landing in my first whaling port; tombstones staring at me in the whalemen’s chapel; and here a gallows! and a pair of prodigious black pots too! Are these last throwing out oblique hints touching Tophet?
Two huge wooden pots painted black, hanging from the crossbeams of an old topmast, stood in front of an ancient doorway. The ends of the crossbeams were sawed off on the far side, making the topmast look quite a bit like a gallows. Maybe I was being overly sensitive at the time, but I couldn’t stop staring at this gallows with an uneasy feeling. My neck started to ache as I looked up at the two remaining ends; yes, *two* of them—one for Queequeg and one for me. "This feels like an omen," I thought. My innkeeper was named Coffin when I first landed at a whaling port; tombstones loomed over me in the whalemen’s chapel; and now, a gallows—and two massive black pots alongside it! Are these pots dropping subtle hints about hell?
I was called from these reflections by the sight of a freckled woman with yellow hair and a yellow gown, standing in the porch of the inn, under a dull red lamp swinging there, that looked much like an injured eye, and carrying on a brisk scolding with a man in a purple woollen shirt.
I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sight of a freckled woman with yellow hair and a yellow dress, standing in the porch of the inn under a dim red lamp swaying there, which looked a lot like a bruised eye, as she was loudly arguing with a man in a purple wool sweater.
“Get along with ye,” said she to the man, “or I’ll be combing ye!”
"Get out of here," she said to the man, "or I'll take care of you myself!"
“Come on, Queequeg,” said I, “all right. There’s Mrs. Hussey.”
"Let’s go, Queequeg," I said. "It’s all good. There’s Mrs. Hussey."
And so it turned out; Mr. Hosea Hussey being from home, but leaving Mrs. Hussey entirely competent to attend to all his affairs. Upon making known our desires for a supper and a bed, Mrs. Hussey, postponing further scolding for the present, ushered us into a little room, and seating us at a table spread with the relics of a recently concluded repast, turned round to us and said—“Clam or Cod?”
As it happened, Mr. Hosea Hussey was out, but Mrs. Hussey was fully capable of handling all his business. When we explained that we were looking for dinner and a place to sleep, Mrs. Hussey, setting aside any further scolding for the moment, led us into a small room. She seated us at a table still laid with the leftovers from a recently finished meal, turned to us, and asked, “Clam or Cod?”
“What’s that about Cods, ma’am?” said I, with much politeness.
"What's that about Cods, ma'am?" I asked politely.
“Clam or Cod?” she repeated.
“Clam or Cod?” she asked again.
“A clam for supper? a cold clam; is that what you mean, Mrs. Hussey?” says I, “but that’s a rather cold and clammy reception in the winter time, ain’t it, Mrs. Hussey?”
“A clam for dinner? A cold clam; is that what you mean, Mrs. Hussey?” I said. “That’s a pretty cold and slimy welcome for winter, don’t you think, Mrs. Hussey?”
But being in a great hurry to resume scolding the man in the purple Shirt, who was waiting for it in the entry, and seeming to hear nothing but the word “clam,” Mrs. Hussey hurried towards an open door leading to the kitchen, and bawling out “clam for two,” disappeared.
But eager to get back to yelling at the man in the purple shirt, who was waiting in the hallway, and seeming to only catch the word “clam,” Mrs. Hussey rushed toward an open door leading to the kitchen and shouted, “Two clams!” before disappearing.
“Queequeg,” said I, “do you think that we can make out a supper for us both on one clam?”
"Queequeg," I said, "do you think we can make a meal for both of us with just one clam?"
However, a warm savory steam from the kitchen served to belie the apparently cheerless prospect before us. But when that smoking chowder came in, the mystery was delightfully explained. Oh, sweet friends! hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazel nuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit, and salted pork cut up into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the frosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favourite fishing food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition: when leaning back a moment and bethinking me of Mrs. Hussey’s clam and cod announcement, I thought I would try a little experiment. Stepping to the kitchen door, I uttered the word “cod” with great emphasis, and resumed my seat. In a few moments the savoury steam came forth again, but with a different flavor, and in good time a fine cod-chowder was placed before us.
However, a warm, delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen softened the seemingly bleak scene in front of us. But when that steaming chowder arrived, the mystery was wonderfully solved. Oh, my dear friends, listen closely! It was made with tender little clams, barely bigger than hazelnuts, mixed with crumbled ship biscuits and salted pork chopped into tiny flakes. The whole thing was enriched with butter and generously seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites, sharpened by the chilly journey—and especially Queequeg, who saw his favorite seafood dish before him—and with the chowder being exceptionally good, we devoured it with remarkable speed. After leaning back for a moment, thinking about Mrs. Hussey's clam and cod announcement, I decided to try a small experiment. Walking to the kitchen door, I loudly said the word "cod" with emphasis, then returned to my seat. In just a few moments, the delicious aroma floated out again, but with a distinct new scent, and soon enough, a piping-hot cod chowder was set down in front of us.
We resumed business; and while plying our spoons in the bowl, thinks I to myself, I wonder now if this here has any effect on the head? What’s that stultifying saying about chowder-headed people? “But look, Queequeg, ain’t that a live eel in your bowl? Where’s your harpoon?”
We got back to eating, and as we dug into the bowl, I thought to myself, I wonder if this stuff has any effect on the brain? What’s that silly saying about chowder-brained people? "Hey, Queequeg, isn’t that a live eel in your bowl? Where’s your harpoon?"
Fishiest of all fishy places was the Try Pots, which well deserved its name; for the pots there were always boiling chowders. Chowder for breakfast, and chowder for dinner, and chowder for supper, till you began to look for fish-bones coming through your clothes. The area before the house was paved with clam-shells. Mrs. Hussey wore a polished necklace of codfish vertebra; and Hosea Hussey had his account books bound in superior old shark-skin. There was a fishy flavor to the milk, too, which I could not at all account for, till one morning happening to take a stroll along the beach among some fishermen’s boats, I saw Hosea’s brindled cow feeding on fish remnants, and marching along the sand with each foot in a cod’s decapitated head, looking very slip-shod, I assure ye.
The fishiest of all fishy places was the Try Pots, and it definitely lived up to its name—there were always pots boiling chowder. Chowder for breakfast, chowder for lunch, chowder for dinner—until you started to feel like fish bones might poke through your clothes. The ground outside the house was covered in clam shells. Mrs. Hussey wore a shiny necklace made from codfish vertebrae, and Hosea Hussey had his account books bound in fine old shark skin. Even the milk had a fishy taste, which puzzled me until one morning, while taking a walk along the beach near some fishing boats, I noticed Hosea’s brindled cow eating leftovers of fish. She was strolling along the sand with each hoof stuck in a decapitated cod’s head, looking quite sloppy, I assure you.
Supper concluded, we received a lamp, and directions from Mrs. Hussey concerning the nearest way to bed; but, as Queequeg was about to precede me up the stairs, the lady reached forth her arm, and demanded his harpoon; she allowed no harpoon in her chambers. “Why not?” said I; “every true whaleman sleeps with his harpoon—but why not?” “Because it’s dangerous,” says she. “Ever since young Stiggs coming from that unfort’nt v’y’ge of his, when he was gone four years and a half, with only three barrels of ile, was found dead in my first floor back, with his harpoon in his side; ever since then I allow no boarders to take sich dangerous weepons in their rooms at night. So, Mr. Queequeg” (for she had learned his name), “I will just take this here iron, and keep it for you till morning. But the chowder; clam or cod to-morrow for breakfast, men?”
After we finished supper, Mrs. Hussey gave us a lamp and directions to our room. As Queequeg started to go up the stairs ahead of me, she reached out and stopped him, insisting on taking his harpoon. She didn’t allow harpoons in her rooms. “Why not?” I asked. “Every real whaleman sleeps with his harpoon—so why not?” “Because it’s dangerous,” she said. “Ever since young Stiggs came back from that unlucky voyage of his—gone for four and a half years and returning with only three barrels of oil—I found him dead in my back room on the first floor, with his own harpoon stuck in his side. Ever since then, I don’t let anyone keep dangerous weapons in my rooms at night. So, Mr. Queequeg” (she had learned his name), “I’ll just hold onto this iron for you until morning. Now for breakfast tomorrow—clam or cod chowder, gentlemen?”
“Both,” says I; “and let’s have a couple of smoked herring by way of variety.”
"Both," I said, "and let’s add a couple of smoked herrings for a bit of variety."
CHAPTER 16. The Ship.
In bed we concocted our plans for the morrow. But to my surprise and no small concern, Queequeg now gave me to understand, that he had been diligently consulting Yojo—the name of his black little god—and Yojo had told him two or three times over, and strongly insisted upon it everyway, that instead of our going together among the whaling-fleet in harbor, and in concert selecting our craft; instead of this, I say, Yojo earnestly enjoined that the selection of the ship should rest wholly with me, inasmuch as Yojo purposed befriending us; and, in order to do so, had already pitched upon a vessel, which, if left to myself, I, Ishmael, should infallibly light upon, for all the world as though it had turned out by chance; and in that vessel I must immediately ship myself, for the present irrespective of Queequeg.
While lying in bed, we came up with our plans for the next day. To my surprise and some concern, Queequeg explained that he had been consulting Yojo—his little black god. Yojo had told him several times, very insistently, that instead of us going together to choose a whaling ship from the fleet in the harbor, the decision should rest entirely with me. Yojo intended to help us and had already chosen a ship that I, Ishmael, would inevitably come across as if by chance. I was to join that ship immediately, without considering Queequeg for now.
I have forgotten to mention that, in many things, Queequeg placed great confidence in the excellence of Yojo’s judgment and surprising forecast of things; and cherished Yojo with considerable esteem, as a rather good sort of god, who perhaps meant well enough upon the whole, but in all cases did not succeed in his benevolent designs.
I forgot to mention that, in many ways, Queequeg had great confidence in Yojo’s excellent judgment and surprising ability to predict things. He held Yojo in high regard, considering him a pretty decent kind of god who generally meant well, even if he didn’t always succeed in his good intentions.
Now, this plan of Queequeg’s, or rather Yojo’s, touching the selection of our craft; I did not like that plan at all. I had not a little relied upon Queequeg’s sagacity to point out the whaler best fitted to carry us and our fortunes securely. But as all my remonstrances produced no effect upon Queequeg, I was obliged to acquiesce; and accordingly prepared to set about this business with a determined rushing sort of energy and vigor, that should quickly settle that trifling little affair. Next morning early, leaving Queequeg shut up with Yojo in our little bedroom—for it seemed that it was some sort of Lent or Ramadan, or day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer with Queequeg and Yojo that day; how it was I never could find out, for, though I applied myself to it several times, I never could master his liturgies and XXXIX Articles—leaving Queequeg, then, fasting on his tomahawk pipe, and Yojo warming himself at his sacrificial fire of shavings, I sallied out among the shipping. After much prolonged sauntering and many random inquiries, I learnt that there were three ships up for three-years’ voyages—The Devil-dam, the Tit-bit, and the Pequod. Devil-Dam, I do not know the origin of; Tit-bit is obvious; Pequod, you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated tribe of Massachusetts Indians; now extinct as the ancient Medes. I peered and pryed about the Devil-dam; from her, hopped over to the Tit-bit; and finally, going on board the Pequod, looked around her for a moment, and then decided that this was the very ship for us.
Now, I wasn’t a fan at all of Queequeg’s—or rather Yojo’s—plan about choosing our ship. I had really counted on Queequeg’s sharp judgment to pick the best whaling ship to safely take us and our fortunes. But since all my protests didn’t change Queequeg’s mind, I had no choice but to go along with it. So I got myself ready to tackle this task with a burst of energy and determination to quickly get this little matter sorted out. The next morning, I left Queequeg alone with Yojo in our small room—apparently, it was some kind of fasting, prayer, or holy day for them, maybe something like Lent or Ramadan. I never could figure it out, though I had tried a few times to make sense of Queequeg’s rituals and his complicated set of beliefs. Anyway, I left Queequeg fasting on his tomahawk pipe and Yojo warming himself by a little fire of shavings, and I headed out toward the ships. After wandering around for quite a while and asking lots of random questions, I found out there were three ships setting out on three-year voyages: the Devil-Dam, the Tit-Bit, and the Pequod. The name “Devil-Dam” I couldn’t trace; “Tit-Bit” seemed pretty self-explanatory; and “Pequod,” if you remember, was the name of a well-known tribe of Massachusetts Indians, now as extinct as the ancient Medes. I checked out the Devil-Dam, then hopped over to the Tit-Bit, and finally boarded the Pequod. After taking a quick look around, I decided this was the perfect ship for us.
You may have seen many a quaint craft in your day, for aught I know;—square-toed luggers; mountainous Japanese junks; butter-box galliots, and what not; but take my word for it, you never saw such a rare old craft as this same rare old Pequod. She was a ship of the old school, rather small if anything; with an old-fashioned claw-footed look about her. Long seasoned and weather-stained in the typhoons and calms of all four oceans, her old hull’s complexion was darkened like a French grenadier’s, who has alike fought in Egypt and Siberia. Her venerable bows looked bearded. Her masts—cut somewhere on the coast of Japan, where her original ones were lost overboard in a gale—her masts stood stiffly up like the spines of the three old kings of Cologne. Her ancient decks were worn and wrinkled, like the pilgrim-worshipped flag-stone in Canterbury Cathedral where Becket bled. But to all these her old antiquities, were added new and marvellous features, pertaining to the wild business that for more than half a century she had followed. Old Captain Peleg, many years her chief-mate, before he commanded another vessel of his own, and now a retired seaman, and one of the principal owners of the Pequod,—this old Peleg, during the term of his chief-mateship, had built upon her original grotesqueness, and inlaid it, all over, with a quaintness both of material and device, unmatched by anything except it be Thorkill-Hake’s carved buckler or bedstead. She was apparelled like any barbaric Ethiopian emperor, his neck heavy with pendants of polished ivory. She was a thing of trophies. A cannibal of a craft, tricking herself forth in the chased bones of her enemies. All round, her unpanelled, open bulwarks were garnished like one continuous jaw, with the long sharp teeth of the sperm whale, inserted there for pins, to fasten her old hempen thews and tendons to. Those thews ran not through base blocks of land wood, but deftly travelled over sheaves of sea-ivory. Scorning a turnstile wheel at her reverend helm, she sported there a tiller; and that tiller was in one mass, curiously carved from the long narrow lower jaw of her hereditary foe. The helmsman who steered by that tiller in a tempest, felt like the Tartar, when he holds back his fiery steed by clutching its jaw. A noble craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All noble things are touched with that.
You might have seen plenty of unusual ships in your time—square-toed luggers, towering Japanese junks, butter-box galliots, and who knows what else—but trust me, you’ve never seen a vessel as unique as the old Pequod. She was an old-school ship, fairly small, with a kind of old-fashioned, claw-footed look to her. Weathered and battle-worn from sailing through typhoons and calm seas across all four oceans, her hull was as darkened as a French soldier who had fought both in Egypt and Siberia. Her weathered prow looked almost like it had a beard. Her masts—replaced after her originals were lost in a storm—were cut on the coast of Japan and rose straight up like the spines of the three ancient kings of Cologne. Her aged decks were cracked and lined, like the worshipped flagstones in Canterbury Cathedral where Becket fell. But alongside these antique features, she carried new and incredible modifications, suited to the dangerous trade she had pursued for more than fifty years. Old Captain Peleg, who had served as her chief mate for many years before captaining his own ship, and who was now a retired sailor and one of the main owners of the Pequod, had during his time as mate enhanced her strange design. He decorated her with details and materials so unique that nothing could compare except maybe Thorkill-Hake’s intricately carved shield or bedstead. She was adorned as grandly as some tribal Ethiopian emperor, decked out with heavy ivory pendants. She was a ship of trophies, a true hunter, flaunting the carved bones of her conquered foes. Around her open, unpaneled bulwarks were rows of long, sharp whale teeth, set there like one gigantic jaw, used as pins to fasten her tough old hempen ropes. These ropes didn’t run through ordinary wooden blocks but instead worked over expertly crafted pulleys of whalebone. Disdainful of the usual turnstile helm, she had a simple tiller instead, intricately carved from the long, narrow lower jaw of a sperm whale—her natural adversary. Any helmsman steering with that jawbone tiller in a storm must have felt like a Tartar reigning in a wild stallion by its mouth. She was a magnificent ship, but somehow deeply somber. All great things are, in their way, touched by melancholy.
Now when I looked about the quarter-deck, for some one having authority, in order to propose myself as a candidate for the voyage, at first I saw nobody; but I could not well overlook a strange sort of tent, or rather wigwam, pitched a little behind the main-mast. It seemed only a temporary erection used in port. It was of a conical shape, some ten feet high; consisting of the long, huge slabs of limber black bone taken from the middle and highest part of the jaws of the right-whale. Planted with their broad ends on the deck, a circle of these slabs laced together, mutually sloped towards each other, and at the apex united in a tufted point, where the loose hairy fibres waved to and fro like the top-knot on some old Pottowottamie Sachem’s head. A triangular opening faced towards the bows of the ship, so that the insider commanded a complete view forward.
As I looked around the quarterdeck for someone in charge to ask about joining the voyage, I didn’t see anyone at first. However, I couldn’t ignore a strange tent or wigwam set up just behind the mainmast. It seemed to be a temporary structure used while in port. It was shaped like a cone, about ten feet tall, made from large, flexible black slabs of bone taken from the middle and highest part of a right whale’s jaws. These slabs were planted broadly on the deck in a circle, laced together and leaning toward each other, meeting at the top in a tufted point where loose, hairy fibers swayed back and forth, like the topknot on an old Pottawattamie chief’s head. A triangular opening faced forward, allowing whoever was inside to have a clear view of the ship’s bow.
And half concealed in this queer tenement, I at length found one who by his aspect seemed to have authority; and who, it being noon, and the ship’s work suspended, was now enjoying respite from the burden of command. He was seated on an old-fashioned oaken chair, wriggling all over with curious carving; and the bottom of which was formed of a stout interlacing of the same elastic stuff of which the wigwam was constructed.
Half-hidden in this strange building, I finally found someone who, by his appearance, seemed to be in charge. Since it was noon and the ship's work was temporarily paused, he was taking a break from the responsibilities of leadership. He was sitting in an old-fashioned wooden chair, covered in intricate carvings, with a seat made from the same sturdy, springy material as the wigwam itself.
There was nothing so very particular, perhaps, about the appearance of the elderly man I saw; he was brown and brawny, like most old seamen, and heavily rolled up in blue pilot-cloth, cut in the Quaker style; only there was a fine and almost microscopic net-work of the minutest wrinkles interlacing round his eyes, which must have arisen from his continual sailings in many hard gales, and always looking to windward;—for this causes the muscles about the eyes to become pursed together. Such eye-wrinkles are very effectual in a scowl.
The old man I saw didn’t look particularly unusual; he was tanned and muscular, like most old sailors, and bundled up in blue pilot-cloth cut in a Quaker-like fashion. But there was an intricate, almost microscopic web of tiny wrinkles crisscrossing around his eyes, likely from spending years sailing through tough storms and constantly looking into the wind—this habit causes the muscles around the eyes to tighten. Those eye wrinkles made for a very intimidating scowl.
“Is this the Captain of the Pequod?” said I, advancing to the door of the tent.
"Are you the captain of the Pequod?" I asked as I stepped up to the entrance of the tent.
“Supposing it be the captain of the Pequod, what dost thou want of him?” he demanded.
"Suppose it’s the captain of the Pequod—what do you want with him?" he asked.
“I was thinking of shipping.”
"I was thinking of shipping."
“Thou wast, wast thou? I see thou art no Nantucketer—ever been in a stove boat?”
"What's that? Were you? I see you're not a Nantucketer—ever been in a smashed-up boat?"
“No, Sir, I never have.”
“No, I haven’t, Sir.”
“Dost know nothing at all about whaling, I dare say—eh?
"Don't know anything at all about whaling, I bet—huh?"
“Nothing, Sir; but I have no doubt I shall soon learn. I’ve been several voyages in the merchant service, and I think that—”
"Nothing, sir; but I'm sure I'll pick it up quickly. I've been on several trips in the merchant service, and I think that—"
“Merchant service be damned. Talk not that lingo to me. Dost see that leg?—I’ll take that leg away from thy stern, if ever thou talkest of the marchant service to me again. Marchant service indeed! I suppose now ye feel considerable proud of having served in those marchant ships. But flukes! man, what makes thee want to go a whaling, eh?—it looks a little suspicious, don’t it, eh?—Hast not been a pirate, hast thou?—Didst not rob thy last Captain, didst thou?—Dost not think of murdering the officers when thou gettest to sea?”
"Merchant service be damned. Don’t talk to me in that language. See this leg? I’ll take that leg of yours right off if you ever mention the merchant service to me again. Merchant service, seriously? I bet you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself for serving on those merchant ships, huh. But really, what makes you want to go whaling? Seems a bit suspicious, don’t you think? You haven’t been a pirate, have you? You didn’t rob your last captain, did you? You’re not planning to kill the officers once you’re at sea, are you?"
I protested my innocence of these things. I saw that under the mask of these half humorous innuendoes, this old seaman, as an insulated Quakerish Nantucketer, was full of his insular prejudices, and rather distrustful of all aliens, unless they hailed from Cape Cod or the Vineyard.
I insisted I was innocent of these accusations. I realized that behind the tone of these half-joking hints, this old sailor, being a somewhat isolated and Quaker-like Nantucketer, was deeply rooted in his islander prejudices and somewhat suspicious of all outsiders, unless they came from Cape Cod or Martha’s Vineyard.
“But what takes thee a-whaling? I want to know that before I think of shipping ye.”
"But why are you going whaling? I need to know that before I consider signing you on."
“Well, sir, I want to see what whaling is. I want to see the world.”
"Well, sir, I want to see what whaling's all about. I want to explore the world."
“Want to see what whaling is, eh? Have ye clapped eye on Captain Ahab?”
"Want to see what whaling's about, huh? Have you laid eyes on Captain Ahab?"
“Who is Captain Ahab, sir?”
“Who is Captain Ahab?”
“Aye, aye, I thought so. Captain Ahab is the Captain of this ship.”
"Yeah, yeah, I figured. Captain Ahab is the captain of this ship."
“I am mistaken then. I thought I was speaking to the Captain himself.”
"I must be wrong then. I thought I was talking to the Captain himself."
“Thou art speaking to Captain Peleg—that’s who ye are speaking to, young man. It belongs to me and Captain Bildad to see the Pequod fitted out for the voyage, and supplied with all her needs, including crew. We are part owners and agents. But as I was going to say, if thou wantest to know what whaling is, as thou tellest ye do, I can put ye in a way of finding it out before ye bind yourself to it, past backing out. Clap eye on Captain Ahab, young man, and thou wilt find that he has only one leg.”
"You're talking to Captain Peleg—that's who you're speaking to, young man. It's up to me and Captain Bildad to make sure the Pequod is ready for the voyage and stocked with everything it needs, including the crew. We're part owners and agents. But as I was about to say, if you want to know what whaling is all about, like you claim, I can help you figure it out before you commit to it with no way out. Take a look at Captain Ahab, young man, and you'll see he only has one leg."
“What do you mean, sir? Was the other one lost by a whale?”
"What do you mean, sir? Was the other one taken by a whale?"
“Lost by a whale! Young man, come nearer to me: it was devoured, chewed up, crunched by the monstrousest parmacetty that ever chipped a boat!—ah, ah!”
"Lost to a whale! Young man, come closer to me: it was swallowed, chewed up, and crushed by the biggest, most monstrous whale that ever smashed a boat!—ah, ah!"
I was a little alarmed by his energy, perhaps also a little touched at the hearty grief in his concluding exclamation, but said as calmly as I could, “What you say is no doubt true enough, sir; but how could I know there was any peculiar ferocity in that particular whale, though indeed I might have inferred as much from the simple fact of the accident.”
I was a bit startled by his intensity, and maybe even slightly moved by the genuine sorrow in his final outburst, but I replied as calmly as I could, "What you're saying is probably true, sir; but how could I have known there was any unusual ferocity in that specific whale, though I suppose I could have guessed it from the mere fact of the incident."
“Look ye now, young man, thy lungs are a sort of soft, d’ye see; thou dost not talk shark a bit. Sure, ye’ve been to sea before now; sure of that?”
"Listen here, young man, your lungs are kind of weak, you see; you don't talk like someone who knows sharks at all. Surely, you've been to sea before now; you're sure of that?"
“Sir,” said I, “I thought I told you that I had been four voyages in the merchant—”
"Sir," I said, "I thought I told you that I'd been on four voyages in the merchant trade—"
“Hard down out of that! Mind what I said about the marchant service—don’t aggravate me—I won’t have it. But let us understand each other. I have given thee a hint about what whaling is; do ye yet feel inclined for it?”
"Get down from there! Remember what I said about the merchant service—don't irritate me—I won't tolerate it. But let's get something straight. I've given you an idea of what whaling is; are you still interested in it?"
“I do, sir.”
"I do, sir."
“Very good. Now, art thou the man to pitch a harpoon down a live whale’s throat, and then jump after it? Answer, quick!”
"Alright, then. Are you the guy who can throw a harpoon down a live whale’s throat and then jump in right after it? Answer, quick!"
“I am, sir, if it should be positively indispensable to do so; not to be got rid of, that is; which I don’t take to be the fact.”
"I am, sir, if it absolutely has to be done; if there’s no way around it, that is—which I don’t believe to be the case."
“Good again. Now then, thou not only wantest to go a-whaling, to find out by experience what whaling is, but ye also want to go in order to see the world? Was not that what ye said? I thought so. Well then, just step forward there, and take a peep over the weather-bow, and then back to me and tell me what ye see there.”
"Good, good. So, not only do you want to go whaling to learn firsthand what it's like, but you also want to go to see the world, right? Isn't that what you said? I thought so. All right, step up there, take a look over the weather-bow, then come back and tell me what you see."
For a moment I stood a little puzzled by this curious request, not knowing exactly how to take it, whether humorously or in earnest. But concentrating all his crow’s feet into one scowl, Captain Peleg started me on the errand.
For a moment, I stood there a bit confused by this strange request, unsure whether to take it as a joke or seriously. But with all his wrinkles bunching into a single frown, Captain Peleg sent me off on the task.
Going forward and glancing over the weather bow, I perceived that the ship swinging to her anchor with the flood-tide, was now obliquely pointing towards the open ocean. The prospect was unlimited, but exceedingly monotonous and forbidding; not the slightest variety that I could see.
As I moved forward and looked over the weather bow, I noticed that the ship, turning with the flood tide, was now angled toward the open ocean. The view was vast but extremely dull and uninviting; I couldn’t see the slightest hint of variety.
“Well, what’s the report?” said Peleg when I came back; “what did ye see?”
"Well, what's the report?" asked Peleg when I got back. "What did you see?"
“Not much,” I replied—“nothing but water; considerable horizon though, and there’s a squall coming up, I think.”
"Not much," I said. "Just water. There's a lot of horizon, though, and I think a storm's coming."
“Well, what does thou think then of seeing the world? Do ye wish to go round Cape Horn to see any more of it, eh? Can’t ye see the world where you stand?”
"Well, what do you think about seeing the world? Do you want to sail around Cape Horn to see more of it, huh? Can’t you see the world right where you are?"
I was a little staggered, but go a-whaling I must, and I would; and the Pequod was as good a ship as any—I thought the best—and all this I now repeated to Peleg. Seeing me so determined, he expressed his willingness to ship me.
I was a little taken aback, but I had to go whaling, and I was determined to do it; the Pequod seemed as good a ship as any—maybe even the best—and I repeated all this to Peleg. Seeing how determined I was, he agreed to sign me on.
“And thou mayest as well sign the papers right off,” he added—“come along with ye.” And so saying, he led the way below deck into the cabin.
"And you might as well sign the papers right away," he added. "Come on with me." With that, he led the way downstairs into the cabin.
Seated on the transom was what seemed to me a most uncommon and surprising figure. It turned out to be Captain Bildad, who along with Captain Peleg was one of the largest owners of the vessel; the other shares, as is sometimes the case in these ports, being held by a crowd of old annuitants; widows, fatherless children, and chancery wards; each owning about the value of a timber head, or a foot of plank, or a nail or two in the ship. People in Nantucket invest their money in whaling vessels, the same way that you do yours in approved state stocks bringing in good interest.
Sitting on the backboard was a figure that struck me as highly unusual and intriguing. It turned out to be Captain Bildad, who, along with Captain Peleg, was one of the main owners of the ship. The remaining shares, as is sometimes the case in these ports, were divided among a mix of old pensioners, widows, orphans, and legal wards—each holding a tiny portion, maybe the value of a single timber, a plank, or even just a few nails in the ship. In Nantucket, people invest their money in whaling ships the same way you might invest yours in reliable state stocks that pay good interest.
Now, Bildad, like Peleg, and indeed many other Nantucketers, was a Quaker, the island having been originally settled by that sect; and to this day its inhabitants in general retain in an uncommon measure the peculiarities of the Quaker, only variously and anomalously modified by things altogether alien and heterogeneous. For some of these same Quakers are the most sanguinary of all sailors and whale-hunters. They are fighting Quakers; they are Quakers with a vengeance.
Now, Bildad, like Peleg, and many other people from Nantucket, was a Quaker, since the island was originally settled by that group. Even today, most of its residents still hold on to many Quaker traits, though these have been oddly and uniquely influenced by completely unrelated and foreign elements. Some of these Quakers are actually some of the fiercest sailors and whale hunters out there. They’re fighting Quakers—Quakers with a vengeance.
So that there are instances among them of men, who, named with Scripture names—a singularly common fashion on the island—and in childhood naturally imbibing the stately dramatic thee and thou of the Quaker idiom; still, from the audacious, daring, and boundless adventure of their subsequent lives, strangely blend with these unoutgrown peculiarities, a thousand bold dashes of character, not unworthy a Scandinavian sea-king, or a poetical Pagan Roman. And when these things unite in a man of greatly superior natural force, with a globular brain and a ponderous heart; who has also by the stillness and seclusion of many long night-watches in the remotest waters, and beneath constellations never seen here at the north, been led to think untraditionally and independently; receiving all nature’s sweet or savage impressions fresh from her own virgin voluntary and confiding breast, and thereby chiefly, but with some help from accidental advantages, to learn a bold and nervous lofty language—that man makes one in a whole nation’s census—a mighty pageant creature, formed for noble tragedies. Nor will it at all detract from him, dramatically regarded, if either by birth or other circumstances, he have what seems a half wilful overruling morbidness at the bottom of his nature. For all men tragically great are made so through a certain morbidness. Be sure of this, O young ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease. But, as yet we have not to do with such an one, but with quite another; and still a man, who, if indeed peculiar, it only results again from another phase of the Quaker, modified by individual circumstances.
There are examples among them of men who, given scriptural names—a very common practice on the island—and as children naturally absorbed the formal and dramatic "thee" and "thou" of the Quaker way of speaking, later, through the audacious, daring, and adventurous lives they led, end up mixing these retained peculiarities with a thousand bold traits worthy of a Scandinavian sea-king or a poetic Pagan Roman. And when such qualities come together in a man of extraordinary natural talent, with a sharp mind and a passionate heart, who has been shaped by long, solitary nights in the most remote waters under constellations unseen in the northern hemisphere, leading him to think creatively and independently—taking in nature's raw, unfiltered impressions directly from the source—and who, through this experience combined with a few lucky advantages, learns to speak with a bold, powerful, and elevated style—that man is one in a nation's population, a grand and majestic figure, made for noble tragedies. And it doesn’t diminish him in the slightest, from a dramatic point of view, if he happens to possess, either by birth or circumstance, a seemingly intentional streak of brooding darkness deep within. For all truly great tragic figures possess some form of this darkness. Know this, young and ambitious soul: all mortal greatness is, at its core, a kind of illness. But for now, we are not concerned with such a man as this, but with someone quite different—yet still a man—who, if unusual at all, is so because of another variation of the Quaker personality, shaped by his unique circumstances.
Like Captain Peleg, Captain Bildad was a well-to-do, retired whaleman. But unlike Captain Peleg—who cared not a rush for what are called serious things, and indeed deemed those self-same serious things the veriest of all trifles—Captain Bildad had not only been originally educated according to the strictest sect of Nantucket Quakerism, but all his subsequent ocean life, and the sight of many unclad, lovely island creatures, round the Horn—all that had not moved this native born Quaker one single jot, had not so much as altered one angle of his vest. Still, for all this immutableness, was there some lack of common consistency about worthy Captain Bildad. Though refusing, from conscientious scruples, to bear arms against land invaders, yet himself had illimitably invaded the Atlantic and Pacific; and though a sworn foe to human bloodshed, yet had he in his straight-bodied coat, spilled tuns upon tuns of leviathan gore. How now in the contemplative evening of his days, the pious Bildad reconciled these things in the reminiscence, I do not know; but it did not seem to concern him much, and very probably he had long since come to the sage and sensible conclusion that a man’s religion is one thing, and this practical world quite another. This world pays dividends. Rising from a little cabin-boy in short clothes of the drabbest drab, to a harpooneer in a broad shad-bellied waistcoat; from that becoming boat-header, chief-mate, and captain, and finally a ship owner; Bildad, as I hinted before, had concluded his adventurous career by wholly retiring from active life at the goodly age of sixty, and dedicating his remaining days to the quiet receiving of his well-earned income.
Like Captain Peleg, Captain Bildad was a wealthy, retired whaler. But unlike Captain Peleg—who couldn’t care less about what people call serious matters, and even considered those same serious things to be the biggest trivialities—Captain Bildad had not only been raised under the strictest Nantucket Quaker traditions but had also spent his entire life at sea without being swayed one bit. Even after witnessing many beautiful, unclothed island natives around the Horn, it hadn’t changed this Quaker at all, not even enough to shift the cut of his vest. Still, despite this unshakable demeanor, there was something inconsistent about good old Captain Bildad. While he refused, on moral grounds, to take up arms against invaders on land, he had no problem relentlessly invading the Atlantic and Pacific oceans himself. And though he was firmly against human bloodshed, he had, with his neatly tailored coat, spilled countless gallons of whale blood. How Captain Bildad, in the reflective evenings of his life, made peace with these contradictions, I can’t say. It didn’t seem to bother him much, though. He had probably long ago reached the practical conclusion that a man’s religion is one thing, and the real world is another. After all, the real world pays the bills. Rising from a young cabin boy in plain, dull clothes, to a harpooneer sporting a wide, old-fashioned waistcoat, then to a boat-header, chief mate, captain, and finally a shipowner, Bildad had climbed the ranks of whaling. As I mentioned, he ended his adventurous journey by retiring completely from active work at the respectable age of sixty, devoting the rest of his life to calmly collecting the income he had so thoroughly earned.
Now, Bildad, I am sorry to say, had the reputation of being an incorrigible old hunks, and in his sea-going days, a bitter, hard task-master. They told me in Nantucket, though it certainly seems a curious story, that when he sailed the old Categut whaleman, his crew, upon arriving home, were mostly all carried ashore to the hospital, sore exhausted and worn out. For a pious man, especially for a Quaker, he was certainly rather hard-hearted, to say the least. He never used to swear, though, at his men, they said; but somehow he got an inordinate quantity of cruel, unmitigated hard work out of them. When Bildad was a chief-mate, to have his drab-coloured eye intently looking at you, made you feel completely nervous, till you could clutch something—a hammer or a marling-spike, and go to work like mad, at something or other, never mind what. Indolence and idleness perished before him. His own person was the exact embodiment of his utilitarian character. On his long, gaunt body, he carried no spare flesh, no superfluous beard, his chin having a soft, economical nap to it, like the worn nap of his broad-brimmed hat.
Now, Bildad, I’m sorry to say, had a reputation for being an unchangeable old miser, and during his sea-faring days, he was known as a strict, harsh taskmaster. People in Nantucket told me—though it sounds like a strange story—that when he captained the old Categut whaling ship, his crew, upon returning home, were mostly carried off to the hospital, completely exhausted and worn out. For a religious man—especially a Quaker—he was undoubtedly pretty hard-hearted, to put it mildly. They said he never swore at his men, but somehow, he managed to extract an extreme amount of grueling, relentless hard work from them. When Bildad was a chief mate, having his dull-colored eyes intensely fixed on you made you feel so on edge that you’d grab whatever was nearby—a hammer or a marlinspike—and frantically get to work on something, anything, just to avoid his gaze. Laziness and idleness didn’t stand a chance around him. His appearance was a perfect reflection of his no-nonsense, practical personality. His long, skinny frame carried no extra weight, and even his chin had just a thin, practical layer of stubble, like the worn nap of his old, broad-brimmed hat.
Such, then, was the person that I saw seated on the transom when I followed Captain Peleg down into the cabin. The space between the decks was small; and there, bolt-upright, sat old Bildad, who always sat so, and never leaned, and this to save his coat tails. His broad-brim was placed beside him; his legs were stiffly crossed; his drab vesture was buttoned up to his chin; and spectacles on nose, he seemed absorbed in reading from a ponderous volume.
This was the person I saw sitting on the transom when I followed Captain Peleg down into the cabin. The space between the decks was small; and there, sitting bolt upright, was old Bildad, who always sat that way and never leaned back—he did this to protect his coat tails. His wide-brimmed hat was placed beside him, his legs were stiffly crossed, his plain clothing was buttoned up to his chin, and with spectacles perched on his nose, he seemed deeply absorbed in reading from a heavy book.
“Bildad,” cried Captain Peleg, “at it again, Bildad, eh? Ye have been studying those Scriptures, now, for the last thirty years, to my certain knowledge. How far ye got, Bildad?”
“Bildad,” shouted Captain Peleg, “at it again, huh, Bildad? You’ve been studying those Scriptures for the past thirty years, as far as I know. How far have you gotten, Bildad?”
As if long habituated to such profane talk from his old shipmate, Bildad, without noticing his present irreverence, quietly looked up, and seeing me, glanced again inquiringly towards Peleg.
As if he was long used to hearing such disrespectful talk from his old shipmate, Bildad, without paying attention to his current irreverence, calmly looked up, saw me, and then looked back questioningly at Peleg.
“He says he’s our man, Bildad,” said Peleg, “he wants to ship.”
"He says he's our guy, Bildad," said Peleg. "He wants to join the crew."
“Dost thee?” said Bildad, in a hollow tone, and turning round to me.
"Do you?" said Bildad in a serious tone, turning to look at me.
“I dost,” said I unconsciously, he was so intense a Quaker.
"I do," I said without thinking; he was such an intense Quaker.
“What do ye think of him, Bildad?” said Peleg.
"What do you think of him, Bildad?" said Peleg.
“He’ll do,” said Bildad, eyeing me, and then went on spelling away at his book in a mumbling tone quite audible.
"He'll do," said Bildad, looking me over, then continued mumbling aloud while concentrating on his book.
I thought him the queerest old Quaker I ever saw, especially as Peleg, his friend and old shipmate, seemed such a blusterer. But I said nothing, only looking round me sharply. Peleg now threw open a chest, and drawing forth the ship’s articles, placed pen and ink before him, and seated himself at a little table. I began to think it was high time to settle with myself at what terms I would be willing to engage for the voyage. I was already aware that in the whaling business they paid no wages; but all hands, including the captain, received certain shares of the profits called lays, and that these lays were proportioned to the degree of importance pertaining to the respective duties of the ship’s company. I was also aware that being a green hand at whaling, my own lay would not be very large; but considering that I was used to the sea, could steer a ship, splice a rope, and all that, I made no doubt that from all I had heard I should be offered at least the 275th lay—that is, the 275th part of the clear net proceeds of the voyage, whatever that might eventually amount to. And though the 275th lay was what they call a rather long lay, yet it was better than nothing; and if we had a lucky voyage, might pretty nearly pay for the clothing I would wear out on it, not to speak of my three years’ beef and board, for which I would not have to pay one stiver.
I thought he was the strangest old Quaker I’d ever seen, especially since Peleg, his friend and former shipmate, seemed so loud and brash. But I didn’t say anything, just looked around carefully. Peleg then opened a chest, pulled out the ship’s contract, placed a pen and ink on the table, and sat down to work. I started thinking it was about time I figured out the terms I’d be willing to accept for the voyage. I already knew that in whaling, they didn’t pay wages. Instead, everyone, including the captain, got a share of the profits called lays, and these shares were based on the importance of each person’s role on the ship. I also knew that, as a newcomer to whaling, my share wouldn’t be very big. But since I had experience at sea, could steer a ship, splice a rope, and so on, I was confident from what I’d heard that I’d be offered at least the 275th lay—that is, 1/275th of the net profits from the voyage, whatever that might turn out to be. Even though the 275th lay was what they called a pretty small share, it was better than nothing. And if the trip was a lucky one, it might almost cover the cost of the clothes I’d wear out during the journey—not to mention the three years of food and lodging, which I wouldn’t have to pay for at all.
It might be thought that this was a poor way to accumulate a princely fortune—and so it was, a very poor way indeed. But I am one of those that never take on about princely fortunes, and am quite content if the world is ready to board and lodge me, while I am putting up at this grim sign of the Thunder Cloud. Upon the whole, I thought that the 275th lay would be about the fair thing, but would not have been surprised had I been offered the 200th, considering I was of a broad-shouldered make.
You might think this was a terrible way to build a huge fortune—and honestly, it was, a very bad way. But I’m the kind of person who doesn’t care much about massive fortunes and is perfectly happy if the world is willing to feed and house me while I’m staying under the grim banner of the Thunder Cloud. All in all, I figured the 275th share was fair, but I wouldn’t have been shocked if they’d offered me the 200th, given my broad-shouldered build.
But one thing, nevertheless, that made me a little distrustful about receiving a generous share of the profits was this: Ashore, I had heard something of both Captain Peleg and his unaccountable old crony Bildad; how that they being the principal proprietors of the Pequod, therefore the other and more inconsiderable and scattered owners, left nearly the whole management of the ship’s affairs to these two. And I did not know but what the stingy old Bildad might have a mighty deal to say about shipping hands, especially as I now found him on board the Pequod, quite at home there in the cabin, and reading his Bible as if at his own fireside. Now while Peleg was vainly trying to mend a pen with his jack-knife, old Bildad, to my no small surprise, considering that he was such an interested party in these proceedings; Bildad never heeded us, but went on mumbling to himself out of his book, “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth—”
But one thing, however, made me a bit skeptical about expecting a fair share of the profits: On land, I’d heard some talk about both Captain Peleg and his strange old partner, Bildad. Since they were the main owners of the Pequod, the other smaller and scattered owners supposedly left almost all the ship’s business in their hands. I couldn’t help but wonder if the miserly old Bildad might have a lot of influence over hiring the crew, especially since I now found him aboard the Pequod, looking completely at home in the cabin, reading his Bible like he was sitting by his own fireplace. While Peleg was struggling to fix a pen with his pocketknife, Bildad—to my surprise, given how involved he was in all this—barely paid any attention to us. He just kept mumbling to himself from his book, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth—”
“Well, Captain Bildad,” interrupted Peleg, “what d’ye say, what lay shall we give this young man?”
"Well, Captain Bildad," Peleg cut in, "what do you say? What share should we give this young man?"
“Thou knowest best,” was the sepulchral reply, “the seven hundred and seventy-seventh wouldn’t be too much, would it?—‘where moth and rust do corrupt, but lay—’”
"You know best," came the grave reply, "seven hundred and seventy-seven wouldn't be too much, would it?—'where moth and rust destroy, but lay—'"
Lay, indeed, thought I, and such a lay! the seven hundred and seventy-seventh! Well, old Bildad, you are determined that I, for one, shall not lay up many lays here below, where moth and rust do corrupt. It was an exceedingly long lay that, indeed; and though from the magnitude of the figure it might at first deceive a landsman, yet the slightest consideration will show that though seven hundred and seventy-seven is a pretty large number, yet, when you come to make a teenth of it, you will then see, I say, that the seven hundred and seventy-seventh part of a farthing is a good deal less than seven hundred and seventy-seven gold doubloons; and so I thought at the time.
Lay, I thought, and what a lay it is! Seven hundred seventy-seven! Well, old Bildad, you’re making sure that I, for one, won’t save up many earnings here on Earth, where everything decays eventually. That was an incredibly small share, for sure; and even though the number seems big at first glance to someone unfamiliar with the system, a little thought will show you that while seven hundred seventy-seven sounds impressive, once you divide it by the total, the seven hundred seventy-seventh part of a penny is far less appealing than seven hundred seventy-seven gold coins. And that’s exactly what I thought at the time.
“Why, blast your eyes, Bildad,” cried Peleg, “thou dost not want to swindle this young man! he must have more than that.”
"Why, damn it, Bildad," yelled Peleg, "you’re not trying to cheat this young man, are you? He deserves more than that."
“Seven hundred and seventy-seventh,” again said Bildad, without lifting his eyes; and then went on mumbling—“for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”
"Seven hundred and seventy-seventh," Bildad repeated without looking up, then continued muttering, "because wherever your treasure is, that's where your heart will be too."
“I am going to put him down for the three hundredth,” said Peleg, “do ye hear that, Bildad! The three hundredth lay, I say.”
"I'm putting him down for the three-hundredth," said Peleg. "Do you hear that, Bildad? The three-hundredth share, I said."
Bildad laid down his book, and turning solemnly towards him said, “Captain Peleg, thou hast a generous heart; but thou must consider the duty thou owest to the other owners of this ship—widows and orphans, many of them—and that if we too abundantly reward the labors of this young man, we may be taking the bread from those widows and those orphans. The seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay, Captain Peleg.”
Bildad closed his book, turned seriously toward him, and said, "Captain Peleg, you have a kind heart, but you need to think about the duty you owe to the other owners of this ship—widows and orphans, many of them—and that if we reward this young man’s work too generously, we could be taking food away from those widows and orphans. The seven hundred and seventy-seventh share, Captain Peleg."
“Thou Bildad!” roared Peleg, starting up and clattering about the cabin. “Blast ye, Captain Bildad, if I had followed thy advice in these matters, I would afore now had a conscience to lug about that would be heavy enough to founder the largest ship that ever sailed round Cape Horn.”
"You, Bildad!" yelled Peleg, jumping up and stomping around the cabin. "Curse you, Captain Bildad! If I'd followed your advice on these things, by now I'd be carrying a guilt so heavy it could sink the biggest ship that ever sailed around Cape Horn."
“Captain Peleg,” said Bildad steadily, “thy conscience may be drawing ten inches of water, or ten fathoms, I can’t tell; but as thou art still an impenitent man, Captain Peleg, I greatly fear lest thy conscience be but a leaky one; and will in the end sink thee foundering down to the fiery pit, Captain Peleg.”
"Captain Peleg," said Bildad steadily, "your conscience might be in shallow water or deep, I can't say for sure; but since you're still an unrepentant man, Captain Peleg, I really worry that your conscience might be faulty and will ultimately drag you down to the fiery depths, Captain Peleg."
“Fiery pit! fiery pit! ye insult me, man; past all natural bearing, ye insult me. It’s an all-fired outrage to tell any human creature that he’s bound to hell. Flukes and flames! Bildad, say that again to me, and start my soul-bolts, but I’ll—I’ll—yes, I’ll swallow a live goat with all his hair and horns on. Out of the cabin, ye canting, drab-coloured son of a wooden gun—a straight wake with ye!”
"Fiery pit! Fiery pit! You’re insulting me, man; beyond anything anyone should have to put up with, you’re insulting me. It’s downright outrageous to tell any person they’re doomed to hell. Damn it all! Bildad, say that to me again, and by my very soul, I’ll—I’ll—yes, I’ll swallow a live goat, hair, horns, and all. Get out of this cabin, you self-righteous, dull-colored son of a wooden cannon—get straight out of here!"
As he thundered out this he made a rush at Bildad, but with a marvellous oblique, sliding celerity, Bildad for that time eluded him.
As he shouted this, he lunged at Bildad, but with an amazing, quick, sidestepping move, Bildad managed to dodge him that time.
Alarmed at this terrible outburst between the two principal and responsible owners of the ship, and feeling half a mind to give up all idea of sailing in a vessel so questionably owned and temporarily commanded, I stepped aside from the door to give egress to Bildad, who, I made no doubt, was all eagerness to vanish from before the awakened wrath of Peleg. But to my astonishment, he sat down again on the transom very quietly, and seemed to have not the slightest intention of withdrawing. He seemed quite used to impenitent Peleg and his ways. As for Peleg, after letting off his rage as he had, there seemed no more left in him, and he, too, sat down like a lamb, though he twitched a little as if still nervously agitated. “Whew!” he whistled at last—“the squall’s gone off to leeward, I think. Bildad, thou used to be good at sharpening a lance, mend that pen, will ye. My jack-knife here needs the grindstone. That’s he; thank ye, Bildad. Now then, my young man, Ishmael’s thy name, didn’t ye say? Well then, down ye go here, Ishmael, for the three hundredth lay.”
Shaken by this intense argument between the two main and responsible owners of the ship—and halfway considering abandoning the idea of sailing on a vessel so dubiously owned and temporarily led—I stepped aside from the doorway to let Bildad pass, assuming he would be eager to escape Peleg’s sudden outburst of anger. To my surprise, however, he sat down calmly on the transom, with no intention of leaving. He seemed entirely accustomed to Peleg’s unrepentant nature and antics. As for Peleg, once he let out his rage, it was as if he was completely drained of it. He sat down quietly as well, though he twitched a bit, still somewhat unsettled. “Whew!” he finally whistled. “The storm has blown past, I think. Bildad, you used to be good at sharpening a lance—fix that pen, will you? My jackknife’s too dull for it. Ah, perfect—thank you, Bildad. Now then, young man, your name’s Ishmael, right? Well, here you go, Ishmael: down you go for the three hundredth lay.”
“Captain Peleg,” said I, “I have a friend with me who wants to ship too—shall I bring him down to-morrow?”
"Captain Peleg," I said, "I have a friend who also wants to join the crew—should I bring him down tomorrow?"
“To be sure,” said Peleg. “Fetch him along, and we’ll look at him.”
"Alright," said Peleg. "Bring him over, and we’ll take a look at him."
“What lay does he want?” groaned Bildad, glancing up from the book in which he had again been burying himself.
"What share does he want?" groaned Bildad, looking up from the book he had been deeply engrossed in again.
“Oh! never thee mind about that, Bildad,” said Peleg. “Has he ever whaled it any?” turning to me.
"Oh, don’t worry about that, Bildad," said Peleg. "Has he ever done any whaling?" he asked, turning to me.
“Killed more whales than I can count, Captain Peleg.”
"I've killed more whales than I can count, Captain Peleg."
“Well, bring him along then.”
"Alright, bring him along then."
And, after signing the papers, off I went; nothing doubting but that I had done a good morning’s work, and that the Pequod was the identical ship that Yojo had provided to carry Queequeg and me round the Cape.
And after signing the papers, I headed off, fully confident that I had made a good choice that morning, and that the Pequod was the exact ship Yojo had chosen to take Queequeg and me around the Cape.
But I had not proceeded far, when I began to bethink me that the Captain with whom I was to sail yet remained unseen by me; though, indeed, in many cases, a whale-ship will be completely fitted out, and receive all her crew on board, ere the captain makes himself visible by arriving to take command; for sometimes these voyages are so prolonged, and the shore intervals at home so exceedingly brief, that if the captain have a family, or any absorbing concernment of that sort, he does not trouble himself much about his ship in port, but leaves her to the owners till all is ready for sea. However, it is always as well to have a look at him before irrevocably committing yourself into his hands. Turning back I accosted Captain Peleg, inquiring where Captain Ahab was to be found.
I hadn’t gone far before it occurred to me that I hadn’t yet seen the captain I’d be sailing with. In fact, it’s pretty common for a whaling ship to be fully prepared, with the entire crew onboard, before the captain even shows up to take command. These voyages can be so long, and the time spent at home so short, that if a captain has a family or other pressing concerns, he often doesn’t bother much with the ship while it’s docked, leaving everything to the owners until it’s time to set sail. Still, it’s always a good idea to get a look at the captain before fully committing to him. So I turned back and approached Captain Peleg, asking him where I could find Captain Ahab.
“And what dost thou want of Captain Ahab? It’s all right enough; thou art shipped.”
"And what do you want with Captain Ahab? It’s all fine; you’re signed on."
“Yes, but I should like to see him.”
"Yeah, but I’d like to see him."
“But I don’t think thou wilt be able to at present. I don’t know exactly what’s the matter with him; but he keeps close inside the house; a sort of sick, and yet he don’t look so. In fact, he ain’t sick; but no, he isn’t well either. Any how, young man, he won’t always see me, so I don’t suppose he will thee. He’s a queer man, Captain Ahab—so some think—but a good one. Oh, thou’lt like him well enough; no fear, no fear. He’s a grand, ungodly, god-like man, Captain Ahab; doesn’t speak much; but, when he does speak, then you may well listen. Mark ye, be forewarned; Ahab’s above the common; Ahab’s been in colleges, as well as ’mong the cannibals; been used to deeper wonders than the waves; fixed his fiery lance in mightier, stranger foes than whales. His lance! aye, the keenest and the surest that out of all our isle! Oh! he ain’t Captain Bildad; no, and he ain’t Captain Peleg; he’s Ahab, boy; and Ahab of old, thou knowest, was a crowned king!”
"But I don’t think you’ll be able to right now. I’m not sure what’s wrong with him; he stays inside the house a lot, sort of sick, but he doesn’t really look it. Actually, he’s not sick, but he’s not exactly well either. Anyway, young man, he doesn’t always see me, so I don’t think he’ll see you. He’s an odd one, Captain Ahab—so some say—but he’s a good man. Oh, you’ll like him well enough; don’t worry, don’t worry. He’s a grand, strange, larger-than-life man, Captain Ahab; doesn’t talk much, but when he does, you’d better listen. Listen carefully, and let me warn you—Ahab’s not like most men; Ahab’s been to college and lived among cannibals; he’s seen deeper wonders than the ocean and has driven his fiery spear into mightier, stranger enemies than whales. His spear! Oh yes, it’s the sharpest and the most accurate in all the land! Oh! He’s not Captain Bildad, no, and he’s not Captain Peleg; he’s Ahab, boy; and the Ahab of old, you know, was a crowned king!"
“And a very vile one. When that wicked king was slain, the dogs, did they not lick his blood?”
"And a really vile one. When that evil king was killed, didn't the dogs lick his blood?"
“Come hither to me—hither, hither,” said Peleg, with a significance in his eye that almost startled me. “Look ye, lad; never say that on board the Pequod. Never say it anywhere. Captain Ahab did not name himself. ’Twas a foolish, ignorant whim of his crazy, widowed mother, who died when he was only a twelvemonth old. And yet the old squaw Tistig, at Gayhead, said that the name would somehow prove prophetic. And, perhaps, other fools like her may tell thee the same. I wish to warn thee. It’s a lie. I know Captain Ahab well; I’ve sailed with him as mate years ago; I know what he is—a good man—not a pious, good man, like Bildad, but a swearing good man—something like me—only there’s a good deal more of him. Aye, aye, I know that he was never very jolly; and I know that on the passage home, he was a little out of his mind for a spell; but it was the sharp shooting pains in his bleeding stump that brought that about, as any one might see. I know, too, that ever since he lost his leg last voyage by that accursed whale, he’s been a kind of moody—desperate moody, and savage sometimes; but that will all pass off. And once for all, let me tell thee and assure thee, young man, it’s better to sail with a moody good captain than a laughing bad one. So good-bye to thee—and wrong not Captain Ahab, because he happens to have a wicked name. Besides, my boy, he has a wife—not three voyages wedded—a sweet, resigned girl. Think of that; by that sweet girl that old man has a child: hold ye then there can be any utter, hopeless harm in Ahab? No, no, my lad; stricken, blasted, if he be, Ahab has his humanities!”
"Come here—over here," said Peleg, with a look that almost startled me. "Listen, kid; never say that onboard the Pequod. Never say it anywhere. Captain Ahab didn’t pick his own name. It was the foolish, ignorant whim of his crazy, widowed mother, who died when he was only a year old. But that old squaw Tistig, over in Gayhead, said the name would somehow turn out to be prophetic. Maybe other fools like her will tell you the same. I want to warn you. It’s not true. I know Captain Ahab well; I sailed with him as mate years ago. I know what kind of man he is—a good man. Not a pious, righteous man like Bildad, but a swearing, good-hearted man—kind of like me—only there's a lot more to him. Yeah, yeah, I know he was never the cheerful type; and I know that on the way home last time, he went a little crazy for a while. But anyone could see it was the sharp, shooting pains in his bleeding stump that caused it. I also know that ever since he lost his leg on the last voyage to that damned whale, he's been kind of broody—desperately moody, even savage sometimes; but that’ll all pass. And let me tell you once and for all, young man, it’s better to sail with a broody good captain than a cheerful bad one. So goodbye—and don’t judge Captain Ahab just because he has a sinister name. On top of that, my boy, he’s married—not a one-time thing, three voyages married—to a sweet, quiet woman. Think about that: that sweet woman and Ahab have a child. Do you really think there can be anything completely hopeless or evil in Ahab? No, no, my boy; as broken and tormented as he might be, Ahab still has his humanity!"
As I walked away, I was full of thoughtfulness; what had been incidentally revealed to me of Captain Ahab, filled me with a certain wild vagueness of painfulness concerning him. And somehow, at the time, I felt a sympathy and a sorrow for him, but for I don’t know what, unless it was the cruel loss of his leg. And yet I also felt a strange awe of him; but that sort of awe, which I cannot at all describe, was not exactly awe; I do not know what it was. But I felt it; and it did not disincline me towards him; though I felt impatience at what seemed like mystery in him, so imperfectly as he was known to me then. However, my thoughts were at length carried in other directions, so that for the present dark Ahab slipped my mind.
As I walked away, I was deep in thought. What I had accidentally learned about Captain Ahab left me with a strange, vague sense of unease about him. Somehow, in that moment, I felt both sympathy and sorrow for him, though I couldn’t quite pinpoint why—maybe it was the cruel loss of his leg. At the same time, I felt a peculiar kind of awe toward him, though it wasn’t exactly awe; I honestly don’t know what it was. But I felt it nonetheless, and it didn’t turn me away from him, even though his air of mystery, so little as I knew of him at the time, made me impatient. Eventually, though, my thoughts wandered off in other directions, and for the time being, the shadowy figure of Ahab faded from my mind.
CHAPTER 17. The Ramadan.
As Queequeg’s Ramadan, or Fasting and Humiliation, was to continue all day, I did not choose to disturb him till towards night-fall; for I cherish the greatest respect towards everybody’s religious obligations, never mind how comical, and could not find it in my heart to undervalue even a congregation of ants worshipping a toad-stool; or those other creatures in certain parts of our earth, who with a degree of footmanism quite unprecedented in other planets, bow down before the torso of a deceased landed proprietor merely on account of the inordinate possessions yet owned and rented in his name.
Since Queequeg’s Ramadan, or time of fasting and humility, was going to last the entire day, I decided not to disturb him until around nightfall. I have the deepest respect for everyone’s religious practices, no matter how odd they might seem, and I couldn’t bring myself to look down on even a group of ants worshipping a mushroom. The same goes for those other beings in certain parts of the world who, with an almost unmatched servility, bow down before the remains of a dead landowner simply because of the vast property still possessed and rented out in his name.
I say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these things, and not fancy ourselves so vastly superior to other mortals, pagans and what not, because of their half-crazy conceits on these subjects. There was Queequeg, now, certainly entertaining the most absurd notions about Yojo and his Ramadan;—but what of that? Queequeg thought he knew what he was about, I suppose; he seemed to be content; and there let him rest. All our arguing with him would not avail; let him be, I say: and Heaven have mercy on us all—Presbyterians and Pagans alike—for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.
I say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be open-minded about these things and not think we're so much better than other people—pagans or whoever—just because of their eccentric beliefs about such matters. Take Queequeg, for instance. Sure, he had some pretty ridiculous ideas about Yojo and his Ramadan—but so what? Queequeg probably thought he knew what he was doing; he seemed happy enough, so let him be. All of our arguments wouldn’t change his mind anyway. Let him live his way, I say. And may Heaven have mercy on all of us—Presbyterians and Pagans alike—because truth be told, we’re all a little messed up and in need of repair.
Towards evening, when I felt assured that all his performances and rituals must be over, I went up to his room and knocked at the door; but no answer. I tried to open it, but it was fastened inside. “Queequeg,” said I softly through the key-hole:—all silent. “I say, Queequeg! why don’t you speak? It’s I—Ishmael.” But all remained still as before. I began to grow alarmed. I had allowed him such abundant time; I thought he might have had an apoplectic fit. I looked through the key-hole; but the door opening into an odd corner of the room, the key-hole prospect was but a crooked and sinister one. I could only see part of the foot-board of the bed and a line of the wall, but nothing more. I was surprised to behold resting against the wall the wooden shaft of Queequeg’s harpoon, which the landlady the evening previous had taken from him, before our mounting to the chamber. That’s strange, thought I; but at any rate, since the harpoon stands yonder, and he seldom or never goes abroad without it, therefore he must be inside here, and no possible mistake.
Toward evening, when I was sure all his rituals and performances had to be finished, I went up to his room and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I tried to open it, but it was locked from the inside. "Queequeg," I said softly through the keyhole—nothing. "Hey, Queequeg! Why aren’t you saying anything? It’s me—Ishmael." Still, silence. I started to feel nervous. I’d given him plenty of time, and I began to wonder if he’d suffered a stroke or something. I looked through the keyhole, but the angle of the door in the odd corner of the room meant I couldn’t see much—just part of the bed’s footboard and a strip of the wall. That’s it. To my surprise, I noticed Queequeg’s harpoon leaning against the wall. The landlady had taken it from him the night before, before we headed upstairs to the room. That’s weird, I thought, but if the harpoon is still here—and he almost never goes anywhere without it—then there’s no doubt he must be inside.
“Queequeg!—Queequeg!”—all still. Something must have happened. Apoplexy! I tried to burst open the door; but it stubbornly resisted. Running down stairs, I quickly stated my suspicions to the first person I met—the chamber-maid. “La! la!” she cried, “I thought something must be the matter. I went to make the bed after breakfast, and the door was locked; and not a mouse to be heard; and it’s been just so silent ever since. But I thought, may be, you had both gone off and locked your baggage in for safe keeping. La! la, ma’am!—Mistress! murder! Mrs. Hussey! apoplexy!”—and with these cries, she ran towards the kitchen, I following.
"Queequeg! Queequeg!"—silence. Something must have happened. A stroke! I tried to force the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. Running downstairs, I quickly told the first person I saw—the chambermaid—about my fears. "Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed, "I knew something must be wrong. I went to make the bed after breakfast, but the door was locked, and not a sound from inside. It’s been completely quiet since. But I thought maybe you both left and locked up your stuff for safekeeping. Oh no! Ma’am! Mistress! Murder! Mrs. Hussey! A stroke!"—and shouting all this, she ran toward the kitchen, with me right behind her.
Mrs. Hussey soon appeared, with a mustard-pot in one hand and a vinegar-cruet in the other, having just broken away from the occupation of attending to the castors, and scolding her little black boy meantime.
Mrs. Hussey soon came in, holding a mustard jar in one hand and a vinegar bottle in the other, having just paused her task of arranging the condiment set while scolding her young Black boy at the same time.
“Wood-house!” cried I, “which way to it? Run for God’s sake, and fetch something to pry open the door—the axe!—the axe! he’s had a stroke; depend upon it!”—and so saying I was unmethodically rushing up stairs again empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey interposed the mustard-pot and vinegar-cruet, and the entire castor of her countenance.
"Wood-house!" I shouted. "Which way is it? Hurry, for God's sake, and grab something to break the door open—the axe! Get the axe! He's had a stroke, I’m sure of it!" With that, I was frantically running back upstairs, completely empty-handed, when Mrs. Hussey stopped me with the mustard pot, vinegar bottle, and the full expression of her disapproval.
“What’s the matter with you, young man?”
"What's wrong with you, young man?"
“Get the axe! For God’s sake, run for the doctor, some one, while I pry it open!”
"Grab the axe! For God's sake, someone go get the doctor while I try to force it open!"
“Look here,” said the landlady, quickly putting down the vinegar-cruet, so as to have one hand free; “look here; are you talking about prying open any of my doors?”—and with that she seized my arm. “What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter with you, shipmate?”
"Listen here," said the landlady, quickly setting down the vinegar bottle to free up one hand. "Listen—are you talking about breaking into any of my doors?" And with that, she grabbed my arm. "What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you, mate?"
In as calm, but rapid a manner as possible, I gave her to understand the whole case. Unconsciously clapping the vinegar-cruet to one side of her nose, she ruminated for an instant; then exclaimed—“No! I haven’t seen it since I put it there.” Running to a little closet under the landing of the stairs, she glanced in, and returning, told me that Queequeg’s harpoon was missing. “He’s killed himself,” she cried. “It’s unfort’nate Stiggs done over again—there goes another counterpane—God pity his poor mother!—it will be the ruin of my house. Has the poor lad a sister? Where’s that girl?—there, Betty, go to Snarles the Painter, and tell him to paint me a sign, with—“no suicides permitted here, and no smoking in the parlor;”—might as well kill both birds at once. Kill? The Lord be merciful to his ghost! What’s that noise there? You, young man, avast there!”
In as calm and quick a manner as I could, I explained the whole situation to her. Without realizing it, she pressed the vinegar bottle to one side of her nose, thought for a moment, and then exclaimed, “No! I haven’t seen it since I put it there.” Running to a small closet under the stairs, she peeked inside, and when she came back, she told me that Queequeg’s harpoon was missing. “He’s killed himself!” she cried. “It’s just like poor Stiggs all over again—there goes another bedspread—God help his poor mother!—this’ll ruin my house. Does the poor boy have a sister? Where’s that girl?—Betty, go to Snarles the Painter and tell him to paint me a sign that says, ‘No suicides allowed here, and no smoking in the parlor.’ May as well take care of two things at once. Kill? May the Lord have mercy on his soul! What’s that noise over there? You, young man, hold it right there!”
And running up after me, she caught me as I was again trying to force open the door.
She ran after me and caught up to me just as I was trying again to force the door open.
“I don’t allow it; I won’t have my premises spoiled. Go for the locksmith, there’s one about a mile from here. But avast!” putting her hand in her side-pocket, “here’s a key that’ll fit, I guess; let’s see.” And with that, she turned it in the lock; but, alas! Queequeg’s supplemental bolt remained unwithdrawn within.
"I won’t allow it; I’m not letting my place get messed up. Go get the locksmith—there’s one about a mile away. Wait a second!" She reached into her pocket. "Here’s a key that might work; let’s try it." With that, she turned the key in the lock, but unfortunately, Queequeg’s extra bolt was still fastened inside.
“Have to burst it open,” said I, and was running down the entry a little, for a good start, when the landlady caught at me, again vowing I should not break down her premises; but I tore from her, and with a sudden bodily rush dashed myself full against the mark.
"Got to break it open," I said, and started running down the hallway a bit to get a good head start, when the landlady grabbed at me again, swearing I wouldn't wreck her property. But I broke free from her, and with a sudden full-body charge, slammed myself straight into the spot.
With a prodigious noise the door flew open, and the knob slamming against the wall, sent the plaster to the ceiling; and there, good heavens! there sat Queequeg, altogether cool and self-collected; right in the middle of the room; squatting on his hams, and holding Yojo on top of his head. He looked neither one way nor the other way, but sat like a carved image with scarce a sign of active life.
With an enormous crash, the door burst open, and the doorknob smashed against the wall, sending plaster flying up to the ceiling. And there—good grief!—sat Queequeg, completely calm and composed, right in the middle of the room. He was crouched down on his heels, holding Yojo on top of his head. He didn’t glance to the left or the right but sat there like a statue, barely showing any sign of life.
“Queequeg,” said I, going up to him, “Queequeg, what’s the matter with you?”
"Queequeg," I said as I walked up to him, "Queequeg, what's wrong with you?"
“He hain’t been a sittin’ so all day, has he?” said the landlady.
"Hasn't he been sitting like that all day?" asked the landlady.
But all we said, not a word could we drag out of him; I almost felt like pushing him over, so as to change his position, for it was almost intolerable, it seemed so painfully and unnaturally constrained; especially, as in all probability he had been sitting so for upwards of eight or ten hours, going too without his regular meals.
But no matter what we said, we couldn’t get a single word out of him. I almost felt like pushing him over just to make him move, because it was almost unbearable, he seemed so awkwardly and unnaturally stiff. Especially since he’d probably been sitting like that for eight or ten hours straight, likely skipping his usual meals, too.
“Mrs. Hussey,” said I, “he’s alive at all events; so leave us, if you please, and I will see to this strange affair myself.”
"Mrs. Hussey," I said, "he's alive, at least; so please leave us, and I'll handle this strange situation myself."
Closing the door upon the landlady, I endeavored to prevail upon Queequeg to take a chair; but in vain. There he sat; and all he could do—for all my polite arts and blandishments—he would not move a peg, nor say a single word, nor even look at me, nor notice my presence in the slightest way.
Closing the door behind the landlady, I tried to convince Queequeg to take a seat, but it was no use. He just sat there, and no matter how polite or persuasive I tried to be, he wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t even look at me, or acknowledge I was there in any way.
I wonder, thought I, if this can possibly be a part of his Ramadan; do they fast on their hams that way in his native island. It must be so; yes, it’s part of his creed, I suppose; well, then, let him rest; he’ll get up sooner or later, no doubt. It can’t last for ever, thank God, and his Ramadan only comes once a year; and I don’t believe it’s very punctual then.
I wonder, I thought, if this could be part of his Ramadan. Do they fast sitting on their hams like that in his homeland? It must be; yes, it’s probably part of his beliefs. Well, fine, let him rest; he’ll get up at some point, no doubt. It can’t go on forever, thank goodness, and Ramadan only comes once a year. Besides, I don’t think it’s exactly on schedule anyway.
I went down to supper. After sitting a long time listening to the long stories of some sailors who had just come from a plum-pudding voyage, as they called it (that is, a short whaling-voyage in a schooner or brig, confined to the north of the line, in the Atlantic Ocean only); after listening to these plum-puddingers till nearly eleven o’clock, I went up stairs to go to bed, feeling quite sure by this time Queequeg must certainly have brought his Ramadan to a termination. But no; there he was just where I had left him; he had not stirred an inch. I began to grow vexed with him; it seemed so downright senseless and insane to be sitting there all day and half the night on his hams in a cold room, holding a piece of wood on his head.
I went downstairs for dinner. After sitting for a long time, listening to some sailors tell lengthy stories about what they called a "plum-pudding voyage" (basically, a short whaling trip on a schooner or brig limited to northern waters in the Atlantic), and after hearing these tales until nearly eleven o’clock, I headed back upstairs to go to bed. By now, I was sure Queequeg must have finally finished his Ramadan. But no—there he was, exactly where I had left him, not having moved an inch. I started getting annoyed with him; it seemed so completely ridiculous and irrational to sit there all day and half the night, crouched in a cold room with a piece of wood balanced on his head.
“For heaven’s sake, Queequeg, get up and shake yourself; get up and have some supper. You’ll starve; you’ll kill yourself, Queequeg.” But not a word did he reply.
"For heaven's sake, Queequeg, get up and shake it off; get up and have some dinner. You're going to starve; you'll hurt yourself, Queequeg." But he didn't say a word.
Despairing of him, therefore, I determined to go to bed and to sleep; and no doubt, before a great while, he would follow me. But previous to turning in, I took my heavy bearskin jacket, and threw it over him, as it promised to be a very cold night; and he had nothing but his ordinary round jacket on. For some time, do all I would, I could not get into the faintest doze. I had blown out the candle; and the mere thought of Queequeg—not four feet off—sitting there in that uneasy position, stark alone in the cold and dark; this made me really wretched. Think of it; sleeping all night in the same room with a wide awake pagan on his hams in this dreary, unaccountable Ramadan!
Giving up on him, I decided to go to bed and get some sleep; surely, before too long, he’d do the same. But before turning in, I grabbed my heavy bearskin jacket and draped it over him, since it looked like it was going to be a very cold night, and all he had on was his regular, thin jacket. For a while, no matter what I did, I couldn’t even begin to fall asleep. I’d blown out the candle, but the very thought of Queequeg—less than four feet away—sitting there in that uncomfortable position, all alone in the cold and dark, made me feel truly miserable. Imagine it: spending the whole night in the same room with an alert, silent pagan squatting through this strange and inexplicable Ramadan!
But somehow I dropped off at last, and knew nothing more till break of day; when, looking over the bedside, there squatted Queequeg, as if he had been screwed down to the floor. But as soon as the first glimpse of sun entered the window, up he got, with stiff and grating joints, but with a cheerful look; limped towards me where I lay; pressed his forehead again against mine; and said his Ramadan was over.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep and didn’t know anything until daybreak. When I looked over the side of the bed, there was Queequeg, sitting as if he were bolted to the floor. But as soon as the first rays of sunlight came through the window, he got up with stiff, creaky movements but a cheerful expression. He hobbled over to me, pressed his forehead against mine again, and told me his Ramadan was finished.
Now, as I before hinted, I have no objection to any person’s religion, be it what it may, so long as that person does not kill or insult any other person, because that other person don’t believe it also. But when a man’s religion becomes really frantic; when it is a positive torment to him; and, in fine, makes this earth of ours an uncomfortable inn to lodge in; then I think it high time to take that individual aside and argue the point with him.
As I mentioned before, I have no problem with anyone's religion, whatever it may be, as long as they don't harm or insult someone else for not believing the same thing. But when someone's religion becomes extreme; when it turns into a source of torment for them and makes this world a miserable place to live in, I think it's time to pull that person aside and have a talk with them about it.
And just so I now did with Queequeg. “Queequeg,” said I, “get into bed now, and lie and listen to me.” I then went on, beginning with the rise and progress of the primitive religions, and coming down to the various religions of the present time, during which time I labored to show Queequeg that all these Lents, Ramadans, and prolonged ham-squattings in cold, cheerless rooms were stark nonsense; bad for the health; useless for the soul; opposed, in short, to the obvious laws of Hygiene and common sense. I told him, too, that he being in other things such an extremely sensible and sagacious savage, it pained me, very badly pained me, to see him now so deplorably foolish about this ridiculous Ramadan of his. Besides, argued I, fasting makes the body cave in; hence the spirit caves in; and all thoughts born of a fast must necessarily be half-starved. This is the reason why most dyspeptic religionists cherish such melancholy notions about their hereafters. In one word, Queequeg, said I, rather digressively; hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple-dumpling; and since then perpetuated through the hereditary dyspepsias nurtured by Ramadans.
So that’s exactly what I did with Queequeg. “Queequeg,” I said, “get into bed now and just lie there and listen to me.” Then I started talking, beginning with the origins and development of ancient religions, and working my way down to the different religions of today. I tried to explain to Queequeg that all these fasting periods, Ramadans, and long hours of crouching in cold, uncomfortable rooms were completely ridiculous—bad for your health, useless for your soul, and totally against the basic rules of hygiene and just plain common sense. I also told him that since he was otherwise such a smart and reasonable person, it really pained me—really deeply—to see him acting so foolishly about this absurd Ramadan of his. Besides, I argued, fasting weakens the body, which then weakens the spirit, so any ideas that come out of fasting are bound to be weak and half-formed. That’s why so many religions built on such practices are filled with gloomy ideas about the afterlife. In short, Queequeg, I added, a bit off-topic, hell is fundamentally an idea that first came from an undigested apple dumpling, and it’s been passed down ever since through generations of bad digestion caused by these fasts like Ramadan.
I then asked Queequeg whether he himself was ever troubled with dyspepsia; expressing the idea very plainly, so that he could take it in. He said no; only upon one memorable occasion. It was after a great feast given by his father the king, on the gaining of a great battle wherein fifty of the enemy had been killed by about two o’clock in the afternoon, and all cooked and eaten that very evening.
I asked Queequeg if he ever dealt with indigestion, explaining it clearly so he could understand. He said no, except for one memorable time. It was after a huge feast thrown by his father, the king, to celebrate winning a major battle where fifty enemies had been killed by around two in the afternoon—and all of them were cooked and eaten that same evening.
“No more, Queequeg,” said I, shuddering; “that will do;” for I knew the inferences without his further hinting them. I had seen a sailor who had visited that very island, and he told me that it was the custom, when a great battle had been gained there, to barbecue all the slain in the yard or garden of the victor; and then, one by one, they were placed in great wooden trenchers, and garnished round like a pilau, with breadfruit and cocoanuts; and with some parsley in their mouths, were sent round with the victor’s compliments to all his friends, just as though these presents were so many Christmas turkeys.
“No more, Queequeg,” I said, feeling a chill run through me. “That’s enough.” I understood what he was implying without him needing to say more. I had met a sailor who had been to that very island, and he told me it was their tradition to barbecue all the defeated warriors in the yard or garden of the victor after a big battle. Then, one by one, the bodies would be placed on large wooden platters, decorated like a pilaf with breadfruit and coconuts, and, with some parsley in their mouths, they’d be sent around to all the victor’s friends as gifts—just like they were Christmas turkeys.
After all, I do not think that my remarks about religion made much impression upon Queequeg. Because, in the first place, he somehow seemed dull of hearing on that important subject, unless considered from his own point of view; and, in the second place, he did not more than one third understand me, couch my ideas simply as I would; and, finally, he no doubt thought he knew a good deal more about the true religion than I did. He looked at me with a sort of condescending concern and compassion, as though he thought it a great pity that such a sensible young man should be so hopelessly lost to evangelical pagan piety.
Honestly, I don't think my comments about religion made much of an impact on Queequeg. First of all, he didn’t seem particularly interested in the topic unless it was approached from his own viewpoint. Secondly, he only understood about a third of what I said, no matter how simply I tried to explain it. And finally, he probably believed he knew way more about true religion than I did. He gave me a look full of condescending concern and pity, as if he thought it was such a shame that someone as reasonable as me could be so completely clueless about evangelical pagan devotion.
At last we rose and dressed; and Queequeg, taking a prodigiously hearty breakfast of chowders of all sorts, so that the landlady should not make much profit by reason of his Ramadan, we sallied out to board the Pequod, sauntering along, and picking our teeth with halibut bones.
Finally, we got up and got dressed. Queequeg had an incredibly large breakfast of all kinds of chowder, making sure the landlady wouldn’t gain much from his previous fasting during Ramadan. Then we headed out to board the Pequod, strolling along casually and picking our teeth with halibut bones.
CHAPTER 18. His Mark.
As we were walking down the end of the wharf towards the ship, Queequeg carrying his harpoon, Captain Peleg in his gruff voice loudly hailed us from his wigwam, saying he had not suspected my friend was a cannibal, and furthermore announcing that he let no cannibals on board that craft, unless they previously produced their papers.
As we were walking down to the end of the dock toward the ship, Queequeg carrying his harpoon, Captain Peleg called out to us loudly from his cabin in his rough voice, saying he hadn’t realized my friend was a cannibal, and adding that no cannibals were allowed on his ship unless they showed their documents first.
“What do you mean by that, Captain Peleg?” said I, now jumping on the bulwarks, and leaving my comrade standing on the wharf.
"What do you mean by that, Captain Peleg?" I said, as I jumped onto the railing, leaving my friend standing back on the dock.
“I mean,” he replied, “he must show his papers.”
"I mean," he said, "he has to show his documents."
“Yes,” said Captain Bildad in his hollow voice, sticking his head from behind Peleg’s, out of the wigwam. “He must show that he’s converted. Son of darkness,” he added, turning to Queequeg, “art thou at present in communion with any Christian church?”
"Yes," said Captain Bildad in his deep voice, poking his head out from behind Peleg's, out of the small cabin. "He needs to prove he's converted. Son of darkness," he added, turning to Queequeg, "are you currently a member of any Christian church?"
“Why,” said I, “he’s a member of the first Congregational Church.” Here be it said, that many tattooed savages sailing in Nantucket ships at last come to be converted into the churches.
"Why," I said, "he's a member of the First Congregational Church." Let it be noted that many tattooed savages who sail on Nantucket ships eventually end up converting and joining the churches.
“First Congregational Church,” cried Bildad, “what! that worships in Deacon Deuteronomy Coleman’s meeting-house?” and so saying, taking out his spectacles, he rubbed them with his great yellow bandana handkerchief, and putting them on very carefully, came out of the wigwam, and leaning stiffly over the bulwarks, took a good long look at Queequeg.
"First Congregational Church," shouted Bildad, "what! The one that holds services in Deacon Deuteronomy Coleman's meeting-house?" Saying this, he pulled out his glasses, wiped them with his big yellow bandana, and carefully put them on. Then he stepped out of the wigwam, leaned stiffly over the ship's railing, and took a long, hard look at Queequeg.
“How long hath he been a member?” he then said, turning to me; “not very long, I rather guess, young man.”
"How long has he been a member?" he then said, turning to me. "Not very long, I’m guessing, young man."
“No,” said Peleg, “and he hasn’t been baptized right either, or it would have washed some of that devil’s blue off his face.”
"No," said Peleg, "and he hasn't even been properly baptized, or it would've washed some of that devil's blue off his face."
“Do tell, now,” cried Bildad, “is this Philistine a regular member of Deacon Deuteronomy’s meeting? I never saw him going there, and I pass it every Lord’s day.”
"Tell me now," said Bildad, "is this guy a regular at Deacon Deuteronomy's church? I've never seen him there, and I walk by it every Sunday."
“I don’t know anything about Deacon Deuteronomy or his meeting,” said I; “all I know is, that Queequeg here is a born member of the First Congregational Church. He is a deacon himself, Queequeg is.”
"I don't know anything about Deacon Deuteronomy or his meeting," I said. "All I know is that Queequeg here is a natural member of the First Congregational Church. Queequeg is a deacon himself."
“Young man,” said Bildad sternly, “thou art skylarking with me—explain thyself, thou young Hittite. What church dost thee mean? answer me.”
"Young man," said Bildad sternly, "you’re messing around with me—explain yourself, you young troublemaker. What church do you mean? Answer me."
Finding myself thus hard pushed, I replied. “I mean, sir, the same ancient Catholic Church to which you and I, and Captain Peleg there, and Queequeg here, and all of us, and every mother’s son and soul of us belong; the great and everlasting First Congregation of this whole worshipping world; we all belong to that; only some of us cherish some queer crotchets no ways touching the grand belief; in that we all join hands.”
Finding myself in a tough spot, I answered, “I mean, sir, the same old Catholic Church that you, me, Captain Peleg over there, Queequeg here, and every single one of us—every person alive—belong to; the great and eternal First Congregation of this entire worshipping world. We’re all part of it; it’s just that some of us hold onto some odd ideas that don’t really affect the core belief. In that, we’re all united.”
“Splice, thou mean’st splice hands,” cried Peleg, drawing nearer. “Young man, you’d better ship for a missionary, instead of a fore-mast hand; I never heard a better sermon. Deacon Deuteronomy—why Father Mapple himself couldn’t beat it, and he’s reckoned something. Come aboard, come aboard; never mind about the papers. I say, tell Quohog there—what’s that you call him? tell Quohog to step along. By the great anchor, what a harpoon he’s got there! looks like good stuff that; and he handles it about right. I say, Quohog, or whatever your name is, did you ever stand in the head of a whale-boat? did you ever strike a fish?”
"Splice, you mean shake hands," shouted Peleg as he came closer. "Young man, you’d be better off becoming a missionary instead of signing up as a regular sailor; I’ve never heard a better sermon. Deacon Deuteronomy—why, even Father Mapple couldn’t top that, and he’s supposed to be the best. Come aboard, come aboard; don’t worry about the paperwork. Hey, tell that guy Quohog—what’s his name again?—tell Quohog to come over. By the great anchor, what a harpoon he’s got there! Looks like solid gear; and he handles it pretty well. Hey, Quohog, or whatever your name is, have you ever stood at the front of a whale-boat? Ever landed a catch?"
Without saying a word, Queequeg, in his wild sort of way, jumped upon the bulwarks, from thence into the bows of one of the whale-boats hanging to the side; and then bracing his left knee, and poising his harpoon, cried out in some such way as this:—
Without a word, Queequeg, in his wild manner, leapt onto the railings, then into the bow of one of the whale-boats hanging at the side. Bracing his left knee and balancing his harpoon, he called out something like this:—
“Cap’ain, you see him small drop tar on water dere? You see him? well, spose him one whale eye, well, den!” and taking sharp aim at it, he darted the iron right over old Bildad’s broad brim, clean across the ship’s decks, and struck the glistening tar spot out of sight.
“Captain, do you see that small drop of tar on the water over there? You see it? Well, suppose it's a whale's eye. Well then!” And with precise aim, he threw the harpoon right over old Bildad's wide-brimmed hat, straight across the ship’s deck, and hit the shiny tar spot, making it disappear from sight.
“Now,” said Queequeg, quietly hauling in the line, “spos-ee him whale-e eye; why, dad whale dead.”
"Now," said Queequeg, calmly pulling in the line, "suppose that was the whale's eye; well, then the whale is dead."
“Quick, Bildad,” said Peleg, his partner, who, aghast at the close vicinity of the flying harpoon, had retreated towards the cabin gangway. “Quick, I say, you Bildad, and get the ship’s papers. We must have Hedgehog there, I mean Quohog, in one of our boats. Look ye, Quohog, we’ll give ye the ninetieth lay, and that’s more than ever was given a harpooneer yet out of Nantucket.”
“Quick, Bildad,” said Peleg, his partner, who, shocked at how close the flying harpoon had come, had backed away toward the cabin entrance. “Hurry up, I said, Bildad—get the ship’s papers. We need to have Hedgehog here—I mean Queequeg—in one of our boats. Listen, Queequeg, we’ll give you the ninetieth share, and that’s more than any harpooneer from Nantucket has ever gotten before.”
So down we went into the cabin, and to my great joy Queequeg was soon enrolled among the same ship’s company to which I myself belonged.
So we headed down into the cabin, and to my great relief, Queequeg was soon signed up as a member of the same ship's crew as me.
When all preliminaries were over and Peleg had got everything ready for signing, he turned to me and said, “I guess, Quohog there don’t know how to write, does he? I say, Quohog, blast ye! dost thou sign thy name or make thy mark?”
When all the formalities were done and Peleg had everything ready for signing, he turned to me and said, “I guess Quohog here doesn’t know how to write, does he? Hey, Quohog, damn you! Do you sign your name or just mark it?”
But at this question, Queequeg, who had twice or thrice before taken part in similar ceremonies, looked no ways abashed; but taking the offered pen, copied upon the paper, in the proper place, an exact counterpart of a queer round figure which was tattooed upon his arm; so that through Captain Peleg’s obstinate mistake touching his appellative, it stood something like this:—
At this question, Queequeg, who had already participated in similar rituals a few times before, didn’t look the least bit embarrassed. Taking the pen that was handed to him, he carefully drew on the paper, in the appropriate spot, an exact replica of the strange round symbol tattooed on his arm. Because of Captain Peleg’s stubborn misunderstanding about his name, it ended up looking something like this:—
Quohog. his X mark.
Quohog. his signature.
Meanwhile Captain Bildad sat earnestly and steadfastly eyeing Queequeg, and at last rising solemnly and fumbling in the huge pockets of his broad-skirted drab coat, took out a bundle of tracts, and selecting one entitled “The Latter Day Coming; or No Time to Lose,” placed it in Queequeg’s hands, and then grasping them and the book with both his, looked earnestly into his eyes, and said, “Son of darkness, I must do my duty by thee; I am part owner of this ship, and feel concerned for the souls of all its crew; if thou still clingest to thy Pagan ways, which I sadly fear, I beseech thee, remain not for aye a Belial bondsman. Spurn the idol Bell, and the hideous dragon; turn from the wrath to come; mind thine eye, I say; oh! goodness gracious! steer clear of the fiery pit!”
Meanwhile, Captain Bildad sat intently and unwaveringly watching Queequeg. Finally, he stood up solemnly and, rummaging through the large pockets of his oversized, drab coat, pulled out a bundle of pamphlets. Picking one titled "The Latter Day Coming; or No Time to Lose," he handed it to Queequeg. Then, holding Queequeg's hands and the booklet firmly in his own, he looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Child of darkness, I must fulfill my duty to you. As part owner of this ship, I feel responsible for the souls of all its crew. If you continue clinging to your pagan ways, which I greatly fear, I implore you not to remain forever a servant of Belial. Reject the idol Bell and the dreadful dragon; turn away from the coming wrath. Pay attention, I beg you! Oh, for heaven's sake, steer clear of the fiery pit!"
Something of the salt sea yet lingered in old Bildad’s language, heterogeneously mixed with Scriptural and domestic phrases.
There was still a hint of the salty sea in old Bildad's way of speaking, oddly blended with Biblical references and everyday expressions.
“Avast there, avast there, Bildad, avast now spoiling our harpooneer,” cried Peleg. “Pious harpooneers never make good voyagers—it takes the shark out of ’em; no harpooneer is worth a straw who aint pretty sharkish. There was young Nat Swaine, once the bravest boat-header out of all Nantucket and the Vineyard; he joined the meeting, and never came to good. He got so frightened about his plaguy soul, that he shrinked and sheered away from whales, for fear of after-claps, in case he got stove and went to Davy Jones.”
"Hold on there, hold on, Bildad, stop ruining our harpooneer," shouted Peleg. "Religious harpooneers never make good sailors—it takes the edge off them; no harpooneer is worth anything if he isn’t a bit ruthless. Take young Nat Swaine, for example—he used to be the bravest boat-header in all of Nantucket and the Vineyard; but once he got religion, he was never the same. He got so scared about his cursed soul that he started avoiding whales, worried about what might happen if he got wrecked and ended up with Davy Jones."
“Peleg! Peleg!” said Bildad, lifting his eyes and hands, “thou thyself, as I myself, hast seen many a perilous time; thou knowest, Peleg, what it is to have the fear of death; how, then, can’st thou prate in this ungodly guise. Thou beliest thine own heart, Peleg. Tell me, when this same Pequod here had her three masts overboard in that typhoon on Japan, that same voyage when thou went mate with Captain Ahab, did’st thou not think of Death and the Judgment then?”
"Peleg! Peleg!" said Bildad, raising his eyes and hands. "You've been through plenty of dangerous times, just like I have. You know, Peleg, what it's like to face the fear of death. So how can you talk in such an unholy way? You're going against your own conscience, Peleg. Tell me, when this very ship, the Pequod, lost all three of her masts in that typhoon near Japan—on that same voyage when you were first mate under Captain Ahab—didn't you think about Death and Judgment then?"
“Hear him, hear him now,” cried Peleg, marching across the cabin, and thrusting his hands far down into his pockets,—“hear him, all of ye. Think of that! When every moment we thought the ship would sink! Death and the Judgment then? What? With all three masts making such an everlasting thundering against the side; and every sea breaking over us, fore and aft. Think of Death and the Judgment then? No! no time to think about Death then. Life was what Captain Ahab and I was thinking of; and how to save all hands—how to rig jury-masts—how to get into the nearest port; that was what I was thinking of.”
"Listen to him, listen to him now," shouted Peleg, pacing across the cabin and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "Listen, all of you! Think about that! Every moment, we thought the ship was going to sink! Death and judgment? What? With all three masts crashing endlessly against the side, and waves crashing over us from every direction. Think about death and judgment then? No! There was no time to think about death. Life—that's what Captain Ahab and I were focused on. How to save everyone, how to rig makeshift masts, how to reach the nearest port—that's what I was thinking about."
Bildad said no more, but buttoning up his coat, stalked on deck, where we followed him. There he stood, very quietly overlooking some sailmakers who were mending a top-sail in the waist. Now and then he stooped to pick up a patch, or save an end of tarred twine, which otherwise might have been wasted.
Bildad didn’t say anything else. He buttoned up his coat and headed up to the deck, and we followed him. There, he stood silently, watching some sailmakers repairing a top-sail in the middle of the deck. Every now and then, he leaned down to pick up a patch or save a piece of tarred twine that might have otherwise been thrown away.
CHAPTER 19. The Prophet.
“Shipmates, have ye shipped in that ship?”
"Hey crew, have you signed on to that ship?"
Queequeg and I had just left the Pequod, and were sauntering away from the water, for the moment each occupied with his own thoughts, when the above words were put to us by a stranger, who, pausing before us, levelled his massive forefinger at the vessel in question. He was but shabbily apparelled in faded jacket and patched trowsers; a rag of a black handkerchief investing his neck. A confluent small-pox had in all directions flowed over his face, and left it like the complicated ribbed bed of a torrent, when the rushing waters have been dried up.
Queequeg and I had just left the Pequod and were strolling away from the water, each caught up in our own thoughts, when a stranger stopped in front of us and pointed firmly at the ship with his thick forefinger, asking the question above. He was poorly dressed in a faded jacket and patched-up trousers, with a tattered black handkerchief tied around his neck. His face was deeply scarred from a severe case of smallpox, leaving it rough and ridged like the dried-up bed of a once-raging stream.
“Have ye shipped in her?” he repeated.
"Have you signed on with her?" he repeated.
“You mean the ship Pequod, I suppose,” said I, trying to gain a little more time for an uninterrupted look at him.
"You mean the ship Pequod, I guess," I said, trying to buy myself a little more time to get a good look at him.
“Aye, the Pequod—that ship there,” he said, drawing back his whole arm, and then rapidly shoving it straight out from him, with the fixed bayonet of his pointed finger darted full at the object.
"Yeah, the Pequod—that ship over there," he said, pulling his whole arm back and then quickly thrusting it straight out, with his pointed finger stabbing directly at the target like a fixed bayonet.
“Yes,” said I, “we have just signed the articles.”
"Yeah," I said, "we just signed the contract."
“Anything down there about your souls?”
"Is there anything down there about your souls?"
“About what?”
“About what are you asking?”
“Oh, perhaps you hav’n’t got any,” he said quickly. “No matter though, I know many chaps that hav’n’t got any,—good luck to ’em; and they are all the better off for it. A soul’s a sort of a fifth wheel to a wagon.”
“Oh, maybe you don’t have one,” he said quickly. “No problem though, I know plenty of guys who don’t have one—good for them; they’re better off without it. A soul is kind of like an extra wheel on a wagon.”
“What are you jabbering about, shipmate?” said I.
"What are you rambling about, buddy?" I said.
“He’s got enough, though, to make up for all deficiencies of that sort in other chaps,” abruptly said the stranger, placing a nervous emphasis upon the word he.
"He's got enough, though, to make up for all the shortcomings of that kind in other guys," the stranger said suddenly, putting a tense emphasis on the word "he."
“Queequeg,” said I, “let’s go; this fellow has broken loose from somewhere; he’s talking about something and somebody we don’t know.”
"Queequeg," I said, "let's go. This guy has escaped from somewhere; he's rambling about things and people we don't know."
“Stop!” cried the stranger. “Ye said true—ye hav’n’t seen Old Thunder yet, have ye?”
"Stop!" yelled the stranger. "You're right—you haven't seen Old Thunder yet, have you?"
“Who’s Old Thunder?” said I, again riveted with the insane earnestness of his manner.
"Who's Old Thunder?" I asked, once more captivated by the crazy intensity of his tone.
“Captain Ahab.”
“Captain Ahab.”
“What! the captain of our ship, the Pequod?”
"What! The captain of our ship, the Pequod?"
“Aye, among some of us old sailor chaps, he goes by that name. Ye hav’n’t seen him yet, have ye?”
"Yeah, some of us old sailors call him that. You haven’t seen him yet, have you?"
“No, we hav’n’t. He’s sick they say, but is getting better, and will be all right again before long.”
“No, we haven’t. They say he’s sick, but he’s getting better and will be fine soon.”
“All right again before long!” laughed the stranger, with a solemnly derisive sort of laugh. “Look ye; when Captain Ahab is all right, then this left arm of mine will be all right; not before.”
"All fine again soon enough!" the stranger laughed, with a kind of serious, mocking laugh. "Listen, when Captain Ahab is fine, then this left arm of mine will be fine too; not a moment sooner."
“What do you know about him?”
"What do you know about him?"
“What did they tell you about him? Say that!”
"What did they say to you about him? Tell me!"
“They didn’t tell much of anything about him; only I’ve heard that he’s a good whale-hunter, and a good captain to his crew.”
"They didn’t say much about him, just that he’s a skilled whale hunter and a good captain to his crew."
“That’s true, that’s true—yes, both true enough. But you must jump when he gives an order. Step and growl; growl and go—that’s the word with Captain Ahab. But nothing about that thing that happened to him off Cape Horn, long ago, when he lay like dead for three days and nights; nothing about that deadly skrimmage with the Spaniard afore the altar in Santa?—heard nothing about that, eh? Nothing about the silver calabash he spat into? And nothing about his losing his leg last voyage, according to the prophecy. Didn’t ye hear a word about them matters and something more, eh? No, I don’t think ye did; how could ye? Who knows it? Not all Nantucket, I guess. But hows’ever, mayhap, ye’ve heard tell about the leg, and how he lost it; aye, ye have heard of that, I dare say. Oh yes, that every one knows a’most—I mean they know he’s only one leg; and that a parmacetti took the other off.”
"That’s true, that’s true—yeah, both true enough. But you’ve gotta act fast when he gives an order. Step and growl; growl and go—that’s how it is with Captain Ahab. But nothing about what happened to him near Cape Horn a while back, when he was out cold for three days and nights; nothing about that deadly fight with the Spaniard in front of the altar in Santa—what was it?—heard nothing about that, huh? Nothing about the silver calabash he spat into? And nothing about him losing his leg on his last trip, just like the prophecy said. You didn’t hear a word about all that and more, did you? No, I don’t think you did; how could you? Who even knows about it? Not all of Nantucket, I suppose. But anyway, maybe you’ve heard the story about how he lost his leg; yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard that. Oh, sure, that part is practically common knowledge—I mean, people know he’s only got one leg; and that a sperm whale took the other one off."
“My friend,” said I, “what all this gibberish of yours is about, I don’t know, and I don’t much care; for it seems to me that you must be a little damaged in the head. But if you are speaking of Captain Ahab, of that ship there, the Pequod, then let me tell you, that I know all about the loss of his leg.”
"My friend," I said, "I have no idea what all this nonsense of yours is about, and honestly, I don’t really care, because it seems to me like you might not be all there in the head. But if you're talking about Captain Ahab from that ship, the Pequod, then let me tell you, I know all about how he lost his leg."
“All about it, eh—sure you do?—all?”
"All about it, huh—sure you do?—all?"
“Pretty sure.”
"Pretty sure."
With finger pointed and eye levelled at the Pequod, the beggar-like stranger stood a moment, as if in a troubled reverie; then starting a little, turned and said:—“Ye’ve shipped, have ye? Names down on the papers? Well, well, what’s signed, is signed; and what’s to be, will be; and then again, perhaps it won’t be, after all. Anyhow, it’s all fixed and arranged a’ready; and some sailors or other must go with him, I suppose; as well these as any other men, God pity ’em! Morning to ye, shipmates, morning; the ineffable heavens bless ye; I’m sorry I stopped ye.”
With his finger pointing and eyes fixed on the Pequod, the beggar-like stranger stood for a moment, as if lost in a troubled daydream; then, jolting slightly, he turned and said, "So, you’ve signed on, have you? Your names are on the papers? Well, well, what’s signed is signed, and whatever’s meant to happen will happen—or maybe it won’t, after all. Anyway, it’s all set and decided already; some crew has to go with him, I guess. Might as well be you as anyone else—God help them! Good morning to you, shipmates, good morning; may the boundless heavens bless you. I’m sorry I stopped you."
“Look here, friend,” said I, “if you have anything important to tell us, out with it; but if you are only trying to bamboozle us, you are mistaken in your game; that’s all I have to say.”
"Listen, buddy," I said, "if you've got something important to tell us, just say it. But if you're just trying to mess with us, you've picked the wrong game; that's all I've got to say."
“And it’s said very well, and I like to hear a chap talk up that way; you are just the man for him—the likes of ye. Morning to ye, shipmates, morning! Oh! when ye get there, tell ’em I’ve concluded not to make one of ’em.”
"And that's well said, I like hearing a guy talk like that; you're just the right man for him—for someone like you. Morning to you, shipmates, morning! Oh, and when you get there, let them know I've decided not to join them."
“Ah, my dear fellow, you can’t fool us that way—you can’t fool us. It is the easiest thing in the world for a man to look as if he had a great secret in him.”
"Ah, my friend, you can’t trick us like that—you can’t fool us. It’s the easiest thing in the world for someone to look like they’re hiding a big secret."
“Morning to ye, shipmates, morning.”
"Good morning, shipmates."
“Morning it is,” said I. “Come along, Queequeg, let’s leave this crazy man. But stop, tell me your name, will you?”
“Morning it is,” I said. “Come on, Queequeg, let’s get away from this crazy guy. But wait, can you tell me your name?”
“Elijah.”
"Elijah."
Elijah! thought I, and we walked away, both commenting, after each other’s fashion, upon this ragged old sailor; and agreed that he was nothing but a humbug, trying to be a bugbear. But we had not gone perhaps above a hundred yards, when chancing to turn a corner, and looking back as I did so, who should be seen but Elijah following us, though at a distance. Somehow, the sight of him struck me so, that I said nothing to Queequeg of his being behind, but passed on with my comrade, anxious to see whether the stranger would turn the same corner that we did. He did; and then it seemed to me that he was dogging us, but with what intent I could not for the life of me imagine. This circumstance, coupled with his ambiguous, half-hinting, half-revealing, shrouded sort of talk, now begat in me all kinds of vague wonderments and half-apprehensions, and all connected with the Pequod; and Captain Ahab; and the leg he had lost; and the Cape Horn fit; and the silver calabash; and what Captain Peleg had said of him, when I left the ship the day previous; and the prediction of the squaw Tistig; and the voyage we had bound ourselves to sail; and a hundred other shadowy things.
Elijah! I thought to myself as we walked away, both of us making comments in our own styles about that scruffy old sailor. We agreed he was just a fraud, trying to spook us. But we hadn’t gone more than maybe a hundred yards when, by chance, I turned a corner and glanced back. And who should I see but Elijah, trailing us from a distance. For some reason, the sight of him unsettled me so much that I didn’t say anything to Queequeg about him being behind us. Instead, I kept walking with my companion, eager to see if the stranger would follow us around the next corner. He did—and that’s when it seemed to me he was tailing us. But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. This whole situation, combined with his vague, half-suggestive, half-revealing way of speaking, stirred up all sorts of hazy suspicions and nervous thoughts in my mind. All of it tangled together—the Pequod, Captain Ahab, his lost leg, the Cape Horn episode, the silver calabash, what Captain Peleg had said about him when I left the ship the day before, the squaw Tistig’s prophecy, the voyage we’d signed up for, and countless other shadowy, uncertain things.
I was resolved to satisfy myself whether this ragged Elijah was really dogging us or not, and with that intent crossed the way with Queequeg, and on that side of it retraced our steps. But Elijah passed on, without seeming to notice us. This relieved me; and once more, and finally as it seemed to me, I pronounced him in my heart, a humbug.
I decided to find out if this scruffy guy, Elijah, was really following us or not. So, with that in mind, I crossed the street with Queequeg, and we walked back the way we came on the other side. But Elijah kept walking, not even seeming to notice us. That made me feel better, and once again—this time for good, or so I thought—I decided he was just a fraud.
CHAPTER 20. All Astir.
A day or two passed, and there was great activity aboard the Pequod. Not only were the old sails being mended, but new sails were coming on board, and bolts of canvas, and coils of rigging; in short, everything betokened that the ship’s preparations were hurrying to a close. Captain Peleg seldom or never went ashore, but sat in his wigwam keeping a sharp look-out upon the hands: Bildad did all the purchasing and providing at the stores; and the men employed in the hold and on the rigging were working till long after night-fall.
A day or two went by, and there was a lot of activity on the Pequod. Not only were the old sails being repaired, but new sails were being brought on board, along with rolls of canvas and coils of rope. In short, everything showed that the ship’s preparations were nearing completion. Captain Peleg rarely, if ever, left the ship, staying in his cabin and keeping a close eye on the crew. Bildad handled all the shopping and supplies at the stores, while the crew working in the hold and on the rigging kept at it long past nightfall.
On the day following Queequeg’s signing the articles, word was given at all the inns where the ship’s company were stopping, that their chests must be on board before night, for there was no telling how soon the vessel might be sailing. So Queequeg and I got down our traps, resolving, however, to sleep ashore till the last. But it seems they always give very long notice in these cases, and the ship did not sail for several days. But no wonder; there was a good deal to be done, and there is no telling how many things to be thought of, before the Pequod was fully equipped.
The day after Queequeg signed the papers, announcements were made at all the inns where the crew was staying, telling them to have their trunks on board by nightfall, as there was no way to predict when the ship might set sail. So Queequeg and I packed up our stuff, deciding to stay on land until the very last moment. However, it seems they always give a lot of advance notice in these situations, and the ship didn’t end up leaving for several more days. But that wasn’t surprising—there was plenty of work to be done and countless details to sort out before the Pequod was fully ready to go.
Every one knows what a multitude of things—beds, sauce-pans, knives and forks, shovels and tongs, napkins, nut-crackers, and what not, are indispensable to the business of housekeeping. Just so with whaling, which necessitates a three-years’ housekeeping upon the wide ocean, far from all grocers, costermongers, doctors, bakers, and bankers. And though this also holds true of merchant vessels, yet not by any means to the same extent as with whalemen. For besides the great length of the whaling voyage, the numerous articles peculiar to the prosecution of the fishery, and the impossibility of replacing them at the remote harbors usually frequented, it must be remembered, that of all ships, whaling vessels are the most exposed to accidents of all kinds, and especially to the destruction and loss of the very things upon which the success of the voyage most depends. Hence, the spare boats, spare spars, and spare lines and harpoons, and spare everythings, almost, but a spare Captain and duplicate ship.
Everyone knows how many things are essential for running a household—beds, pots and pans, knives and forks, fire pokers and tongs, napkins, nutcrackers, and so on. It's the same with whaling, which requires setting up a three-year household on the open ocean, far away from grocery stores, marketplaces, doctors, bakeries, and banks. While this is also true for merchant ships, it's nowhere near the same scale as it is for whalers. In addition to the long duration of a whaling trip, there's the large number of items specifically needed for the job and the fact that they can't be replaced at the distant ports they usually visit. On top of that, whaling ships are the most vulnerable to accidents of all kinds, especially those that damage or destroy the very tools crucial to their mission's success. That's why they carry spare boats, spare masts, spare lines, harpoons, and spares of almost everything—except for a spare captain and a duplicate ship.
At the period of our arrival at the Island, the heaviest storage of the Pequod had been almost completed; comprising her beef, bread, water, fuel, and iron hoops and staves. But, as before hinted, for some time there was a continual fetching and carrying on board of divers odds and ends of things, both large and small.
When we arrived at the Island, most of the heavy loading for the Pequod was nearly done, including her supplies of beef, bread, water, fuel, and iron hoops and staves. However, as previously mentioned, there was still a constant stream of various odds and ends being brought on board, both big and small.
Chief among those who did this fetching and carrying was Captain Bildad’s sister, a lean old lady of a most determined and indefatigable spirit, but withal very kindhearted, who seemed resolved that, if she could help it, nothing should be found wanting in the Pequod, after once fairly getting to sea. At one time she would come on board with a jar of pickles for the steward’s pantry; another time with a bunch of quills for the chief mate’s desk, where he kept his log; a third time with a roll of flannel for the small of some one’s rheumatic back. Never did any woman better deserve her name, which was Charity—Aunt Charity, as everybody called her. And like a sister of charity did this charitable Aunt Charity bustle about hither and thither, ready to turn her hand and heart to anything that promised to yield safety, comfort, and consolation to all on board a ship in which her beloved brother Bildad was concerned, and in which she herself owned a score or two of well-saved dollars.
Leading the efforts of fetching and carrying was Captain Bildad’s sister, a thin, determined, and tireless older woman who, despite her firm demeanor, was incredibly kindhearted. She seemed absolutely committed to ensuring that, as far as she could control, the Pequod would lack nothing once it set sail. One day she’d show up on board with a jar of pickles for the steward’s pantry; another day with a bunch of pens for the first mate’s desk, where he kept his log; and yet another day with a roll of flannel to ease someone’s aching, rheumatic back. No one ever deserved their name more than this woman, Charity—Aunt Charity, as everyone called her. And like a true charitable soul, Aunt Charity bustled around constantly, ready to lend her hand and her heart to anything that might bring safety, comfort, or relief to anyone aboard the ship. After all, her beloved brother Bildad was part of it, and she herself had invested a decent sum of her savings into the venture.
But it was startling to see this excellent hearted Quakeress coming on board, as she did the last day, with a long oil-ladle in one hand, and a still longer whaling lance in the other. Nor was Bildad himself nor Captain Peleg at all backward. As for Bildad, he carried about with him a long list of the articles needed, and at every fresh arrival, down went his mark opposite that article upon the paper. Every once in a while Peleg came hobbling out of his whalebone den, roaring at the men down the hatchways, roaring up to the riggers at the mast-head, and then concluded by roaring back into his wigwam.
It was surprising to see this kind-hearted Quaker woman come aboard on the last day, holding a long oil ladle in one hand and an even longer whaling lance in the other. Even Bildad and Captain Peleg weren’t holding back. Bildad carried a long checklist of required items, and with every new delivery, he marked off another item on the list. Every so often, Peleg would hobble out of his whalebone office, shouting orders down the hatchways to the crew, yelling up to the riggers at the top of the mast, and then finishing by storming back into his little office.
During these days of preparation, Queequeg and I often visited the craft, and as often I asked about Captain Ahab, and how he was, and when he was going to come on board his ship. To these questions they would answer, that he was getting better and better, and was expected aboard every day; meantime, the two captains, Peleg and Bildad, could attend to everything necessary to fit the vessel for the voyage. If I had been downright honest with myself, I would have seen very plainly in my heart that I did but half fancy being committed this way to so long a voyage, without once laying my eyes on the man who was to be the absolute dictator of it, so soon as the ship sailed out upon the open sea. But when a man suspects any wrong, it sometimes happens that if he be already involved in the matter, he insensibly strives to cover up his suspicions even from himself. And much this way it was with me. I said nothing, and tried to think nothing.
During these days of preparation, Queequeg and I often visited the ship, and just as often, I asked about Captain Ahab—how he was doing and when he’d be coming aboard. They’d always reply that he was getting better and was expected to join us any day now. In the meantime, Captains Peleg and Bildad could handle everything needed to prepare the ship for the journey. If I’d been completely honest with myself, I would have admitted that I wasn’t entirely comfortable committing to such a long voyage without ever setting eyes on the man who would have absolute authority as soon as we hit the open sea. But when a person suspects something might be wrong, they sometimes bury those doubts if they’re already caught up in the situation. That’s pretty much how it was for me—I said nothing and tried not to think about it.
At last it was given out that some time next day the ship would certainly sail. So next morning, Queequeg and I took a very early start.
Finally, it was announced that the ship would definitely set sail sometime the next day. So, the next morning, Queequeg and I got an early start.
CHAPTER 21. Going Aboard.
It was nearly six o’clock, but only grey imperfect misty dawn, when we drew nigh the wharf.
It was almost six o’clock, but only a gray, faint, misty dawn greeted us as we approached the dock.
“There are some sailors running ahead there, if I see right,” said I to Queequeg, “it can’t be shadows; she’s off by sunrise, I guess; come on!”
"There are some sailors running ahead over there, if I’m seeing it right," I said to Queequeg. "It can’t just be shadows; she’s leaving by sunrise, I think. Let’s go!"
“Avast!” cried a voice, whose owner at the same time coming close behind us, laid a hand upon both our shoulders, and then insinuating himself between us, stood stooping forward a little, in the uncertain twilight, strangely peering from Queequeg to me. It was Elijah.
"Stop right there!" shouted a voice, and the person it belonged to stepped up behind us, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. Then, slipping between us, he leaned forward slightly in the dim, uncertain light, looking back and forth between Queequeg and me in a peculiar way. It was Elijah.
“Going aboard?”
"Boarding?"
“Hands off, will you,” said I.
"Back off, will you," I said.
“Lookee here,” said Queequeg, shaking himself, “go ’way!”
"Look here," said Queequeg, shaking himself, "go away!"
“Ain’t going aboard, then?”
"Not going aboard, then?"
“Yes, we are,” said I, “but what business is that of yours? Do you know, Mr. Elijah, that I consider you a little impertinent?”
"Yeah, we are," I said. "But what’s it to you? You know what, Mr. Elijah, I find you a bit rude."
“No, no, no; I wasn’t aware of that,” said Elijah, slowly and wonderingly looking from me to Queequeg, with the most unaccountable glances.
"No, no, no; I didn’t know about that," said Elijah, slowly and curiously looking back and forth between me and Queequeg with the strangest expressions.
“Elijah,” said I, “you will oblige my friend and me by withdrawing. We are going to the Indian and Pacific Oceans, and would prefer not to be detained.”
"Elijah," I said, "you’d do my friend and me a favor by leaving. We’re heading to the Indian and Pacific Oceans and would rather not be held up."
“Ye be, be ye? Coming back afore breakfast?”
"Are you? Coming back before breakfast?"
“He’s cracked, Queequeg,” said I, “come on.”
"He's lost it, Queequeg," I said. "Let's go."
“Holloa!” cried stationary Elijah, hailing us when we had removed a few paces.
"Hey there!" shouted Elijah, calling out to us after we had taken a few steps away.
“Never mind him,” said I, “Queequeg, come on.”
"Don't worry about him," I said. "Queequeg, let's go."
But he stole up to us again, and suddenly clapping his hand on my shoulder, said—“Did ye see anything looking like men going towards that ship a while ago?”
But he crept back up to us again, and suddenly slapped his hand on my shoulder, saying, "Did you see anything that looked like men heading toward that ship a little while ago?"
Struck by this plain matter-of-fact question, I answered, saying, “Yes, I thought I did see four or five men; but it was too dim to be sure.”
Surprised by this straightforward question, I replied, "Yeah, I think I saw four or five men, but it was too dark to be certain."
“Very dim, very dim,” said Elijah. “Morning to ye.”
"Pretty dim, pretty dim," said Elijah. "Good morning to you."
Once more we quitted him; but once more he came softly after us; and touching my shoulder again, said, “See if you can find ’em now, will ye?
Once again we left him, but once again he quietly followed us; and gently touching my shoulder, he said, "See if you can find them now, will you?"
“Find who?”
"Who to find?"
“Morning to ye! morning to ye!” he rejoined, again moving off. “Oh! I was going to warn ye against—but never mind, never mind—it’s all one, all in the family too;—sharp frost this morning, ain’t it? Good-bye to ye. Shan’t see ye again very soon, I guess; unless it’s before the Grand Jury.” And with these cracked words he finally departed, leaving me, for the moment, in no small wonderment at his frantic impudence.
"Good morning! Good morning!" he said again, walking away. "Oh, I was going to warn you about something—but never mind, never mind—it’s all the same, all in the family too. Bit of a sharp frost this morning, huh? Goodbye. Probably won’t see you again anytime soon, unless it’s in front of the Grand Jury." And with those strange words, he walked off for good, leaving me, for a moment, seriously puzzled by his outrageous audacity.
At last, stepping on board the Pequod, we found everything in profound quiet, not a soul moving. The cabin entrance was locked within; the hatches were all on, and lumbered with coils of rigging. Going forward to the forecastle, we found the slide of the scuttle open. Seeing a light, we went down, and found only an old rigger there, wrapped in a tattered pea-jacket. He was thrown at whole length upon two chests, his face downwards and inclosed in his folded arms. The profoundest slumber slept upon him.
Finally, stepping onto the deck of the Pequod, we found everything completely silent—there wasn’t a single person stirring. The entrance to the cabin was locked from the inside, the hatches were all in place and piled with coils of rigging. Moving forward to the forecastle, we noticed the slide of the scuttle was open. Spotting a light, we went below and found only an old rigger there, wrapped in a worn-out pea coat. He was stretched out full length across two chests, face down, with his arms folded under his head. He was in the deepest sleep.
“Those sailors we saw, Queequeg, where can they have gone to?” said I, looking dubiously at the sleeper. But it seemed that, when on the wharf, Queequeg had not at all noticed what I now alluded to; hence I would have thought myself to have been optically deceived in that matter, were it not for Elijah’s otherwise inexplicable question. But I beat the thing down; and again marking the sleeper, jocularly hinted to Queequeg that perhaps we had best sit up with the body; telling him to establish himself accordingly. He put his hand upon the sleeper’s rear, as though feeling if it was soft enough; and then, without more ado, sat quietly down there.
"Where do you think those sailors we saw went, Queequeg?" I asked, looking skeptically at the sleeping man. But it seemed that Queequeg hadn’t even noticed what I was referring to back on the wharf. Otherwise, I might have thought I was just imagining it, if not for Elijah’s strange and unexplainable question. Still, I pushed the thought aside. Looking at the sleeper again, I jokingly suggested to Queequeg that maybe we should keep watch over the body, telling him to settle in for that. He put his hand on the man’s backside, as if testing how soft it was, and then, without hesitation, sat down quietly.
“Gracious! Queequeg, don’t sit there,” said I.
"Whoa! Queequeg, don’t sit there," I said.
“Oh! perry dood seat,” said Queequeg, “my country way; won’t hurt him face.”
“Oh! Very good seat,” said Queequeg, “it's how we do it in my country; it won’t hurt his face.”
“Face!” said I, “call that his face? very benevolent countenance then; but how hard he breathes, he’s heaving himself; get off, Queequeg, you are heavy, it’s grinding the face of the poor. Get off, Queequeg! Look, he’ll twitch you off soon. I wonder he don’t wake.”
"Face!" I said. "You call that his face? A very kind expression then; but listen to how hard he's breathing, like he's straining himself. Get off, Queequeg, you're heavy; you're crushing the poor guy's face. Get off, Queequeg! Look, he's going to shake you off soon. I'm surprised he hasn't woken up yet."
Queequeg removed himself to just beyond the head of the sleeper, and lighted his tomahawk pipe. I sat at the feet. We kept the pipe passing over the sleeper, from one to the other. Meanwhile, upon questioning him in his broken fashion, Queequeg gave me to understand that, in his land, owing to the absence of settees and sofas of all sorts, the king, chiefs, and great people generally, were in the custom of fattening some of the lower orders for ottomans; and to furnish a house comfortably in that respect, you had only to buy up eight or ten lazy fellows, and lay them round in the piers and alcoves. Besides, it was very convenient on an excursion; much better than those garden-chairs which are convertible into walking-sticks; upon occasion, a chief calling his attendant, and desiring him to make a settee of himself under a spreading tree, perhaps in some damp marshy place.
Queequeg moved to a spot just beyond the head of the sleeper and lit his tomahawk pipe. I sat at the sleeper's feet. We passed the pipe back and forth over the sleeper, sharing it. Meanwhile, as I questioned him in his broken way of speaking, Queequeg explained to me that, in his country, since they didn’t have couches or sofas of any kind, the king, chiefs, and other important people usually fattened up some of the lower-class folks to use them as ottomans. To furnish a house comfortably, you’d just buy eight or ten lazy guys and arrange them around the room in the piers and alcoves. It was also really convenient for trips—much better than those garden chairs that double as walking sticks. A chief could just call over an attendant and tell him to turn himself into a couch under a shady tree, even if it was in a damp, marshy spot.
While narrating these things, every time Queequeg received the tomahawk from me, he flourished the hatchet-side of it over the sleeper’s head.
As he told these stories, every time Queequeg took the tomahawk from me, he waved the blade side of it over the sleeping man's head.
“What’s that for, Queequeg?”
"What's that for, Queequeg?"
“Perry easy, kill-e; oh! perry easy!”
"Perry easy, kill easy; oh! very easy!"
He was going on with some wild reminiscences about his tomahawk-pipe, which, it seemed, had in its two uses both brained his foes and soothed his soul, when we were directly attracted to the sleeping rigger. The strong vapor now completely filling the contracted hole, it began to tell upon him. He breathed with a sort of muffledness; then seemed troubled in the nose; then revolved over once or twice; then sat up and rubbed his eyes.
He was rambling on about some crazy memories of his tomahawk-pipe, which apparently served both to smash his enemies and calm his mind, when our attention was suddenly drawn to the sleeping rigger. The thick smoke now filled the small space entirely, and it started to affect him. His breathing became a bit muffled; then his nose seemed irritated; then he shifted around a couple of times; and finally, he sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Holloa!” he breathed at last, “who be ye smokers?”
"Hey!" he finally said, "Who are you smokers?"
“Shipped men,” answered I, “when does she sail?”
"Shipped men," I responded, "when does she leave?"
“Aye, aye, ye are going in her, be ye? She sails to-day. The Captain came aboard last night.”
"Yeah, yeah, you're going on her, huh? She's sailing today. The captain came on board last night."
“What Captain?—Ahab?”
“What captain?—Ahab?”
“Who but him indeed?”
"Who else but him?"
I was going to ask him some further questions concerning Ahab, when we heard a noise on deck.
I was about to ask him more questions about Ahab when we heard a noise coming from the deck.
“Holloa! Starbuck’s astir,” said the rigger. “He’s a lively chief mate, that; good man, and a pious; but all alive now, I must turn to.” And so saying he went on deck, and we followed.
"Hey! Starbuck's up," said the rigger. "He's a sharp first mate, that one; a good guy, and religious too. But now that everyone’s awake, I’ve got work to do." With that, he headed up to the deck, and we followed.
It was now clear sunrise. Soon the crew came on board in twos and threes; the riggers bestirred themselves; the mates were actively engaged; and several of the shore people were busy in bringing various last things on board. Meanwhile Captain Ahab remained invisibly enshrined within his cabin.
The sun had fully risen by now. Soon, the crew started coming aboard in pairs and small groups; the riggers got to work; the mates were busy and focused; and a few people from the shore were hustling to bring the last few items on board. Meanwhile, Captain Ahab stayed out of sight, tucked away in his cabin.
CHAPTER 22. Merry Christmas.
At length, towards noon, upon the final dismissal of the ship’s riggers, and after the Pequod had been hauled out from the wharf, and after the ever-thoughtful Charity had come off in a whale-boat, with her last gift—a night-cap for Stubb, the second mate, her brother-in-law, and a spare Bible for the steward—after all this, the two Captains, Peleg and Bildad, issued from the cabin, and turning to the chief mate, Peleg said:
Finally, around noon, after the ship’s riggers were sent off for good, the Pequod was pulled away from the dock, and Charity—always so thoughtful—arrived in a whale-boat with her final gifts: a nightcap for Stubb, the second mate and her brother-in-law, and an extra Bible for the steward. After all that, the two captains, Peleg and Bildad, came out of the cabin. Turning to the chief mate, Peleg said:
“Now, Mr. Starbuck, are you sure everything is right? Captain Ahab is all ready—just spoke to him—nothing more to be got from shore, eh? Well, call all hands, then. Muster ’em aft here—blast ’em!”
"Alright, Mr. Starbuck, are you sure everything’s set? Captain Ahab’s ready—I just talked to him—nothing else we need from shore, right? Okay, call everyone together then. Get them all back here—damn it!"
“No need of profane words, however great the hurry, Peleg,” said Bildad, “but away with thee, friend Starbuck, and do our bidding.”
"No need for cursing, no matter how much of a rush you're in, Peleg," said Bildad. "Now off with you, Starbuck, and get to work on what we asked."
How now! Here upon the very point of starting for the voyage, Captain Peleg and Captain Bildad were going it with a high hand on the quarter-deck, just as if they were to be joint-commanders at sea, as well as to all appearances in port. And, as for Captain Ahab, no sign of him was yet to be seen; only, they said he was in the cabin. But then, the idea was, that his presence was by no means necessary in getting the ship under weigh, and steering her well out to sea. Indeed, as that was not at all his proper business, but the pilot’s; and as he was not yet completely recovered—so they said—therefore, Captain Ahab stayed below. And all this seemed natural enough; especially as in the merchant service many captains never show themselves on deck for a considerable time after heaving up the anchor, but remain over the cabin table, having a farewell merry-making with their shore friends, before they quit the ship for good with the pilot.
What’s this now! Right at the moment of setting off for the voyage, Captain Peleg and Captain Bildad were acting as though they were going to share command at sea, just as they appeared to be doing in port. As for Captain Ahab, there was still no sign of him; they just said he was in the cabin. But then again, it seemed his presence wasn’t really needed for getting the ship underway and steering her out to sea. After all, that was the pilot’s responsibility, not his; and since he wasn’t completely recovered yet—so they said—Captain Ahab stayed below. That all seemed reasonable enough, especially considering that, in the merchant service, it’s not unusual for some captains to stay below deck for quite a while after raising the anchor, enjoying a final farewell celebration with friends from shore, before heading out to sea once the pilot leaves the ship.
But there was not much chance to think over the matter, for Captain Peleg was now all alive. He seemed to do most of the talking and commanding, and not Bildad.
But there wasn’t much time to think about it, because Captain Peleg was now fully energized. He seemed to be doing most of the talking and giving orders, not Bildad.
“Aft here, ye sons of bachelors,” he cried, as the sailors lingered at the main-mast. “Mr. Starbuck, drive ’em aft.”
"Get back here, you sons of single men," he shouted as the sailors hesitated near the mainmast. "Mr. Starbuck, get them moving back."
“Strike the tent there!”—was the next order. As I hinted before, this whalebone marquee was never pitched except in port; and on board the Pequod, for thirty years, the order to strike the tent was well known to be the next thing to heaving up the anchor.
"Take down the tent there!"—came the next order. As I mentioned earlier, this whalebone tent was only set up when docked; and for thirty years aboard the Pequod, the command to take down the tent was well-known as the step right before raising the anchor.
“Man the capstan! Blood and thunder!—jump!”—was the next command, and the crew sprang for the handspikes.
"Man the capstan! Move it, quick!—jump!" came the next command, and the crew rushed to grab the handspikes.
Now in getting under weigh, the station generally occupied by the pilot is the forward part of the ship. And here Bildad, who, with Peleg, be it known, in addition to his other officers, was one of the licensed pilots of the port—he being suspected to have got himself made a pilot in order to save the Nantucket pilot-fee to all the ships he was concerned in, for he never piloted any other craft—Bildad, I say, might now be seen actively engaged in looking over the bows for the approaching anchor, and at intervals singing what seemed a dismal stave of psalmody, to cheer the hands at the windlass, who roared forth some sort of a chorus about the girls in Booble Alley, with hearty good will. Nevertheless, not three days previous, Bildad had told them that no profane songs would be allowed on board the Pequod, particularly in getting under weigh; and Charity, his sister, had placed a small choice copy of Watts in each seaman’s berth.
When getting underway, the pilot usually takes their post at the front of the ship. Here, Bildad—who, along with Peleg, was one of the licensed pilots of the port (it’s suspected he became a pilot just to save the Nantucket pilot fee for the ships he was involved with, as he never piloted any other vessels)—was now busy watching over the bow for the anchor to come up. From time to time, he sang what sounded like a gloomy hymn to encourage the crew working the windlass, who enthusiastically joined in with a loud, cheerful chorus about the girls in Booble Alley. Oddly enough, just three days earlier, Bildad had specifically told them that no inappropriate songs would be tolerated on the Pequod, especially while getting underway. To top it off, his sister Charity had left a small, carefully chosen copy of Watts’ hymns in each sailor’s bunk.
Meantime, overseeing the other part of the ship, Captain Peleg ripped and swore astern in the most frightful manner. I almost thought he would sink the ship before the anchor could be got up; involuntarily I paused on my handspike, and told Queequeg to do the same, thinking of the perils we both ran, in starting on the voyage with such a devil for a pilot. I was comforting myself, however, with the thought that in pious Bildad might be found some salvation, spite of his seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay; when I felt a sudden sharp poke in my rear, and turning round, was horrified at the apparition of Captain Peleg in the act of withdrawing his leg from my immediate vicinity. That was my first kick.
Meanwhile, over on the other side of the ship, Captain Peleg was yelling and cursing in the most terrifying way. I honestly thought he might sink the ship before we could even get the anchor up. Without meaning to, I froze, leaning on my handspike, and told Queequeg to do the same, suddenly aware of the danger we were heading into with such a hothead in charge. Still, I found some comfort in knowing that the godly Bildad might provide a bit of balance, despite his endless talk about the "seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay." Just as I was reassuring myself with that thought, I felt a sharp jab in my back. When I turned around, I was horrified to see Captain Peleg pulling his leg away from me. That was my first kick.
“Is that the way they heave in the marchant service?” he roared. “Spring, thou sheep-head; spring, and break thy backbone! Why don’t ye spring, I say, all of ye—spring! Quohog! spring, thou chap with the red whiskers; spring there, Scotch-cap; spring, thou green pants. Spring, I say, all of ye, and spring your eyes out!” And so saying, he moved along the windlass, here and there using his leg very freely, while imperturbable Bildad kept leading off with his psalmody. Thinks I, Captain Peleg must have been drinking something to-day.
"Is that how they haul in the merchant service?" he bellowed. "Move it, you blockhead; move it, and break your back! Why aren’t you moving? I said move—all of you, move! You with the red whiskers, move it! You with the Scotch cap, get moving! And you, green pants—move it! I’m telling you all to move until your eyes pop out!" With that, he marched along the windlass, occasionally kicking people as he went, while the unshakable Bildad kept singing his hymns. I thought to myself, Captain Peleg must have had something to drink today.
At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It was a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of teeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white ivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from the bows.
Finally, the anchor was lifted, the sails were raised, and we started moving. It was a cold, brief Christmas, and as the short northern day faded into night, we realized we were almost fully out onto the icy winter ocean. Freezing spray coated us in ice, like polished armor. The long rows of teeth along the ship’s sides sparkled in the moonlight, and massive curved icicles hung from the bows, resembling the white ivory tusks of a giant elephant.
Lank Bildad, as pilot, headed the first watch, and ever and anon, as the old craft deep dived into the green seas, and sent the shivering frost all over her, and the winds howled, and the cordage rang, his steady notes were heard,—
Lank Bildad, as the pilot, took charge of the first watch, and every now and then, as the old vessel plunged deep into the green waves, making her shudder all over, while the winds howled and the ropes hummed, his calm voice could be heard,—
“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood,
Stand dressed in living green.
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,
While Jordan rolled between.”
“Beautiful fields beyond the rising flood, Stand dressed in vibrant green. So to the Jews, old Canaan appeared, While Jordan flowed in between.”
Never did those sweet words sound more sweetly to me than then. They were full of hope and fruition. Spite of this frigid winter night in the boisterous Atlantic, spite of my wet feet and wetter jacket, there was yet, it then seemed to me, many a pleasant haven in store; and meads and glades so eternally vernal, that the grass shot up by the spring, untrodden, unwilted, remains at midsummer.
Those sweet words had never sounded sweeter to me than they did at that moment. They were filled with hope and fulfillment. Despite the freezing winter night on the rough Atlantic, despite my soaked feet and even wetter jacket, it felt like there were still plenty of pleasant harbors waiting for me; fields and meadows so eternally green that the grass, sprouting fresh in the spring, stayed untouched and unwilted even in the height of summer.
At last we gained such an offing, that the two pilots were needed no longer. The stout sail-boat that had accompanied us began ranging alongside.
Finally, we reached a point far enough offshore that the two pilots weren’t needed anymore. The sturdy sailboat that had been traveling with us started pulling up alongside.
It was curious and not unpleasing, how Peleg and Bildad were affected at this juncture, especially Captain Bildad. For loath to depart, yet; very loath to leave, for good, a ship bound on so long and perilous a voyage—beyond both stormy Capes; a ship in which some thousands of his hard earned dollars were invested; a ship, in which an old shipmate sailed as captain; a man almost as old as he, once more starting to encounter all the terrors of the pitiless jaw; loath to say good-bye to a thing so every way brimful of every interest to him,—poor old Bildad lingered long; paced the deck with anxious strides; ran down into the cabin to speak another farewell word there; again came on deck, and looked to windward; looked towards the wide and endless waters, only bounded by the far-off unseen Eastern Continents; looked towards the land; looked aloft; looked right and left; looked everywhere and nowhere; and at last, mechanically coiling a rope upon its pin, convulsively grasped stout Peleg by the hand, and holding up a lantern, for a moment stood gazing heroically in his face, as much as to say, “Nevertheless, friend Peleg, I can stand it; yes, I can.”
It was interesting and not unpleasant how Peleg and Bildad reacted at this moment, especially Captain Bildad. He was reluctant to leave, very reluctant to part ways for good with a ship embarking on such a long and dangerous journey—beyond both stormy Capes; a ship where he had invested thousands of his hard-earned dollars; a ship captained by an old shipmate, a man almost his age, setting out once again to face all the merciless dangers of the sea. Unwilling to say goodbye to something so deeply tied to his heart, poor old Bildad lingered for a long time. He paced the deck with anxious strides, rushed down to the cabin to exchange more farewells, returned to the deck, and gazed into the distance. He looked towards the vast and endless ocean, stretching far away to the unseen Eastern Continents. He looked back at the land, looked up, looked in every direction yet at nothing in particular. Finally, as if by instinct, he started coiling a rope on its pin. Then, gripping Peleg’s hand with great emotion and holding up a lantern, he stood for a moment, staring earnestly into his friend’s face, as if to say, “Even so, my friend Peleg, I can handle this; yes, I can.”
As for Peleg himself, he took it more like a philosopher; but for all his philosophy, there was a tear twinkling in his eye, when the lantern came too near. And he, too, did not a little run from cabin to deck—now a word below, and now a word with Starbuck, the chief mate.
As for Peleg himself, he handled it more like a philosopher; but despite all his philosophy, there was a tear glistening in his eye when the lantern got too close. And he, too, moved back and forth quite a bit—from the cabin to the deck—sometimes saying a word below, and sometimes chatting with Starbuck, the chief mate.
But, at last, he turned to his comrade, with a final sort of look about him,—“Captain Bildad—come, old shipmate, we must go. Back the main-yard there! Boat ahoy! Stand by to come close alongside, now! Careful, careful!—come, Bildad, boy—say your last. Luck to ye, Starbuck—luck to ye, Mr. Stubb—luck to ye, Mr. Flask—good-bye and good luck to ye all—and this day three years I’ll have a hot supper smoking for ye in old Nantucket. Hurrah and away!”
Finally, he turned to his companion with a kind of final look—"Captain Bildad, come on, old friend, we have to go. Bring the mainyard back! Boat ahoy! Get ready to come in close now! Easy, easy!—come on, Bildad, buddy—say your goodbyes. Good luck to you, Starbuck—good luck to you, Mr. Stubb—good luck to you, Mr. Flask—goodbye and good luck to all of you—and three years from today, I’ll have a hot dinner waiting for you back in Nantucket. Cheers, let’s go!"
“God bless ye, and have ye in His holy keeping, men,” murmured old Bildad, almost incoherently. “I hope ye’ll have fine weather now, so that Captain Ahab may soon be moving among ye—a pleasant sun is all he needs, and ye’ll have plenty of them in the tropic voyage ye go. Be careful in the hunt, ye mates. Don’t stave the boats needlessly, ye harpooneers; good white cedar plank is raised full three per cent. within the year. Don’t forget your prayers, either. Mr. Starbuck, mind that cooper don’t waste the spare staves. Oh! the sail-needles are in the green locker! Don’t whale it too much a’ Lord’s days, men; but don’t miss a fair chance either, that’s rejecting Heaven’s good gifts. Have an eye to the molasses tierce, Mr. Stubb; it was a little leaky, I thought. If ye touch at the islands, Mr. Flask, beware of fornication. Good-bye, good-bye! Don’t keep that cheese too long down in the hold, Mr. Starbuck; it’ll spoil. Be careful with the butter—twenty cents the pound it was, and mind ye, if—”
"God bless you all and keep you safe, men," murmured old Bildad, barely intelligible. "I hope you get good weather now, so Captain Ahab can be up and about among you—a bit of sunshine is all he needs, and you'll have plenty of it on your voyage through the tropics. Be careful out there on the hunt, mates. Don’t go smashing up the boats unnecessarily, harpooneers; good white cedar planks have gone up by three percent this year. Don’t forget your prayers, either. Mr. Starbuck, make sure the cooper doesn’t waste the spare staves. Oh! The sail-needles are in the green locker! Don’t go hunting whales too much on the Lord’s day, men; but don’t pass up a good opportunity either—that would be like rejecting God’s blessings. Keep an eye on the molasses barrel, Mr. Stubb; it seemed a little leaky to me. If you stop at the islands, Mr. Flask, steer clear of trouble. Goodbye, goodbye! Don’t leave that cheese stored too long in the hold, Mr. Starbuck; it’ll go bad. Watch the butter too—it was twenty cents a pound, and remember, if—"
“Come, come, Captain Bildad; stop palavering,—away!” and with that, Peleg hurried him over the side, and both dropt into the boat.
"Come on, Captain Bildad; quit talking—let's go!" With that, Peleg quickly got him over the side, and they both jumped into the boat.
Ship and boat diverged; the cold, damp night breeze blew between; a screaming gull flew overhead; the two hulls wildly rolled; we gave three heavy-hearted cheers, and blindly plunged like fate into the lone Atlantic.
The ship and boat drifted apart; the cold, damp night breeze blew between them; a screaming gull flew overhead; the two hulls rocked wildly; we gave three heavy-hearted cheers and blindly plunged, like destiny, into the lonely Atlantic.
CHAPTER 23. The Lee Shore.
Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, newlanded mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.
A few chapters ago, there was mention of a tall sailor named Bulkington, who had just come ashore and was seen at the inn in New Bedford.
When on that shivering winter’s night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years’ dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that’s kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship’s direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights ’gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea’s landlessness again; for refuge’s sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!
On that freezing winter night, when the Pequod pushed its determined bow into the icy, hostile waves, who should I see at the helm but Bulkington! I watched him with a mix of admiration and dread—this man, who had just returned from a dangerous four-year voyage, setting off again without hesitation for another stormy journey. The land seemed unbearable under his feet. The most remarkable things are always unspeakable; profound memories have no epitaphs. This short chapter is the unmarked grave of Bulkington. Let me just say that his fate was like that of a storm-battered ship, desperately driven along the windward shore. The port longs to offer safety; the port is compassionate; in the port there’s security, warmth, home, comfort, food, blankets, friends—all the things that ease the burdens of mortal life. Yet, in the storm, the port and the land become the ship’s greatest danger; she has to avoid all hospitality. Even the slightest contact with the shore, just grazing her keel, would make her tremble to her core. With every bit of her strength, she strains her sails to escape the shore, fighting against the very winds that are trying to push her back home. She seeks again the open, merciless sea, fleeing to danger for the sake of refuge, finding her only ally to be her fiercest adversary.
Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?
Do you see now, Bulkington? Do you catch a glimpse of that unbearable truth—that all serious, deep thinking is just the brave effort of the soul to keep its free, open spirit like the sea, even as the wildest winds of heaven and earth try to push it toward the deceptive, enslaving shore?
But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God—so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing—straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!
But since only boundlessness holds the ultimate truth—vast and limitless like God—it's better to die in that howling infinity than to be shamefully thrown onto the shore, even if it means safety! Who, like a cowardly worm, would crawl to land? Horrors of the horrifying! Is all this agony for nothing? Stay strong, stay strong, Bulkington! Stand firm, demigod! Rising from the spray of your ocean demise—straight up, your ascension begins!
CHAPTER 24. The Advocate.
As Queequeg and I are now fairly embarked in this business of whaling; and as this business of whaling has somehow come to be regarded among landsmen as a rather unpoetical and disreputable pursuit; therefore, I am all anxiety to convince ye, ye landsmen, of the injustice hereby done to us hunters of whales.
Since Queequeg and I are now fully involved in the whaling business, and since whaling has somehow come to be seen by people on land as an unpoetic and dishonorable job, I’m really eager to convince you, you land-dwellers, of the unfair judgment placed on us whale hunters.
In the first place, it may be deemed almost superfluous to establish the fact, that among people at large, the business of whaling is not accounted on a level with what are called the liberal professions. If a stranger were introduced into any miscellaneous metropolitan society, it would but slightly advance the general opinion of his merits, were he presented to the company as a harpooneer, say; and if in emulation of the naval officers he should append the initials S.W.F. (Sperm Whale Fishery) to his visiting card, such a procedure would be deemed pre-eminently presuming and ridiculous.
First off, it might seem almost unnecessary to point out that, for most people, whaling isn't considered on the same level as what we call the respected or professional careers. If a stranger were brought into a typical group in a big city, it wouldn't do much to enhance people's opinion of him if he were introduced as, say, a harpooneer. And if, trying to imitate naval officers, he added the initials S.W.F. (Sperm Whale Fishery) to his business card, it would be seen as extremely arrogant and ridiculous.
Doubtless one leading reason why the world declines honoring us whalemen, is this: they think that, at best, our vocation amounts to a butchering sort of business; and that when actively engaged therein, we are surrounded by all manner of defilements. Butchers we are, that is true. But butchers, also, and butchers of the bloodiest badge have been all Martial Commanders whom the world invariably delights to honor. And as for the matter of the alleged uncleanliness of our business, ye shall soon be initiated into certain facts hitherto pretty generally unknown, and which, upon the whole, will triumphantly plant the sperm whale-ship at least among the cleanliest things of this tidy earth. But even granting the charge in question to be true; what disordered slippery decks of a whale-ship are comparable to the unspeakable carrion of those battle-fields from which so many soldiers return to drink in all ladies’ plaudits? And if the idea of peril so much enhances the popular conceit of the soldier’s profession; let me assure ye that many a veteran who has freely marched up to a battery, would quickly recoil at the apparition of the sperm whale’s vast tail, fanning into eddies the air over his head. For what are the comprehensible terrors of man compared with the interlinked terrors and wonders of God!
Sure, here’s the modernized version: One big reason why the world refuses to honor us whalers is probably this: they think our job is, at best, a brutal and bloody business, and that while doing it, we’re surrounded by all kinds of filth. It’s true—we are butchers. But so are all the war generals the world loves to praise, and their "butchery" is far bloodier. As for the supposed dirtiness of our work, you’re about to learn some surprising facts that most people don’t know—facts that will prove, beyond a doubt, that the sperm whale ship is among the cleanest places on this planet. But even if the accusations were true, how do the wet, messy decks of a whaling ship compare to the horrific piles of corpses on battlefields, from which soldiers return to bask in the applause of admiring women? And if danger is what makes the soldier’s profession so admired, let me tell you—many a veteran who’s fearlessly charged a cannon would think twice before facing the massive tail of a sperm whale, thrashing the air right above his head. After all, how can the simple threats of men compare to the immense, interconnected terrors and mysteries of God?
But, though the world scouts at us whale hunters, yet does it unwittingly pay us the profoundest homage; yea, an all-abounding adoration! for almost all the tapers, lamps, and candles that burn round the globe, burn, as before so many shrines, to our glory!
But even though the world looks down on us whale hunters, it unknowingly gives us the deepest respect—yes, an all-encompassing admiration! Nearly all the tapers, lamps, and candles lighting up the world burn like offerings at countless shrines, celebrating our work!
But look at this matter in other lights; weigh it in all sorts of scales; see what we whalemen are, and have been.
But consider this issue from different angles; evaluate it with all kinds of measures; think about who we whalers are and who we've been.
Why did the Dutch in De Witt’s time have admirals of their whaling fleets? Why did Louis XVI. of France, at his own personal expense, fit out whaling ships from Dunkirk, and politely invite to that town some score or two of families from our own island of Nantucket? Why did Britain between the years 1750 and 1788 pay to her whalemen in bounties upwards of £1,000,000? And lastly, how comes it that we whalemen of America now outnumber all the rest of the banded whalemen in the world; sail a navy of upwards of seven hundred vessels; manned by eighteen thousand men; yearly consuming 4,000,000 of dollars; the ships worth, at the time of sailing, $20,000,000! and every year importing into our harbors a well reaped harvest of $7,000,000. How comes all this, if there be not something puissant in whaling?
Why did the Dutch during De Witt’s time have admirals for their whaling fleets? Why did Louis XVI of France, at his own expense, equip whaling ships from Dunkirk and cordially invite several dozen families from Nantucket to settle there? Why did Britain, between 1750 and 1788, pay over £1,000,000 in subsidies to its whalers? And finally, how is it that we American whalers now outnumber all the other whaling nations combined; operate a fleet of more than seven hundred ships; employ eighteen thousand men; spend $4,000,000 each year; have ships valued at $20,000,000 when they set sail; and bring back an annual profit of $7,000,000 into our ports? How does all of this happen if there isn’t something truly powerful about whaling?
But this is not the half; look again.
But that’s not even half of it; take another look.
I freely assert, that the cosmopolite philosopher cannot, for his life, point out one single peaceful influence, which within the last sixty years has operated more potentially upon the whole broad world, taken in one aggregate, than the high and mighty business of whaling. One way and another, it has begotten events so remarkable in themselves, and so continuously momentous in their sequential issues, that whaling may well be regarded as that Egyptian mother, who bore offspring themselves pregnant from her womb. It would be a hopeless, endless task to catalogue all these things. Let a handful suffice. For many years past the whale-ship has been the pioneer in ferreting out the remotest and least known parts of the earth. She has explored seas and archipelagoes which had no chart, where no Cook or Vancouver had ever sailed. If American and European men-of-war now peacefully ride in once savage harbors, let them fire salutes to the honor and glory of the whale-ship, which originally showed them the way, and first interpreted between them and the savages. They may celebrate as they will the heroes of Exploring Expeditions, your Cooks, your Krusensterns; but I say that scores of anonymous Captains have sailed out of Nantucket, that were as great, and greater than your Cook and your Krusenstern. For in their succourless empty-handedness, they, in the heathenish sharked waters, and by the beaches of unrecorded, javelin islands, battled with virgin wonders and terrors that Cook with all his marines and muskets would not willingly have dared. All that is made such a flourish of in the old South Sea Voyages, those things were but the life-time commonplaces of our heroic Nantucketers. Often, adventures which Vancouver dedicates three chapters to, these men accounted unworthy of being set down in the ship’s common log. Ah, the world! Oh, the world!
I boldly say that no global philosopher today could point out a single peaceful force over the past sixty years that has had a more significant impact on the entire world than the mighty business of whaling. In one way or another, it has sparked events so extraordinary and led to consequences so profound that whaling could be compared to that legendary Egyptian mother who gave birth to offspring already destined to create more. To list every one of these instances would be an endless and impossible task; a few examples will have to do. For years, the whale-ship has been the pioneer in uncovering the most remote and unknown corners of the earth. It has explored seas and islands that had never been mapped, where neither Cook nor Vancouver ever dared to venture. If American and European naval ships now peacefully anchor in harbors that were once savage, they owe a salute to the whale-ship, which was the first to chart the way and act as a mediator between foreign nations and native inhabitants. People can celebrate the heroes of great exploring expeditions—your Cooks, your Krusensterns—but I say there were countless unnamed captains who sailed from Nantucket, who were just as great, if not greater, than your Cook and Krusenstern. Empty-handed and alone, they faced the uncharted, dangerous waters and the isolated islands filled with unknown terrors, challenges that even Cook, with all his soldiers and weapons, might have hesitated to confront. The stories glorified in old South Sea voyages were just the everyday experiences for the brave men of Nantucket. Adventures that Vancouver felt deserved three full chapters in his accounts were considered too trivial by these men to even note in their ship's log. Ah, this world! Oh, this world!
Until the whale fishery rounded Cape Horn, no commerce but colonial, scarcely any intercourse but colonial, was carried on between Europe and the long line of the opulent Spanish provinces on the Pacific coast. It was the whaleman who first broke through the jealous policy of the Spanish crown, touching those colonies; and, if space permitted, it might be distinctly shown how from those whalemen at last eventuated the liberation of Peru, Chili, and Bolivia from the yoke of Old Spain, and the establishment of the eternal democracy in those parts.
Until the whaling industry made it around Cape Horn, nearly all trade and interaction with Europe was purely colonial, involving little more than Europe and the wealthy Spanish provinces along the Pacific coast. It was the whalers who first defied the Spanish crown's protective policies regarding these colonies. If time allowed, it could be clearly demonstrated how those whalers ultimately contributed to the liberation of Peru, Chile, and Bolivia from the rule of Old Spain, leading to the establishment of lasting democracies in those regions.
That great America on the other side of the sphere, Australia, was given to the enlightened world by the whaleman. After its first blunder-born discovery by a Dutchman, all other ships long shunned those shores as pestiferously barbarous; but the whale-ship touched there. The whale-ship is the true mother of that now mighty colony. Moreover, in the infancy of the first Australian settlement, the emigrants were several times saved from starvation by the benevolent biscuit of the whale-ship luckily dropping an anchor in their waters. The uncounted isles of all Polynesia confess the same truth, and do commercial homage to the whale-ship, that cleared the way for the missionary and the merchant, and in many cases carried the primitive missionaries to their first destinations. If that double-bolted land, Japan, is ever to become hospitable, it is the whale-ship alone to whom the credit will be due; for already she is on the threshold.
That vast land on the other side of the world, Australia, was introduced to the modern world by whalers. After its accidental discovery by a Dutchman, other ships avoided those coasts, thinking them savagely inhospitable. But the whaling ships ventured there. The whaling ship can truly be called the mother of what is now a powerful colony. Furthermore, during the early days of Australia’s colonization, settlers were saved from starvation multiple times, thanks to the provisions of whaling ships that happened to anchor in their waters. The countless islands of Polynesia tell the same story, acknowledging the role of whaling ships in opening their lands to missionaries and merchants—sometimes even transporting the very first Christian missionaries. If Japan, that long-isolated nation, ever becomes open and welcoming to the world, it will be because of the whaling ship; it’s already pushing its way to their door.
But if, in the face of all this, you still declare that whaling has no æsthetically noble associations connected with it, then am I ready to shiver fifty lances with you there, and unhorse you with a split helmet every time.
But if, even after all this, you still say that whaling doesn't have any noble or artistic associations, then I'm ready to challenge you in a duel and knock you off your horse with a cracked helmet every single time.
The whale has no famous author, and whaling no famous chronicler, you will say.
The whale has no well-known author, and whaling has no renowned historian, you might say.
The whale no famous author, and whaling no famous chronicler? Who wrote the first account of our Leviathan? Who but mighty Job! And who composed the first narrative of a whaling-voyage? Who, but no less a prince than Alfred the Great, who, with his own royal pen, took down the words from Other, the Norwegian whale-hunter of those times! And who pronounced our glowing eulogy in Parliament? Who, but Edmund Burke!
The whale has no famous author, and whaling has no well-known chronicler? Who wrote the first story about our Leviathan? None other than the mighty Job! And who penned the first account of a whaling voyage? None other than the great Alfred the Great, who personally wrote down the words from Other, the Norwegian whale-hunter of that time! And who delivered our glowing praise in Parliament? None other than Edmund Burke!
True enough, but then whalemen themselves are poor devils; they have no good blood in their veins.
That's true, but whalers themselves are unfortunate souls; they don't have noble blood in their veins.
No good blood in their veins? They have something better than royal blood there. The grandmother of Benjamin Franklin was Mary Morrel; afterwards, by marriage, Mary Folger, one of the old settlers of Nantucket, and the ancestress to a long line of Folgers and harpooneers—all kith and kin to noble Benjamin—this day darting the barbed iron from one side of the world to the other.
No noble blood in their veins? They’ve got something better than royal blood. Benjamin Franklin's grandmother was Mary Morrel, later Mary Folger after her marriage—one of the early settlers of Nantucket and the ancestor of a long line of Folgers and harpooners. All of them are relatives of the great Benjamin, even today hurling harpoons from one side of the world to the other.
Good again; but then all confess that somehow whaling is not respectable.
Alright, but everyone still agrees that, for some reason, whaling just isn’t considered respectable.
Whaling not respectable? Whaling is imperial! By old English statutory law, the whale is declared “a royal fish.” *
Whaling isn't respectable? Whaling is majestic! According to old English law, the whale is officially called “a royal fish.” *
Oh, that’s only nominal! The whale himself has never figured in any grand imposing way.
Oh, that’s just a title! The whale itself has never played a major, impressive role.
The whale never figured in any grand imposing way? In one of the mighty triumphs given to a Roman general upon his entering the world’s capital, the bones of a whale, brought all the way from the Syrian coast, were the most conspicuous object in the cymballed procession.*
The whale never played any major or impressive role? During one of the grand triumphs held for a Roman general as he entered the capital of the world, the bones of a whale, transported all the way from the Syrian coast, were the most attention-grabbing feature of the drum-filled parade.*
*See subsequent chapters for something more on this head.
Check the following chapters for more details on this topic.
Grant it, since you cite it; but, say what you will, there is no real dignity in whaling.
Alright, if that's what you're saying; but no matter what you argue, there's no real dignity in whaling.
No dignity in whaling? The dignity of our calling the very heavens attest. Cetus is a constellation in the South! No more! Drive down your hat in presence of the Czar, and take it off to Queequeg! No more! I know a man that, in his lifetime, has taken three hundred and fifty whales. I account that man more honorable than that great captain of antiquity who boasted of taking as many walled towns.
No dignity in whaling? Even the heavens testify to the dignity of our work. Cetus is a constellation in the southern sky! Enough said! Tip your hat in front of the Czar, but bow even lower to Queequeg! Enough said! I know a man who, in his lifetime, has caught three hundred and fifty whales. I consider that man more honorable than the famous commander of ancient times who bragged about conquering the same number of fortified cities.
And, as for me, if, by any possibility, there be any as yet undiscovered prime thing in me; if I shall ever deserve any real repute in that small but high hushed world which I might not be unreasonably ambitious of; if hereafter I shall do anything that, upon the whole, a man might rather have done than to have left undone; if, at my death, my executors, or more properly my creditors, find any precious MSS. in my desk, then here I prospectively ascribe all the honor and the glory to whaling; for a whale-ship was my Yale College and my Harvard.
As for me, if by any chance there’s something undiscovered and remarkable within me; if I ever earn any real recognition in that small but significant, quiet world I might reasonably aspire to; if someday I manage to accomplish something that, all things considered, a person wouldn’t regret doing; if, when I die, my executors—or more accurately, my creditors—discover any valuable manuscripts in my desk, then I’ll credit all the honor and glory to whaling. A whaling ship was my Yale and my Harvard.
CHAPTER 25. Postscript.
In behalf of the dignity of whaling, I would fain advance naught but substantiated facts. But after embattling his facts, an advocate who should wholly suppress a not unreasonable surmise, which might tell eloquently upon his cause—such an advocate, would he not be blameworthy?
In support of the dignity of whaling, I would like to present only verified facts. But after organizing his facts, wouldn’t an advocate be at fault if he completely ignored a reasonable assumption that could strongly support his case?
It is well known that at the coronation of kings and queens, even modern ones, a certain curious process of seasoning them for their functions is gone through. There is a saltcellar of state, so called, and there may be a castor of state. How they use the salt, precisely—who knows? Certain I am, however, that a king’s head is solemnly oiled at his coronation, even as a head of salad. Can it be, though, that they anoint it with a view of making its interior run well, as they anoint machinery? Much might be ruminated here, concerning the essential dignity of this regal process, because in common life we esteem but meanly and contemptibly a fellow who anoints his hair, and palpably smells of that anointing. In truth, a mature man who uses hair-oil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a quoggy spot in him somewhere. As a general rule, he can’t amount to much in his totality.
Everyone knows that during the coronation of kings and queens, even modern ones, there's a peculiar tradition of preparing them for their role. There's something called a state saltcellar, and maybe even a state castor. How exactly they use the salt—who knows? I'm pretty sure, though, that a king’s head is ceremonially oiled at his coronation, much like dressing a salad. But could it be that they oil it to ensure his brain works smoothly, like lubricating a machine? There’s a lot to think about here regarding the importance of this royal ritual because, in everyday life, we don’t think very highly of someone who oils their hair and obviously smells like it. Honestly, a grown man using hair oil—unless it's for medical reasons—probably has something off about him. Generally speaking, he’s unlikely to amount to much overall.
But the only thing to be considered here, is this—what kind of oil is used at coronations? Certainly it cannot be olive oil, nor macassar oil, nor castor oil, nor bear’s oil, nor train oil, nor cod-liver oil. What then can it possibly be, but sperm oil in its unmanufactured, unpolluted state, the sweetest of all oils?
The only thing to consider here is this—what kind of oil is used at coronations? It can’t possibly be olive oil, macassar oil, castor oil, bear’s oil, train oil, or cod-liver oil. So what else could it be but sperm oil in its pure, natural state, the sweetest of all oils?
Think of that, ye loyal Britons! we whalemen supply your kings and queens with coronation stuff!
Think about that, loyal Britons! We whalemen provide your kings and queens with coronation material!
CHAPTER 26. Knights and Squires.
The chief mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a native of Nantucket, and a Quaker by descent. He was a long, earnest man, and though born on an icy coast, seemed well adapted to endure hot latitudes, his flesh being hard as twice-baked biscuit. Transported to the Indies, his live blood would not spoil like bottled ale. He must have been born in some time of general drought and famine, or upon one of those fast days for which his state is famous. Only some thirty arid summers had he seen; those summers had dried up all his physical superfluousness. But this, his thinness, so to speak, seemed no more the token of wasting anxieties and cares, than it seemed the indication of any bodily blight. It was merely the condensation of the man. He was by no means ill-looking; quite the contrary. His pure tight skin was an excellent fit; and closely wrapped up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength, like a revivified Egyptian, this Starbuck seemed prepared to endure for long ages to come, and to endure always, as now; for be it Polar snow or torrid sun, like a patent chronometer, his interior vitality was warranted to do well in all climates. Looking into his eyes, you seemed to see there the yet lingering images of those thousand-fold perils he had calmly confronted through life. A staid, steadfast man, whose life for the most part was a telling pantomime of action, and not a tame chapter of sounds. Yet, for all his hardy sobriety and fortitude, there were certain qualities in him which at times affected, and in some cases seemed well nigh to overbalance all the rest. Uncommonly conscientious for a seaman, and endued with a deep natural reverence, the wild watery loneliness of his life did therefore strongly incline him to superstition; but to that sort of superstition, which in some organizations seems rather to spring, somehow, from intelligence than from ignorance. Outward portents and inward presentiments were his. And if at times these things bent the welded iron of his soul, much more did his far-away domestic memories of his young Cape wife and child, tend to bend him still more from the original ruggedness of his nature, and open him still further to those latent influences which, in some honest-hearted men, restrain the gush of dare-devil daring, so often evinced by others in the more perilous vicissitudes of the fishery. “I will have no man in my boat,” said Starbuck, “who is not afraid of a whale.” By this, he seemed to mean, not only that the most reliable and useful courage was that which arises from the fair estimation of the encountered peril, but that an utterly fearless man is a far more dangerous comrade than a coward.
The first mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a Nantucket native and a Quaker by heritage. He was a tall, serious man, and although raised on a cold, harsh coastline, he seemed perfectly suited for tropical climates—his body as tough as hardtack. Even in the heat of the tropics, his blood would stay fresh, not spoil like old ale. He must have been born during a time of widespread drought and scarcity, or maybe on one of those fasting days for which his homeland is known. He’d lived through only about thirty dry summers; those years had stripped him of anything unnecessary in his physique. Yet his leanness didn’t suggest anxiety or poor health—it was simply the essence of who he was, concentrated. He wasn’t unhealthy-looking—in fact, the opposite. His skin fit tightly, as though it had been tailored to him, holding him together with vitality and endurance, like a resurrected Egyptian mummy. Starbuck seemed built to last for ages, unchanged, whether in freezing polar snow or scorching tropical heat. Like an expertly crafted timepiece, his core strength was designed to withstand any climate. Looking into his eyes, you could almost see lingering reflections of the countless dangers he had faced in his life. He was a steady, grounded man, someone whose actions spoke louder than words—his life was a vivid display of deeds rather than empty noise. But despite his tough and straightforward character, there were parts of him that sometimes seemed to challenge or even outweigh his other traits. He was unusually conscientious for someone in his line of work and possessed a deep, instinctive reverence. The lonely, unpredictable nature of his life at sea seemed to push him toward superstition, but it wasn’t the kind of superstition bred from ignorance—it seemed to stem from a deeper kind of intelligence. He had a sense for omens and gut feelings. And though these moments of intuition could sometimes shake his solid resolve, nothing moved him more than the thoughts of his wife and child back home at Cape Cod. These memories softened him, chipping away at the rough edges of his nature and making him more sensitive to the kinds of feelings that hold back reckless impulses—impulses often displayed by others in the dangerous unpredictability of whaling life. “I won’t have a man in my boat,” Starbuck said, “who isn’t afraid of a whale.” By this, he seemed to mean that the best kind of courage comes from a clear understanding of the risks. A man completely free of fear was, in his eyes, even more dangerous than a coward.
“Aye, aye,” said Stubb, the second mate, “Starbuck, there, is as careful a man as you’ll find anywhere in this fishery.” But we shall ere long see what that word “careful” precisely means when used by a man like Stubb, or almost any other whale hunter.
"Yeah, yeah," said Stubb, the second mate. "Starbuck over there is about as cautious as anyone you’ll find in this whaling business." But before long, we’ll see exactly what the word "cautious" means when it’s used by someone like Stubb—or just about any other whale hunter.
Starbuck was no crusader after perils; in him courage was not a sentiment; but a thing simply useful to him, and always at hand upon all mortally practical occasions. Besides, he thought, perhaps, that in this business of whaling, courage was one of the great staple outfits of the ship, like her beef and her bread, and not to be foolishly wasted. Wherefore he had no fancy for lowering for whales after sun-down; nor for persisting in fighting a fish that too much persisted in fighting him. For, thought Starbuck, I am here in this critical ocean to kill whales for my living, and not to be killed by them for theirs; and that hundreds of men had been so killed Starbuck well knew. What doom was his own father’s? Where, in the bottomless deeps, could he find the torn limbs of his brother?
Starbuck wasn’t someone who sought out danger for the sake of it; his bravery wasn’t about emotions but something practical, always ready when needed in real-life situations. He figured, maybe, that in the whaling business, courage was as essential as the ship’s supplies—like its beef and bread—and shouldn’t be recklessly wasted. Because of this, he wasn’t keen on chasing whales after dark or stubbornly fighting a whale that was just as stubborn in fighting back. Starbuck thought, I’m here in this unpredictable ocean to hunt whales for a living, not to be killed by them for theirs. And he was well aware that hundreds of men had met that fate. What had happened to his own father? Where, at the bottom of the endless sea, could he ever find the torn remains of his brother?
With memories like these in him, and, moreover, given to a certain superstitiousness, as has been said; the courage of this Starbuck which could, nevertheless, still flourish, must indeed have been extreme. But it was not in reasonable nature that a man so organized, and with such terrible experiences and remembrances as he had; it was not in nature that these things should fail in latently engendering an element in him, which, under suitable circumstances, would break out from its confinement, and burn all his courage up. And brave as he might be, it was that sort of bravery chiefly, visible in some intrepid men, which, while generally abiding firm in the conflict with seas, or winds, or whales, or any of the ordinary irrational horrors of the world, yet cannot withstand those more terrific, because more spiritual terrors, which sometimes menace you from the concentrating brow of an enraged and mighty man.
With memories like these within him, and, furthermore, being somewhat superstitious as mentioned before, Starbuck's courage, which still managed to thrive, must have been extraordinary. However, it wasn’t reasonable to expect that a man with his temperament and such horrific experiences and memories wouldn’t have a part of him that, under the right conditions, could break free from its restraint and consume all his courage. No matter how brave he was, his bravery was the kind often seen in certain fearless men—a bravery that holds steady when facing seas, storms, whales, or any of the usual, irrational dangers of the world, but falters when confronted by more terrifying, spiritual threats, like the intense presence of an angry, powerful man.
But were the coming narrative to reveal in any instance, the complete abasement of poor Starbuck’s fortitude, scarce might I have the heart to write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose the fall of valour in the soul. Men may seem detestable as joint stock-companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest robes. That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man. Nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight, completely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes, but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God; Himself! The great God absolute! The centre and circumference of all democracy! His omnipresence, our divine equality!
If the upcoming story were to show, in any instance, the complete breakdown of poor Starbuck’s courage, I’d barely have the heart to write it. It’s deeply sorrowful—truly shocking—to reveal the collapse of bravery in someone’s soul. People may seem despicable as corporations and nations; there may be liars, fools, and murderers; people may have petty or insignificant appearances. But humanity, in its ideal form, is so noble and brilliant—such a majestic, radiant being—that when faced with any shameful flaw in one of us, all others should rush to cover it with their finest garments. That perfect sense of manliness we feel deep within ourselves, so deeply rooted that it stays pure even when our outer character seems lost, suffers intense pain at the sight of a man’s ruined valor laid bare. Even religious devotion, when faced with such a disgraceful view, cannot completely silence its protests against the fates that allowed it to happen. But this profound dignity I’m referring to isn’t the kind tied to kings and fancy robes—it’s the boundless dignity that doesn’t need any outward display. You can see it shining in the arm that swings a pickaxe or hammers a spike; it’s that democratic dignity that radiates endlessly, straight from God Himself. The great, absolute God! The center and source of all democracy! His omnipresence is our shared divinity and equality!
If, then, to meanest mariners, and renegades and castaways, I shall hereafter ascribe high qualities, though dark; weave round them tragic graces; if even the most mournful, perchance the most abased, among them all, shall at times lift himself to the exalted mounts; if I shall touch that workman’s arm with some ethereal light; if I shall spread a rainbow over his disastrous set of sun; then against all mortal critics bear me out in it, thou just Spirit of Equality, which hast spread one royal mantle of humanity over all my kind! Bear me out in it, thou great democratic God! who didst not refuse to the swart convict, Bunyan, the pale, poetic pearl; Thou who didst clothe with doubly hammered leaves of finest gold, the stumped and paupered arm of old Cervantes; Thou who didst pick up Andrew Jackson from the pebbles; who didst hurl him upon a war-horse; who didst thunder him higher than a throne! Thou who, in all Thy mighty, earthly marchings, ever cullest Thy selectest champions from the kingly commons; bear me out in it, O God!
If, then, I later attribute great qualities, though dark ones, to the humblest sailors, outcasts, and drifters; if I grant them tragic dignity; if even the saddest, maybe the most downtrodden among them all, sometimes rises to greatness; if I light up that worker’s arm with a touch of something divine; if I cast a rainbow over his despairing sunset—then, let all human critics stand aside and let the Spirit of Equality justify me, that same spirit which has spread one noble mantle of humanity over all of us! Support me in this, O great democratic God, who did not deny the dark convict, Bunyan, his luminous poetic gift; who wrapped old Cervantes’s stumped and impoverished arm in the finest gold; who lifted Andrew Jackson from humble beginnings, placed him on a war-horse, and elevated him higher than any throne! You, who in all your powerful movements on earth, always choose your mightiest champions from the people—stand with me, O God!
CHAPTER 27. Knights and Squires.
Stubb was the second mate. He was a native of Cape Cod; and hence, according to local usage, was called a Cape-Cod-man. A happy-go-lucky; neither craven nor valiant; taking perils as they came with an indifferent air; and while engaged in the most imminent crisis of the chase, toiling away, calm and collected as a journeyman joiner engaged for the year. Good-humored, easy, and careless, he presided over his whale-boat as if the most deadly encounter were but a dinner, and his crew all invited guests. He was as particular about the comfortable arrangement of his part of the boat, as an old stage-driver is about the snugness of his box. When close to the whale, in the very death-lock of the fight, he handled his unpitying lance coolly and off-handedly, as a whistling tinker his hammer. He would hum over his old rigadig tunes while flank and flank with the most exasperated monster. Long usage had, for this Stubb, converted the jaws of death into an easy chair. What he thought of death itself, there is no telling. Whether he ever thought of it at all, might be a question; but, if he ever did chance to cast his mind that way after a comfortable dinner, no doubt, like a good sailor, he took it to be a sort of call of the watch to tumble aloft, and bestir themselves there, about something which he would find out when he obeyed the order, and not sooner.
Stubb was the second mate. He was from Cape Cod, so, as was common locally, he was called a Cape Cod man. He was carefree, neither cowardly nor particularly brave, facing dangers as they came with a laid-back attitude. Even during the most critical moments of the hunt, he worked away calmly and steadily, like a craftsman casually doing his year-round job. Good-natured, relaxed, and carefree, he ran his whaleboat as if the deadliest clash were just a dinner party, with his crew as invited guests. He paid as much attention to keeping his part of the boat comfortable as an old coach driver cares about making his seat snug. When they were right next to the whale, in the heat of the fight, he wielded his relentless lance with ease and nonchalance, like a whistling tinkerer working his hammer. He would hum his old tunes while going side-by-side with even the angriest, most dangerous creature. Over time, Stubb had become so accustomed to danger that he treated being close to death like sitting in a comfy chair. What he thought about death is anyone’s guess. Did he think about it at all? Who knows. But if he did happen to consider it after a good meal, he probably thought of it like a good sailor—as just a call to climb up and get busy with something he’d figure out once he got there, and not a moment before.
What, perhaps, with other things, made Stubb such an easy-going, unfearing man, so cheerily trudging off with the burden of life in a world full of grave pedlars, all bowed to the ground with their packs; what helped to bring about that almost impious good-humor of his; that thing must have been his pipe. For, like his nose, his short, black little pipe was one of the regular features of his face. You would almost as soon have expected him to turn out of his bunk without his nose as without his pipe. He kept a whole row of pipes there ready loaded, stuck in a rack, within easy reach of his hand; and, whenever he turned in, he smoked them all out in succession, lighting one from the other to the end of the chapter; then loading them again to be in readiness anew. For, when Stubb dressed, instead of first putting his legs into his trowsers, he put his pipe into his mouth.
What, maybe along with other things, made Stubb such a laid-back, fearless guy, so cheerfully carrying the weight of life in a world full of serious people weighed down by their worries—what contributed to that almost irreverent good-nature of his—had to be his pipe. Like his nose, his short, black little pipe was practically part of his face. You'd almost expect him to leave his bunk without his nose as much as without his pipe. He had a whole row of pipes preloaded, lined up in a rack within easy reach of his hand, and whenever he lay down, he'd smoke them all one after another, lighting each one with the previous until they were all done; then he'd refill them, ready for next time. Because when Stubb got dressed, instead of putting his legs into his pants first, he'd put his pipe in his mouth.
I say this continual smoking must have been one cause, at least, of his peculiar disposition; for every one knows that this earthly air, whether ashore or afloat, is terribly infected with the nameless miseries of the numberless mortals who have died exhaling it; and as in time of the cholera, some people go about with a camphorated handkerchief to their mouths; so, likewise, against all mortal tribulations, Stubb’s tobacco smoke might have operated as a sort of disinfecting agent.
I think all this constant smoking must have been one reason, at least, for his unusual attitude; because everyone knows that this air we breathe—whether on land or at sea—is heavily tainted with the unnamed miseries of countless people who have died breathing it; and just like during a cholera outbreak, where some people walk around with a scented handkerchief over their mouths, Stubb’s tobacco smoke might have served as a kind of disinfectant against all human troubles.
The third mate was Flask, a native of Tisbury, in Martha’s Vineyard. A short, stout, ruddy young fellow, very pugnacious concerning whales, who somehow seemed to think that the great leviathans had personally and hereditarily affronted him; and therefore it was a sort of point of honor with him, to destroy them whenever encountered. So utterly lost was he to all sense of reverence for the many marvels of their majestic bulk and mystic ways; and so dead to anything like an apprehension of any possible danger from encountering them; that in his poor opinion, the wondrous whale was but a species of magnified mouse, or at least water-rat, requiring only a little circumvention and some small application of time and trouble in order to kill and boil. This ignorant, unconscious fearlessness of his made him a little waggish in the matter of whales; he followed these fish for the fun of it; and a three years’ voyage round Cape Horn was only a jolly joke that lasted that length of time. As a carpenter’s nails are divided into wrought nails and cut nails; so mankind may be similarly divided. Little Flask was one of the wrought ones; made to clinch tight and last long. They called him King-Post on board of the Pequod; because, in form, he could be well likened to the short, square timber known by that name in Arctic whalers; and which by the means of many radiating side timbers inserted into it, serves to brace the ship against the icy concussions of those battering seas.
The third mate was Flask, from Tisbury on Martha’s Vineyard. He was a short, stocky, and reddish-faced young guy, always spoiling for a fight when it came to whales. For some reason, he seemed to believe that these massive creatures had personally and historically insulted him, so he made it his mission to take them down whenever he came across one. He had no sense of awe for their enormous size or mysterious behavior, and he was completely oblivious to any potential dangers in hunting them. To him, these incredible whales were nothing more than oversized mice—or maybe water-rats—that just needed a bit of cleverness and some effort to catch, kill, and render. His fearless ignorance gave him a lighthearted attitude about whales; he hunted them for the thrill of it, seeing a three-year journey around Cape Horn as nothing more than a long, amusing adventure. Just as nails can be divided into wrought nails and cut nails, people could be similarly categorized. Flask was a wrought nail—built to hold firm and last. They nicknamed him King-Post on the Pequod because of his resemblance to the sturdy, square piece of timber by the same name used on Arctic whaling ships. This piece of wood supports the ship with its many radiating side timbers, helping it withstand the crushing force of icy seas.
Now these three mates—Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, were momentous men. They it was who by universal prescription commanded three of the Pequod’s boats as headsmen. In that grand order of battle in which Captain Ahab would probably marshal his forces to descend on the whales, these three headsmen were as captains of companies. Or, being armed with their long keen whaling spears, they were as a picked trio of lancers; even as the harpooneers were flingers of javelins.
The three mates—Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask—were significant men. They were the ones universally assigned to command three of the Pequod’s boats as leaders. In the grand formation Captain Ahab would likely organize to attack the whales, these three headsmen acted as captains of their divisions. Or, equipped with their long, sharp whaling spears, they were like an elite trio of lancers, while the harpooneers were the javelin throwers.
And since in this famous fishery, each mate or headsman, like a Gothic Knight of old, is always accompanied by his boat-steerer or harpooneer, who in certain conjunctures provides him with a fresh lance, when the former one has been badly twisted, or elbowed in the assault; and moreover, as there generally subsists between the two, a close intimacy and friendliness; it is therefore but meet, that in this place we set down who the Pequod’s harpooneers were, and to what headsman each of them belonged.
In this well-known whaling venture, each mate or leader, much like a Gothic knight of old, is always accompanied by his boat-steerer or harpooner. This companion provides him with a new lance when the previous one has been bent or damaged during the attack. Moreover, since there’s usually a strong bond of closeness and friendship between the two, it’s only fitting that we take a moment here to mention who the Pequod's harpooners were and which headsman each of them was paired with.
First of all was Queequeg, whom Starbuck, the chief mate, had selected for his squire. But Queequeg is already known.
First up was Queequeg, whom Starbuck, the first mate, had chosen as his partner. But Queequeg is already familiar.
Next was Tashtego, an unmixed Indian from Gay Head, the most westerly promontory of Martha’s Vineyard, where there still exists the last remnant of a village of red men, which has long supplied the neighboring island of Nantucket with many of her most daring harpooneers. In the fishery, they usually go by the generic name of Gay-Headers. Tashtego’s long, lean, sable hair, his high cheek bones, and black rounding eyes—for an Indian, Oriental in their largeness, but Antarctic in their glittering expression—all this sufficiently proclaimed him an inheritor of the unvitiated blood of those proud warrior hunters, who, in quest of the great New England moose, had scoured, bow in hand, the aboriginal forests of the main. But no longer snuffing in the trail of the wild beasts of the woodland, Tashtego now hunted in the wake of the great whales of the sea; the unerring harpoon of the son fitly replacing the infallible arrow of the sires. To look at the tawny brawn of his lithe snaky limbs, you would almost have credited the superstitions of some of the earlier Puritans, and half-believed this wild Indian to be a son of the Prince of the Powers of the Air. Tashtego was Stubb the second mate’s squire.
Next was Tashtego, a pure-blooded Native American from Gay Head, the westernmost point of Martha’s Vineyard, where the last remnants of a Native village remain, a place that has long provided the nearby island of Nantucket with many of its boldest harpooners. In the whaling industry, they are often referred to simply as Gay-Headers. Tashtego’s long, straight, dark hair, his high cheekbones, and his deep, dark eyes—which, for a Native American, were unusually large and shone with an intense, icy gleam—all revealed his descent from the proud warrior hunters who once roamed the ancient New England forests, bow in hand, in pursuit of the mighty moose. But instead of tracking wild animals through the woods, Tashtego now hunted the massive whales of the ocean, his precise harpoon a fitting replacement for his ancestors’ flawless arrows. Looking at his tawny, muscular, and sinuous form, you might almost have believed the legends told by some early Puritans and thought this wild Native to be a child of the Prince of the Powers of the Air. Tashtego was the squire of Stubb, the second mate.
Third among the harpooneers was Daggoo, a gigantic, coal-black negro-savage, with a lion-like tread—an Ahasuerus to behold. Suspended from his ears were two golden hoops, so large that the sailors called them ring-bolts, and would talk of securing the top-sail halyards to them. In his youth Daggoo had voluntarily shipped on board of a whaler, lying in a lonely bay on his native coast. And never having been anywhere in the world but in Africa, Nantucket, and the pagan harbors most frequented by whalemen; and having now led for many years the bold life of the fishery in the ships of owners uncommonly heedful of what manner of men they shipped; Daggoo retained all his barbaric virtues, and erect as a giraffe, moved about the decks in all the pomp of six feet five in his socks. There was a corporeal humility in looking up at him; and a white man standing before him seemed a white flag come to beg truce of a fortress. Curious to tell, this imperial negro, Ahasuerus Daggoo, was the Squire of little Flask, who looked like a chess-man beside him. As for the residue of the Pequod’s company, be it said, that at the present day not one in two of the many thousand men before the mast employed in the American whale fishery, are Americans born, though pretty nearly all the officers are. Herein it is the same with the American whale fishery as with the American army and military and merchant navies, and the engineering forces employed in the construction of the American Canals and Railroads. The same, I say, because in all these cases the native American liberally provides the brains, the rest of the world as generously supplying the muscles. No small number of these whaling seamen belong to the Azores, where the outward bound Nantucket whalers frequently touch to augment their crews from the hardy peasants of those rocky shores. In like manner, the Greenland whalers sailing out of Hull or London, put in at the Shetland Islands, to receive the full complement of their crew. Upon the passage homewards, they drop them there again. How it is, there is no telling, but Islanders seem to make the best whalemen. They were nearly all Islanders in the Pequod, Isolatoes too, I call such, not acknowledging the common continent of men, but each Isolato living on a separate continent of his own. Yet now, federated along one keel, what a set these Isolatoes were! An Anacharsis Clootz deputation from all the isles of the sea, and all the ends of the earth, accompanying Old Ahab in the Pequod to lay the world’s grievances before that bar from which not very many of them ever come back. Black Little Pip—he never did—oh, no! he went before. Poor Alabama boy! On the grim Pequod’s forecastle, ye shall ere long see him, beating his tambourine; prelusive of the eternal time, when sent for, to the great quarter-deck on high, he was bid strike in with angels, and beat his tambourine in glory; called a coward here, hailed a hero there!
Third among the harpooners was Daggoo, a towering, coal-black, fierce-looking man with a stride as commanding as a lion’s—a sight as striking as a figure from legend. He had large golden hoops hanging from his ears, so big the sailors joked about tying the top-sail ropes to them. Back when he was younger, Daggoo chose to join a whaling ship that was docked in a secluded bay near his homeland. Having only ever been to Africa, Nantucket, and the coastal harbors frequented by whalers, Daggoo had spent years living the daring whaler’s life. He sailed on ships whose captains were unusually particular about the type of crew they hired, and as a result, he still embodied all his raw, natural strength and qualities. At six feet five inches tall, standing straight and upright like a giraffe, he walked the ship’s deck radiating authority. It was humbling to even look up at him—any white man standing before him might seem like a white flag pleading for peace in the face of an unassailable fortress. Oddly enough, this commanding figure, Daggoo, served as the subordinate to little Flask, a man who stood beside him like a pawn next to a king. As for the rest of the crew on the Pequod, it’s worth pointing out that in today’s American whaling industry, fewer than one out of every two sailors aboard are actually American-born, though nearly all the officers are. This is similar to the pattern in the American army, navy, merchant fleets, and even the engineering teams working on American canals and railroads. In all these cases, the native-born Americans tend to supply the leadership and expertise, while much of the labor comes from a diverse global workforce. Many of the whaling sailors come from the Azores, where Nantucket whalers often stop to pick up more crew members—hardy workers from those rugged islands. Similarly, the Greenland whalers sailing from Hull or London often recruit crew on the Shetland Islands, dropping them back off on their return trip. For some reason, islanders seem to make the best whalers. The Pequod itself was almost entirely crewed by islanders, whom I prefer to call “Isolatoes”—individuals who reject the notion of a shared human continent and instead live their lives as though each were an isolated world of their own. But now, brought together under one ship’s keel, what a remarkable group of Isolatoes they made! They were a kind of universal delegation, representing islands and corners of the world, accompanying Old Ahab on his quest aboard the Pequod to present the grievances of the world to a justice that few of them would ever see again. Take Black Little Pip, for instance—he never made it back. Poor boy from Alabama! Out on the grim Pequod’s forecastle, you’ll soon see him playing his tambourine—a haunting prelude to the eternal stage where, when summoned to the great quarterdeck above, he was called to join the angels and play his tambourine in glory. Here, he might have been called a coward, but up there, he’s celebrated as a hero.
CHAPTER 28. Ahab.
For several days after leaving Nantucket, nothing above hatches was seen of Captain Ahab. The mates regularly relieved each other at the watches, and for aught that could be seen to the contrary, they seemed to be the only commanders of the ship; only they sometimes issued from the cabin with orders so sudden and peremptory, that after all it was plain they but commanded vicariously. Yes, their supreme lord and dictator was there, though hitherto unseen by any eyes not permitted to penetrate into the now sacred retreat of the cabin.
For several days after leaving Nantucket, Captain Ahab was nowhere to be seen on deck. The mates took turns standing watch as usual, and to anyone observing, it looked like they were the ones really in charge of the ship. But every so often, they would come out of the cabin with orders so abrupt and firm that it was clear they were only acting on someone else’s authority. Yes, their true leader and absolute ruler was there, though still hidden from any eyes not allowed inside the now almost holy seclusion of the cabin.
Every time I ascended to the deck from my watches below, I instantly gazed aft to mark if any strange face were visible; for my first vague disquietude touching the unknown captain, now in the seclusion of the sea, became almost a perturbation. This was strangely heightened at times by the ragged Elijah’s diabolical incoherences uninvitedly recurring to me, with a subtle energy I could not have before conceived of. But poorly could I withstand them, much as in other moods I was almost ready to smile at the solemn whimsicalities of that outlandish prophet of the wharves. But whatever it was of apprehensiveness or uneasiness—to call it so—which I felt, yet whenever I came to look about me in the ship, it seemed against all warrantry to cherish such emotions. For though the harpooneers, with the great body of the crew, were a far more barbaric, heathenish, and motley set than any of the tame merchant-ship companies which my previous experiences had made me acquainted with, still I ascribed this—and rightly ascribed it—to the fierce uniqueness of the very nature of that wild Scandinavian vocation in which I had so abandonedly embarked. But it was especially the aspect of the three chief officers of the ship, the mates, which was most forcibly calculated to allay these colourless misgivings, and induce confidence and cheerfulness in every presentment of the voyage. Three better, more likely sea-officers and men, each in his own different way, could not readily be found, and they were every one of them Americans; a Nantucketer, a Vineyarder, a Cape man. Now, it being Christmas when the ship shot from out her harbor, for a space we had biting Polar weather, though all the time running away from it to the southward; and by every degree and minute of latitude which we sailed, gradually leaving that merciless winter, and all its intolerable weather behind us. It was one of those less lowering, but still grey and gloomy enough mornings of the transition, when with a fair wind the ship was rushing through the water with a vindictive sort of leaping and melancholy rapidity, that as I mounted to the deck at the call of the forenoon watch, so soon as I levelled my glance towards the taffrail, foreboding shivers ran over me. Reality outran apprehension; Captain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck.
Every time I came up on deck from my shifts below, I immediately looked toward the back to see if any unfamiliar face was there. My vague unease about the mysterious captain, now out at sea, was growing into something closer to anxiety. This feeling was oddly fueled now and then by the strange and unsettling ramblings of that ragged man Elijah, which kept coming back to me with a force I hadn’t imagined possible. I struggled to shake them off, even though at other times I was almost ready to laugh at the odd solemn humor of that eccentric dock prophet. Whatever the unease or nervousness I felt—if that’s what it was—whenever I looked around the ship, it seemed there was no real reason to hold on to those feelings. Even though the harpooneers and most of the crew were a rough, wild, and diverse bunch—far more so than the tame merchant crews I’d worked with in the past—I chalked this up, rightly so, to the intense and singular nature of the rugged whaling life I had so recklessly joined. But what really helped ease my unfounded nervousness, giving me more confidence and cheer about the voyage, was the demeanor of the ship’s three officers, the mates. It would have been hard to find three better, more capable sailors, each strong in his own distinct way. All of them were Americans—one from Nantucket, one from Martha’s Vineyard, and one from Cape Cod. It was during Christmas when the ship departed the harbor, and for a while, we endured the biting cold of Polar weather, even though we were sailing south and leaving it behind, degree by degree. On one of those less stormy but still dull and dreary mornings during that transition period, the ship was surging through the water, propelled by a steady wind, her movement both swift and strangely menacing. As I climbed onto the deck for the forenoon watch, a chill of dread ran through me as soon as I looked toward the stern. My fears became real: Captain Ahab was standing on the quarterdeck.
There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the recovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them, or taking away one particle from their compacted aged robustness. His whole high, broad form, seemed made of solid bronze, and shaped in an unalterable mould, like Cellini’s cast Perseus. Threading its way out from among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his tawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish. It resembled that perpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a great tree, when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and without wrenching a single twig, peels and grooves out the bark from top to bottom, ere running off into the soil, leaving the tree still greenly alive, but branded. Whether that mark was born with him, or whether it was the scar left by some desperate wound, no one could certainly say. By some tacit consent, throughout the voyage little or no allusion was made to it, especially by the mates. But once Tashtego’s senior, an old Gay-Head Indian among the crew, superstitiously asserted that not till he was full forty years old did Ahab become that way branded, and then it came upon him, not in the fury of any mortal fray, but in an elemental strife at sea. Yet, this wild hint seemed inferentially negatived, by what a grey Manxman insinuated, an old sepulchral man, who, having never before sailed out of Nantucket, had never ere this laid eye upon wild Ahab. Nevertheless, the old sea-traditions, the immemorial credulities, popularly invested this old Manxman with preternatural powers of discernment. So that no white sailor seriously contradicted him when he said that if ever Captain Ahab should be tranquilly laid out—which might hardly come to pass, so he muttered—then, whoever should do that last office for the dead, would find a birth-mark on him from crown to sole.
There were no obvious signs of physical illness or recovery about him. He looked like a man who had been cut down from the stake after the fire had burned over him, wasting away his limbs without actually consuming them or diminishing their rugged, aged strength. His tall, broad figure seemed as if it were forged from solid bronze, shaped in an unchanging mold, like Cellini’s Perseus. Threading through his gray hair and running down one side of his sun-scorched face and neck, disappearing into his clothes, there was a slim, rod-like mark, starkly pale. It looked like the vertical scar left on the trunk of a towering tree when lightning strikes—ripping down its length, leaving no branch disturbed, but peeling and grooving the bark from top to bottom before grounding itself. The tree remains alive, still green, but marked forever. Whether that scar had always been there or was the result of a terrible wound, no one could say for sure. By an unspoken agreement, the crew rarely mentioned it, especially the mates. But once, Tashtego’s elder—a weathered Gay-Head Indian among the sailors—claimed with superstition that Ahab only became scarred like that after he turned forty, and it didn’t happen in any mortal battle, but during a violent clash with the elements at sea. However, this suggestion was indirectly contradicted by a grim old Manxman, an experienced sailor who had never sailed out of Nantucket before and had never laid eyes on Ahab until this voyage. Still, the old sea superstitions and long-held beliefs credited this Manxman with uncanny insight. So, no white sailor openly disagreed when he muttered that if Captain Ahab were ever finally laid out in death—a doubtful prospect, he suggested—whoever prepared his body would discover a birthmark running from head to toe.
So powerfully did the whole grim aspect of Ahab affect me, and the livid brand which streaked it, that for the first few moments I hardly noted that not a little of this overbearing grimness was owing to the barbaric white leg upon which he partly stood. It had previously come to me that this ivory leg had at sea been fashioned from the polished bone of the sperm whale’s jaw. “Aye, he was dismasted off Japan,” said the old Gay-Head Indian once; “but like his dismasted craft, he shipped another mast without coming home for it. He has a quiver of ’em.”
The intense and grim presence of Ahab struck me so powerfully, along with the pale scar that ran across his face, that at first, I barely noticed that much of his intimidating aura came from the unnatural white leg he stood on. I’d already heard that this ivory leg had been crafted at sea from the polished bone of a sperm whale’s jaw. “Yeah, he lost his leg near Japan,” an old Gay-Head Indian once said, “but like a dismasted ship, he rigged up a new mast right there without returning home. He’s got a bunch of them.”
I was struck with the singular posture he maintained. Upon each side of the Pequod’s quarter deck, and pretty close to the mizzen shrouds, there was an auger hole, bored about half an inch or so, into the plank. His bone leg steadied in that hole; one arm elevated, and holding by a shroud; Captain Ahab stood erect, looking straight out beyond the ship’s ever-pitching prow. There was an infinity of firmest fortitude, a determinate, unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and fearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye. And not only that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion in his face; in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some mighty woe.
I was struck by the unusual stance he held. On either side of the Pequod’s quarterdeck, near the mizzen shrouds, there was a small hole, about half an inch wide, drilled into the plank. His bone leg was braced in that hole; one arm raised, gripping a shroud; Captain Ahab stood tall, staring straight ahead beyond the ship’s constantly rising and falling prow. There was an infinite strength of resolve, an unyielding, unstoppable determination in the fixed and fearless focus of his gaze. He didn’t speak a word; nor did his officers say anything to him. Yet through their smallest movements and expressions, they made it clear they felt the uneasy, even painful, awareness of being under the watchful eye of a troubled master. And more than that, the brooding, haunted Ahab stood before them with a look of deep suffering in his face; embodying all the nameless, regal, commanding dignity of someone bearing a tremendous sorrow.
Ere long, from his first visit in the air, he withdrew into his cabin. But after that morning, he was every day visible to the crew; either standing in his pivot-hole, or seated upon an ivory stool he had; or heavily walking the deck. As the sky grew less gloomy; indeed, began to grow a little genial, he became still less and less a recluse; as if, when the ship had sailed from home, nothing but the dead wintry bleakness of the sea had then kept him so secluded. And, by and by, it came to pass, that he was almost continually in the air; but, as yet, for all that he said, or perceptibly did, on the at last sunny deck, he seemed as unnecessary there as another mast. But the Pequod was only making a passage now; not regularly cruising; nearly all whaling preparatives needing supervision the mates were fully competent to, so that there was little or nothing, out of himself, to employ or excite Ahab, now; and thus chase away, for that one interval, the clouds that layer upon layer were piled upon his brow, as ever all clouds choose the loftiest peaks to pile themselves upon.
Before long, after his initial time in the open air, he retreated into his cabin. But from that morning on, he appeared before the crew every day—either standing in his usual spot, sitting on an ivory stool he owned, or pacing heavily across the deck. As the skies became less gloomy and even started to turn a little pleasant, he grew less and less withdrawn, almost as if the only thing keeping him isolated since the ship left home had been the harsh, wintry desolation of the sea. Eventually, he was out in the open air almost constantly. Yet, despite anything he said or visibly did on the now sunlit deck, he seemed as unnecessary there as an extra mast. However, the Pequod was merely on a transit, not actively hunting whales. Most of the necessary preparations for whaling were fully within the mates’ capabilities to handle, leaving little or nothing external to engage or distract Ahab. Because of this, the heavy clouds of his thoughts, stacked relentlessly on his brow like storm clouds gathering on the tallest peaks, remained unbroken during this brief lull.
Nevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the pleasant, holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him from his mood. For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants; so Ahab did, in the end, a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish air. More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look, which, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile.
Before long, the warm and cheerful charm of the pleasant holiday weather we encountered seemed to gradually pull him out of his mood. Just as when the rosy-cheeked, lively dancers April and May skip their way back to the cold, grumpy woods, even the oldest, roughest, and most storm-scarred oak tree will manage to send out a few green sprouts to greet such joyous visitors. In a similar way, Ahab eventually showed some small response to the playful temptations of that youthful air. More than once, a faint trace of expression crossed his face, which, in anyone else, would have quickly bloomed into a smile.
CHAPTER 29. Enter Ahab; to Him, Stubb.
Some days elapsed, and ice and icebergs all astern, the Pequod now went rolling through the bright Quito spring, which, at sea, almost perpetually reigns on the threshold of the eternal August of the Tropic. The warmly cool, clear, ringing, perfumed, overflowing, redundant days, were as crystal goblets of Persian sherbet, heaped up—flaked up, with rose-water snow. The starred and stately nights seemed haughty dames in jewelled velvets, nursing at home in lonely pride, the memory of their absent conquering Earls, the golden helmeted suns! For sleeping man, ’twas hard to choose between such winsome days and such seducing nights. But all the witcheries of that unwaning weather did not merely lend new spells and potencies to the outward world. Inward they turned upon the soul, especially when the still mild hours of eve came on; then, memory shot her crystals as the clear ice most forms of noiseless twilights. And all these subtle agencies, more and more they wrought on Ahab’s texture.
A few days passed, and with the ice and icebergs left behind, the Pequod now sailed through the vibrant spring of Quito, which, at sea, almost always feels like the gateway to the endless summer of the Tropics. The warm, crisp, clear, fragrant days, overflowing with energy, were like crystal goblets filled with Persian sherbet, piled high with rose-water-infused snow. The starry, regal nights felt like proud noblewomen in jeweled velvet gowns, quietly cherishing the memories of their absent, victorious lords—the golden-helmed suns. For the weary crew, it was hard to decide which was more captivating: the charming days or the alluring nights. But the magic of that unchanging weather didn’t just enchant the external world—it seeped inward, into the soul. This was especially true during the calm, gentle hours of the evening, when the fading light brought a quiet reflection, and memory glimmered like clear ice forming in the noiseless twilight. All these subtle, persistent influences began to have a deeper effect on Ahab’s very being.
Old age is always wakeful; as if, the longer linked with life, the less man has to do with aught that looks like death. Among sea-commanders, the old greybeards will oftenest leave their berths to visit the night-cloaked deck. It was so with Ahab; only that now, of late, he seemed so much to live in the open air, that truly speaking, his visits were more to the cabin, than from the cabin to the planks. “It feels like going down into one’s tomb,”—he would mutter to himself—“for an old captain like me to be descending this narrow scuttle, to go to my grave-dug berth.”
Old age is always restless; it's like the longer someone stays tied to life, the less they want anything to do with things that resemble death. Among sea captains, the old veterans are often the ones who leave their bunks to step onto the dark, night-covered deck. It was the same with Ahab, except that lately, he spent so much time outside that, honestly, it felt like he visited the cabin less than he did the deck. “It’s like going down into my own tomb,” he would mutter to himself, “for an old captain like me to climb down this narrow hatch to my grave-like bunk.”
So, almost every twenty-four hours, when the watches of the night were set, and the band on deck sentinelled the slumbers of the band below; and when if a rope was to be hauled upon the forecastle, the sailors flung it not rudely down, as by day, but with some cautiousness dropt it to its place for fear of disturbing their slumbering shipmates; when this sort of steady quietude would begin to prevail, habitually, the silent steersman would watch the cabin-scuttle; and ere long the old man would emerge, gripping at the iron banister, to help his crippled way. Some considering touch of humanity was in him; for at times like these, he usually abstained from patrolling the quarter-deck; because to his wearied mates, seeking repose within six inches of his ivory heel, such would have been the reverberating crack and din of that bony step, that their dreams would have been on the crunching teeth of sharks. But once, the mood was on him too deep for common regardings; and as with heavy, lumber-like pace he was measuring the ship from taffrail to mainmast, Stubb, the old second mate, came up from below, with a certain unassured, deprecating humorousness, hinted that if Captain Ahab was pleased to walk the planks, then, no one could say nay; but there might be some way of muffling the noise; hinting something indistinctly and hesitatingly about a globe of tow, and the insertion into it, of the ivory heel. Ah! Stubb, thou didst not know Ahab then.
So, almost every night, when the crew on watch took their posts and the deck guards stayed vigilant while their shipmates below slept; and when, if a rope needed to be moved on the forecastle, the sailors didn’t throw it down carelessly as they would during the day, but instead lowered it gently to avoid waking their sleeping comrades; when this kind of calm quietness settled over the ship, the silent helmsman would often keep an eye on the cabin hatch. Before long, the old man would appear, gripping the iron railing for support as he hobbled out. There was a certain hint of humanity in him; for at times like these, he usually avoided pacing back and forth on the quarterdeck. To his exhausted crew, trying to rest just inches below his heavy ivory leg, that echoing thud of his step would have seemed like the crunching teeth of sharks invading their dreams. But once, his thoughts were too consuming for him to care about such things. With a heavy, lumbering stride, he was pacing the ship from one end to the mainmast when Stubb, the second mate, came up from below. In a somewhat hesitant yet joking manner, Stubb suggested that if Captain Ahab felt like pacing the deck, no one could stop him, but perhaps there was a way to quiet the noise. He nervously mumbled something about a ball of tow and inserting it under the ivory leg. Ah! Stubb, you didn’t really understand Ahab back then.
“Am I a cannon-ball, Stubb,” said Ahab, “that thou wouldst wad me that fashion? But go thy ways; I had forgot. Below to thy nightly grave; where such as ye sleep between shrouds, to use ye to the filling one at last.—Down, dog, and kennel!”
"Am I a cannonball, Stubb," said Ahab, "that you'd pack me up like that? But go on your way; I forgot. Head down to your nightly grave, where folks like you sleep wrapped in shrouds, getting used to filling one for real someday. Down, dog, to your kennel!"
Starting at the unforseen concluding exclamation of the so suddenly scornful old man, Stubb was speechless a moment; then said excitedly, “I am not used to be spoken to that way, sir; I do but less than half like it, sir.”
Starting with the unexpected outburst from the suddenly scornful old man, Stubb was silent for a moment, then said with irritation, "I'm not used to being spoken to like that, sir, and I don't much care for it, sir."
“Avast! gritted Ahab between his set teeth, and violently moving away, as if to avoid some passionate temptation.
"Stop!" Ahab growled through clenched teeth, pulling away sharply, as if trying to resist a powerful urge.
“No, sir; not yet,” said Stubb, emboldened, “I will not tamely be called a dog, sir.”
"No, sir, not yet," said Stubb boldly. "I won't just stand here and be called a dog, sir."
“Then be called ten times a donkey, and a mule, and an ass, and begone, or I’ll clear the world of thee!”
"Then be called a donkey, a mule, and an idiot ten times over, and get out of here, or I’ll rid the world of you!"
As he said this, Ahab advanced upon him with such overbearing terrors in his aspect, that Stubb involuntarily retreated.
As he said this, Ahab moved toward him with such intimidating intensity in his expression that Stubb instinctively stepped back.
“I was never served so before without giving a hard blow for it,” muttered Stubb, as he found himself descending the cabin-scuttle. “It’s very queer. Stop, Stubb; somehow, now, I don’t well know whether to go back and strike him, or—what’s that?—down here on my knees and pray for him? Yes, that was the thought coming up in me; but it would be the first time I ever did pray. It’s queer; very queer; and he’s queer too; aye, take him fore and aft, he’s about the queerest old man Stubb ever sailed with. How he flashed at me!—his eyes like powder-pans! is he mad? Anyway there’s something on his mind, as sure as there must be something on a deck when it cracks. He aint in his bed now, either, more than three hours out of the twenty-four; and he don’t sleep then. Didn’t that Dough-Boy, the steward, tell me that of a morning he always finds the old man’s hammock clothes all rumpled and tumbled, and the sheets down at the foot, and the coverlid almost tied into knots, and the pillow a sort of frightful hot, as though a baked brick had been on it? A hot old man! I guess he’s got what some folks ashore call a conscience; it’s a kind of Tic-Dolly-row they say—worse nor a toothache. Well, well; I don’t know what it is, but the Lord keep me from catching it. He’s full of riddles; I wonder what he goes into the after hold for, every night, as Dough-Boy tells me he suspects; what’s that for, I should like to know? Who’s made appointments with him in the hold? Ain’t that queer, now? But there’s no telling, it’s the old game—Here goes for a snooze. Damn me, it’s worth a fellow’s while to be born into the world, if only to fall right asleep. And now that I think of it, that’s about the first thing babies do, and that’s a sort of queer, too. Damn me, but all things are queer, come to think of ’em. But that’s against my principles. Think not, is my eleventh commandment; and sleep when you can, is my twelfth—So here goes again. But how’s that? didn’t he call me a dog? blazes! he called me ten times a donkey, and piled a lot of jackasses on top of that! He might as well have kicked me, and done with it. Maybe he did kick me, and I didn’t observe it, I was so taken all aback with his brow, somehow. It flashed like a bleached bone. What the devil’s the matter with me? I don’t stand right on my legs. Coming afoul of that old man has a sort of turned me wrong side out. By the Lord, I must have been dreaming, though—How? how? how?—but the only way’s to stash it; so here goes to hammock again; and in the morning, I’ll see how this plaguey juggling thinks over by daylight.”
"I’ve never been treated like that without hitting back," muttered Stubb as he made his way down the cabin ladder. "This is so strange. Wait a second, Stubb—should I go back up there and hit him, or—what’s this?—should I get down on my knees and pray for him? Yeah, that thought just popped into my head. But praying? That’d be a first for me. Strange, really strange. And he’s strange too—yeah, no doubt, he’s the strangest old man Stubb’s ever sailed with, through and through. Did you see the way he looked at me? His eyes were like flintlock pans ready to spark! Is he crazy? There’s definitely something weighing on him, as sure as there’s something wrong with a deck when it creaks. He’s barely in bed more than three hours a day, and even then, he isn’t really sleeping. Didn’t that Dough-Boy, the steward, tell me that every morning he finds the old man’s hammock a mess—sheets tangled at the foot, blanket almost knotted, pillow hot as if a brick had been baking on it? A downright fiery old man! Maybe he’s got what some folks on land call a conscience—like they say—worse than a toothache. Well, I don’t know what it is, but God help me from getting it. The old man’s full of riddles. I wonder why he sneaks into the after hold every night, like Dough-Boy suspects. What’s up with that? Who’s meeting him down there? Isn’t that weird? But who knows—it’s the same old game. Anyway, time for some sleep. Damn, it’s worth being born just so you can experience the bliss of falling asleep. Now that I think about it, that’s one of the first things babies do—and that’s kind of weird too, come to think of it. Damn it, everything’s weird when you think about it too much. And that’s against my principles—don’t think too hard, that’s my eleventh commandment. Sleep whenever you can, that’s my twelfth. So here we go. But wait—didn’t he call me a dog? Damn it! He called me a donkey, like, ten times over, and then added a whole bunch of jackasses on top of it! He might as well have kicked me and gotten it over with. Maybe he *did* kick me, and I didn’t even notice because I was so thrown off by that look of his. His face, it was like a flash of lightning or a polished bone. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t even stand straight. Running into that old man has completely messed me up. My God, was I dreaming? How? What? No, no—it’s no use thinking about it now. Time to hit the hammock again, and by morning, maybe this crazy nonsense will make more sense in the daylight."
CHAPTER 30. The Pipe.
When Stubb had departed, Ahab stood for a while leaning over the bulwarks; and then, as had been usual with him of late, calling a sailor of the watch, he sent him below for his ivory stool, and also his pipe. Lighting the pipe at the binnacle lamp and planting the stool on the weather side of the deck, he sat and smoked.
When Stubb had left, Ahab stood for a moment leaning over the rail; then, as he’d been doing often lately, he called a sailor from the watch and sent him below to grab his ivory stool and his pipe. He lit the pipe using the binnacle lamp, placed the stool on the windward side of the deck, sat down, and smoked.
In old Norse times, the thrones of the sea-loving Danish kings were fabricated, saith tradition, of the tusks of the narwhale. How could one look at Ahab then, seated on that tripod of bones, without bethinking him of the royalty it symbolized? For a Khan of the plank, and a king of the sea, and a great lord of Leviathans was Ahab.
In ancient Norse times, the thrones of the sea-loving Danish kings were, according to tradition, made from the tusks of narwhals. How could anyone look at Ahab, sitting on that tripod of bones, without being reminded of the royalty it represented? Ahab was a ruler of the ship, a king of the ocean, and a great lord of whales.
Some moments passed, during which the thick vapor came from his mouth in quick and constant puffs, which blew back again into his face. “How now,” he soliloquized at last, withdrawing the tube, “this smoking no longer soothes. Oh, my pipe! hard must it go with me if thy charm be gone! Here have I been unconsciously toiling, not pleasuring—aye, and ignorantly smoking to windward all the while; to windward, and with such nervous whiffs, as if, like the dying whale, my final jets were the strongest and fullest of trouble. What business have I with this pipe? This thing that is meant for sereneness, to send up mild white vapors among mild white hairs, not among torn iron-grey locks like mine. I’ll smoke no more—”
Some time passed as thick vapor streamed from his mouth in quick, steady puffs, blowing back into his face. "What’s this," he muttered to himself after a while, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "Smoking doesn’t calm me anymore. Oh, my pipe! Things must be bad if your magic has worn off! I’ve been mindlessly working instead of relaxing—yeah, and cluelessly smoking upwind the whole time; upwind, with these frantic puffs, like a dying whale whose last spouts are the strongest and most troubled. What am I doing with this pipe? This thing is supposed to bring calm, to send up gentle white smoke alongside gentle white hair—not with my ragged, graying locks. No more smoking for me—"
He tossed the still lighted pipe into the sea. The fire hissed in the waves; the same instant the ship shot by the bubble the sinking pipe made. With slouched hat, Ahab lurchingly paced the planks.
He threw the still-lit pipe into the sea. The fire sizzled in the waves, and at the same moment, the ship sped past the bubble left by the sinking pipe. With his hat pulled low, Ahab walked unsteadily back and forth on the deck.
CHAPTER 31. Queen Mab.
Next morning Stubb accosted Flask.
The next morning, Stubb confronted Flask.
“Such a queer dream, King-Post, I never had. You know the old man’s ivory leg, well I dreamed he kicked me with it; and when I tried to kick back, upon my soul, my little man, I kicked my leg right off! And then, presto! Ahab seemed a pyramid, and I, like a blazing fool, kept kicking at it. But what was still more curious, Flask—you know how curious all dreams are—through all this rage that I was in, I somehow seemed to be thinking to myself, that after all, it was not much of an insult, that kick from Ahab. ‘Why,’ thinks I, ‘what’s the row? It’s not a real leg, only a false leg.’ And there’s a mighty difference between a living thump and a dead thump. That’s what makes a blow from the hand, Flask, fifty times more savage to bear than a blow from a cane. The living member—that makes the living insult, my little man. And thinks I to myself all the while, mind, while I was stubbing my silly toes against that cursed pyramid—so confoundedly contradictory was it all, all the while, I say, I was thinking to myself, ‘what’s his leg now, but a cane—a whalebone cane. Yes,’ thinks I, ‘it was only a playful cudgelling—in fact, only a whaleboning that he gave me—not a base kick. Besides,’ thinks I, ‘look at it once; why, the end of it—the foot part—what a small sort of end it is; whereas, if a broad footed farmer kicked me, there’s a devilish broad insult. But this insult is whittled down to a point only.’ But now comes the greatest joke of the dream, Flask. While I was battering away at the pyramid, a sort of badger-haired old merman, with a hump on his back, takes me by the shoulders, and slews me round. ‘What are you ’bout?’ says he. Slid! man, but I was frightened. Such a phiz! But, somehow, next moment I was over the fright. ‘What am I about?’ says I at last. ‘And what business is that of yours, I should like to know, Mr. Humpback? Do you want a kick?’ By the lord, Flask, I had no sooner said that, than he turned round his stern to me, bent over, and dragging up a lot of seaweed he had for a clout—what do you think, I saw?—why thunder alive, man, his stern was stuck full of marlinspikes, with the points out. Says I, on second thoughts, ‘I guess I won’t kick you, old fellow.’ ‘Wise Stubb,’ said he, ‘wise Stubb;’ and kept muttering it all the time, a sort of eating of his own gums like a chimney hag. Seeing he wasn’t going to stop saying over his ‘wise Stubb, wise Stubb,’ I thought I might as well fall to kicking the pyramid again. But I had only just lifted my foot for it, when he roared out, ‘Stop that kicking!’ ‘Halloa,’ says I, ‘what’s the matter now, old fellow?’ ‘Look ye here,’ says he; ‘let’s argue the insult. Captain Ahab kicked ye, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ says I—‘right here it was.’ ‘Very good,’ says he—‘he used his ivory leg, didn’t he?’ ‘Yes, he did,’ says I. ‘Well then,’ says he, ‘wise Stubb, what have you to complain of? Didn’t he kick with right good will? it wasn’t a common pitch pine leg he kicked with, was it? No, you were kicked by a great man, and with a beautiful ivory leg, Stubb. It’s an honor; I consider it an honor. Listen, wise Stubb. In old England the greatest lords think it great glory to be slapped by a queen, and made garter-knights of; but, be your boast, Stubb, that ye were kicked by old Ahab, and made a wise man of. Remember what I say; be kicked by him; account his kicks honors; and on no account kick back; for you can’t help yourself, wise Stubb. Don’t you see that pyramid?’ With that, he all of a sudden seemed somehow, in some queer fashion, to swim off into the air. I snored; rolled over; and there I was in my hammock! Now, what do you think of that dream, Flask?”
"Man, King-Post, I had such a bizarre dream! You know the old man’s ivory leg? Well, I dreamed he kicked me with it. And when I tried to kick him back—believe it or not—I kicked my own leg clean off! Then, suddenly, Ahab looked like a giant pyramid, and there I was, kicking at it like a complete idiot. But here’s the weirdest part, Flask—you know how strange dreams can be—while I was all worked up and kicking, I was also thinking, ‘Honestly, it’s not such a big deal, being kicked by Ahab like that.’ I thought, ‘What’s the fuss? It’s not even a real leg, just a fake one.’ And there’s a big difference, you know, between being hit by something alive and something dead. That’s what makes a punch worse than being hit with a stick. A living hand delivers a personal insult, little guy. And as I was angrily stubbing my toes on that stupid pyramid—so completely absurd, by the way—I was still thinking, ‘What is his leg, really, but a cane? A whalebone cane. It wasn’t an insult, just a playful tap with a stick. Honestly, more like a “whaleboning” than a real kick.’ Then I thought, ‘Look at the end of it—it’s not even a proper foot, just a tiny point. Now, if some big-footed farmer had kicked me, that’d be a real insult. But this? Nah, it’s tiny.’ But here’s the punchline, Flask. As I was pounding away at the pyramid, this old, badger-haired sea creature with a hump on his back comes up, grabs my shoulders, and spins me around. ‘What are you doing?’ he says. Man, I was so startled—his face was terrifying! But somehow, I got over the scare in a second. So I said, ‘What do you want to know for, Mr. Humpback? You want a kick too?’ And, Flask, the second I said it, the guy turns around, bends over, and pulls aside this seaweed cloth he’s wearing. And what do I see? His backside was covered in marlinspikes sticking out like spikes on a sea urchin! And I thought, ‘You know what? On second thought, maybe I won’t kick you, buddy.’ Then he says, ‘Smart move, Stubb, smart move.’ He just kept mumbling that to himself over and over, all creepy-like, gnawing at his gums like some hag stoking a chimney fire. And since he wasn’t stopping his weird little mantra of ‘Smart Stubb, smart Stubb,’ I figured I’d go back to kicking at the pyramid. But just as I raised my foot, he shouts, ‘Stop that kicking!’ So I said, ‘What now, old-timer?’ And he looks at me and says, ‘Let’s break this down. Ahab kicked you, didn’t he?’ ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Right here.’ ‘Good,’ he says. ‘And he used his ivory leg, yeah?’ ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Well, then,’ he goes, ‘wise Stubb, what’s the problem? He kicked you with some serious style—it wasn’t some regular wooden peg-leg, was it? No, it was a pure ivory leg. A great man’s kick! You should feel honored, Stubb. Think of it this way: back in old England, some of the most powerful lords thought it was a privilege to get slapped by the queen and made knights for it. So let that be your claim to fame. You, Stubb—kicked by old Captain Ahab himself and made wise for it. Remember this—treat his kicks like medals of honor, and whatever you do, don’t try to kick back. You can’t win. Don’t you see that pyramid?’ And with that, Flask, he suddenly floated off into the air like some kind of ghostly sea creature. Next thing I know, I snored, rolled over, and there I was in my hammock. So, what do you think of that crazy dream, Flask?"
“I don’t know; it seems a sort of foolish to me, tho.’”
"I don't know; it seems kind of silly to me, though."
“May be; may be. But it’s made a wise man of me, Flask. D’ye see Ahab standing there, sideways looking over the stern? Well, the best thing you can do, Flask, is to let the old man alone; never speak to him, whatever he says. Halloa! What’s that he shouts? Hark!”
"Maybe, maybe. But it’s made me a wiser man, Flask. Do you see Ahab standing over there, sideways, looking out over the stern? Well, the best thing you can do, Flask, is to leave the old man alone; don’t talk to him, no matter what he says. Hey! What’s that he’s shouting? Listen!"
“Mast-head, there! Look sharp, all of ye! There are whales hereabouts!
"Masthead, up there! Stay alert, all of you! There are whales around here!"
“If ye see a white one, split your lungs for him!
"If you see a white one, shout at the top of your lungs for him!"
“What do you think of that now, Flask? ain’t there a small drop of something queer about that, eh? A white whale—did ye mark that, man? Look ye—there’s something special in the wind. Stand by for it, Flask. Ahab has that that’s bloody on his mind. But, mum; he comes this way.”
"What do you think of that now, Flask? Isn’t there something a little strange about that, huh? A white whale—did you catch that, man? Look—there’s something going on, something big. Be ready for it, Flask. Ahab’s got something dangerous on his mind. But shh; he’s coming this way."
CHAPTER 32. Cetology.
Already we are boldly launched upon the deep; but soon we shall be lost in its unshored, harbourless immensities. Ere that come to pass; ere the Pequod’s weedy hull rolls side by side with the barnacled hulls of the leviathan; at the outset it is but well to attend to a matter almost indispensable to a thorough appreciative understanding of the more special leviathanic revelations and allusions of all sorts which are to follow.
We’ve already set off boldly into the vast ocean, but soon we’ll be lost in its endless, shoreless immensity. Before that happens—before the Pequod’s weedy hull drifts alongside the barnacle-covered bodies of the great whales—it’s a good idea at the start to address something essential for fully understanding the specific whale-related revelations and references that are about to come.
It is some systematized exhibition of the whale in his broad genera, that I would now fain put before you. Yet is it no easy task. The classification of the constituents of a chaos, nothing less is here essayed. Listen to what the best and latest authorities have laid down.
I want to present you with an organized overview of the whale in its general categories. But this is no simple task. Trying to classify the elements of chaos—that's basically what we're attempting here. Take note of what the most reliable and recent experts have established.
“No branch of Zoology is so much involved as that which is entitled Cetology,” says Captain Scoresby, A.D. 1820.
"No part of zoology is as complicated as the one called cetology," said Captain Scoresby in 1820.
“It is not my intention, were it in my power, to enter into the inquiry as to the true method of dividing the cetacea into groups and families. * * * Utter confusion exists among the historians of this animal” (sperm whale), says Surgeon Beale, A.D. 1839.
"It’s not my goal, even if I could, to delve into figuring out the correct way to classify whales into groups and families. * * * There’s total confusion among the historians of this creature," (sperm whale), says Surgeon Beale in 1839.
“Unfitness to pursue our research in the unfathomable waters.” “Impenetrable veil covering our knowledge of the cetacea.” “A field strewn with thorns.” “All these incomplete indications but serve to torture us naturalists.”
"Unable to continue our research in the mysterious depths." "An impenetrable curtain hides our understanding of whales." "A field full of obstacles." "All these vague clues only cause frustration for us naturalists."
Thus speak of the whale, the great Cuvier, and John Hunter, and Lesson, those lights of zoology and anatomy. Nevertheless, though of real knowledge there be little, yet of books there are a plenty; and so in some small degree, with cetology, or the science of whales. Many are the men, small and great, old and new, landsmen and seamen, who have at large or in little, written of the whale. Run over a few:—The Authors of the Bible; Aristotle; Pliny; Aldrovandi; Sir Thomas Browne; Gesner; Ray; Linnæus; Rondeletius; Willoughby; Green; Artedi; Sibbald; Brisson; Marten; Lacépède; Bonneterre; Desmarest; Baron Cuvier; Frederick Cuvier; John Hunter; Owen; Scoresby; Beale; Bennett; J. Ross Browne; the Author of Miriam Coffin; Olmstead; and the Rev. T. Cheever. But to what ultimate generalizing purpose all these have written, the above cited extracts will show.
This is what Cuvier, John Hunter, and Lesson—those giants of zoology and anatomy—say about whales. Even though there's not much truly solid knowledge, there are plenty of books, and so, to some extent, this applies to cetology, or the study of whales. Many people, from average to brilliant, ancient to modern, sailors to land-dwellers, have written extensively—or just briefly—about whales. Here's a quick list: the authors of the Bible; Aristotle; Pliny; Aldrovandi; Sir Thomas Browne; Gesner; Ray; Linnaeus; Rondeletius; Willoughby; Green; Artedi; Sibbald; Brisson; Marten; Lacépède; Bonneterre; Desmarest; Baron Cuvier; Frederick Cuvier; John Hunter; Owen; Scoresby; Beale; Bennett; J. Ross Browne; the author of *Miriam Coffin*; Olmstead; and Reverend T. Cheever. However, to understand the overall point of all their writings, the excerpts given earlier make it clear.
Of the names in this list of whale authors, only those following Owen ever saw living whales; and but one of them was a real professional harpooneer and whaleman. I mean Captain Scoresby. On the separate subject of the Greenland or right-whale, he is the best existing authority. But Scoresby knew nothing and says nothing of the great sperm whale, compared with which the Greenland whale is almost unworthy mentioning. And here be it said, that the Greenland whale is an usurper upon the throne of the seas. He is not even by any means the largest of the whales. Yet, owing to the long priority of his claims, and the profound ignorance which, till some seventy years back, invested the then fabulous or utterly unknown sperm-whale, and which ignorance to this present day still reigns in all but some few scientific retreats and whale-ports; this usurpation has been every way complete. Reference to nearly all the leviathanic allusions in the great poets of past days, will satisfy you that the Greenland whale, without one rival, was to them the monarch of the seas. But the time has at last come for a new proclamation. This is Charing Cross; hear ye! good people all,—the Greenland whale is deposed,—the great sperm whale now reigneth!
Of the authors listed here, only those after Owen ever saw live whales, and only one of them was an actual harpooner and whaler: Captain Scoresby. When it comes to the Greenland or right whale, he’s the top expert. But Scoresby neither knew nor spoke about the great sperm whale, which makes the Greenland whale almost unworthy of mention in comparison. Let it be said here that the Greenland whale has been a pretender to the throne of the seas. It isn’t even the largest of the whales. Yet, because of its earlier recognition and the deep ignorance that surrounded the sperm whale—back then considered either mythical or entirely unknown—until about seventy years ago, and which still persists for most people outside certain scientific circles and whaling ports, this pretension has been entirely successful. Nearly every reference to huge sea creatures in the great works of poets from earlier times will show you that the Greenland whale, without competition, was seen as the ruler of the seas. But the time has finally come for a new announcement. This is Charing Cross—hear this, everyone: the Greenland whale has been dethroned—the great sperm whale now rules!
There are only two books in being which at all pretend to put the living sperm whale before you, and at the same time, in the remotest degree succeed in the attempt. Those books are Beale’s and Bennett’s; both in their time surgeons to English South-Sea whale-ships, and both exact and reliable men. The original matter touching the sperm whale to be found in their volumes is necessarily small; but so far as it goes, it is of excellent quality, though mostly confined to scientific description. As yet, however, the sperm whale, scientific or poetic, lives not complete in any literature. Far above all other hunted whales, his is an unwritten life.
There are only two books in existence that even attempt to present the living sperm whale to you, and to any extent, succeed in that effort. Those books are by Beale and Bennett; both were, in their time, surgeons on English South-Sea whaling ships, and both were precise and trustworthy men. The original content about the sperm whale in their volumes is necessarily limited, but what is there is of excellent quality, even though it’s mostly focused on scientific description. However, to this day, the sperm whale—whether seen through a scientific or poetic lens—does not exist fully portrayed in any literature. Above all other hunted whales, his life remains unwritten.
Now the various species of whales need some sort of popular comprehensive classification, if only an easy outline one for the present, hereafter to be filled in all its departments by subsequent laborers. As no better man advances to take this matter in hand, I hereupon offer my own poor endeavors. I promise nothing complete; because any human thing supposed to be complete, must for that very reason infallibly be faulty. I shall not pretend to a minute anatomical description of the various species, or—in this place at least—to much of any description. My object here is simply to project the draught of a systematization of cetology. I am the architect, not the builder.
The different types of whales need some kind of simple and popular classification—at least an easy outline for now, to be expanded later by others who work on it. Since no one more qualified has stepped up to tackle this, I’ll offer my own humble attempts. I’m not claiming it will be complete, because anything said to be complete is bound to have flaws. I won’t try to give a detailed anatomical description of the different species—or, at least not here—or much of any description, really. My goal is simply to sketch out the framework for organizing cetology. I’m the designer, not the builder.
But it is a ponderous task; no ordinary letter-sorter in the Post-Office is equal to it. To grope down into the bottom of the sea after them; to have one’s hands among the unspeakable foundations, ribs, and very pelvis of the world; this is a fearful thing. What am I that I should essay to hook the nose of this leviathan! The awful tauntings in Job might well appal me. Will he (the leviathan) make a covenant with thee? Behold the hope of him is vain! But I have swam through libraries and sailed through oceans; I have had to do with whales with these visible hands; I am in earnest; and I will try. There are some preliminaries to settle.
But it’s a massive job—no regular mail sorter at the post office could handle it. To reach down to the bottom of the sea for them, to feel around in the unspeakable depths, among the very foundations, the ribs, and bones of the world—this is terrifying. Who am I to attempt to hook this leviathan? The dreadful warnings in the Book of Job could easily leave me shaken. Will the leviathan make a deal with you? Look, putting your hope in him is useless! But I’ve swum through libraries and crossed oceans; I’ve dealt with whales with these very hands. I’m serious about this, and I’ll try. But first, there are a few things to settle.
First: The uncertain, unsettled condition of this science of Cetology is in the very vestibule attested by the fact, that in some quarters it still remains a moot point whether a whale be a fish. In his System of Nature, A.D. 1776, Linnæus declares, “I hereby separate the whales from the fish.” But of my own knowledge, I know that down to the year 1850, sharks and shad, alewives and herring, against Linnæus’s express edict, were still found dividing the possession of the same seas with the Leviathan.
First: The uncertain and unsettled state of the science of Cetology is clear right from the start, shown by the fact that some people still argue about whether a whale is a fish. In his *System of Nature* (1776), Linnæus stated, “I hereby separate the whales from the fish.” But as far as I know, even up until 1850, sharks, shad, alewives, and herring, despite Linnæus’s clear declaration, were still sharing the same seas with the Leviathan.
The grounds upon which Linnæus would fain have banished the whales from the waters, he states as follows: “On account of their warm bilocular heart, their lungs, their movable eyelids, their hollow ears, penem intrantem feminam mammis lactantem,” and finally, “ex lege naturæ jure meritoque.” I submitted all this to my friends Simeon Macey and Charley Coffin, of Nantucket, both messmates of mine in a certain voyage, and they united in the opinion that the reasons set forth were altogether insufficient. Charley profanely hinted they were humbug.
The reasons Linnæus gave for wanting to classify whales outside of aquatic creatures go like this: “Because they have a warm, two-chambered heart, lungs, eyelids that can move, ear cavities, reproductive anatomy like land mammals, and they nurse their young with milk,” and finally, “according to the law of nature, rightly and justly.” I ran all this by my friends Simeon Macey and Charley Coffin from Nantucket, who were my shipmates on a certain voyage, and they both agreed that these reasons weren’t convincing at all. Charley even bluntly suggested it was nonsense.
Be it known that, waiving all argument, I take the good old fashioned ground that the whale is a fish, and call upon holy Jonah to back me. This fundamental thing settled, the next point is, in what internal respect does the whale differ from other fish. Above, Linnæus has given you those items. But in brief, they are these: lungs and warm blood; whereas, all other fish are lungless and cold blooded.
Let it be known, skipping any argument, I stick to the good old-fashioned idea that the whale is a fish, and I call on holy Jonah to support me. With this basic idea settled, the next question is: how is the whale internally different from other fish? As Linnæus has already outlined above, the key differences are these: whales have lungs and warm blood, while all other fish have no lungs and are cold-blooded.
Next: how shall we define the whale, by his obvious externals, so as conspicuously to label him for all time to come? To be short, then, a whale is a spouting fish with a horizontal tail. There you have him. However contracted, that definition is the result of expanded meditation. A walrus spouts much like a whale, but the walrus is not a fish, because he is amphibious. But the last term of the definition is still more cogent, as coupled with the first. Almost any one must have noticed that all the fish familiar to landsmen have not a flat, but a vertical, or up-and-down tail. Whereas, among spouting fish the tail, though it may be similarly shaped, invariably assumes a horizontal position.
Next: how should we define a whale by its obvious external features, so it's clearly identified for all time? To put it simply, a whale is a spouting fish with a horizontal tail. There you go. Though it's a brief definition, it comes after careful thought. A walrus may spout like a whale, but it's not a fish because it's amphibious. However, the final part of the definition is even more convincing when paired with the first. Almost everyone has probably noticed that most fish familiar to people on land have vertical, or up-and-down tails, not flat ones. But with spouting fish, the tail, even if it’s shaped similarly, always takes a horizontal position.
By the above definition of what a whale is, I do by no means exclude from the leviathanic brotherhood any sea creature hitherto identified with the whale by the best informed Nantucketers; nor, on the other hand, link with it any fish hitherto authoritatively regarded as alien.* Hence, all the smaller, spouting, and horizontal tailed fish must be included in this ground-plan of Cetology. Now, then, come the grand divisions of the entire whale host.
Using the definition of a whale above, I definitely don’t exclude any sea creature that the most knowledgeable people from Nantucket have identified as a whale. At the same time, I don’t link any fish that have been officially regarded as unrelated. * So, all smaller, spouting, and horizontally-tailed fish are included in this general overview of Cetology. Now, let’s move on to the main divisions of the entire whale species.
*I am aware that down to the present time, the fish styled Lamatins and Dugongs (Pig-fish and Sow-fish of the Coffins of Nantucket) are included by many naturalists among the whales. But as these pig-fish are a noisy, contemptible set, mostly lurking in the mouths of rivers, and feeding on wet hay, and especially as they do not spout, I deny their credentials as whales; and have presented them with their passports to quit the Kingdom of Cetology.
I know that up until now, fish like manatees and dugongs (called pig-fish and sow-fish by the folks from Nantucket) have been classified as whales by many scientists. But since these pig-fish are noisy and unimpressive creatures that mostly hang out in river mouths, munching on wet grass, and especially because they don’t spout, I don’t consider them whales. I’ve essentially handed them their passports and kicked them out of the Kingdom of Cetology.
First: According to magnitude I divide the whales into three primary BOOKS (subdivisible into CHAPTERS), and these shall comprehend them all, both small and large.
First: Based on size, I categorize whales into three main BOOKS (which can be divided into CHAPTERS), covering them all, both big and small.
I. THE FOLIO WHALE; II. the OCTAVO WHALE; III. the DUODECIMO WHALE.
I. The Folio Whale; II. The Octavo Whale; III. The Duodecimo Whale.
As the type of the FOLIO I present the Sperm Whale; of the OCTAVO, the Grampus; of the DUODECIMO, the Porpoise.
As an example of the FOLIO, I present the Sperm Whale; for the OCTAVO, the Grampus; and for the DUODECIMO, the Porpoise.
FOLIOS. Among these I here include the following chapters:—I. The Sperm Whale; II. the Right Whale; III. the Fin-Back Whale; IV. the Hump-backed Whale; V. the Razor Back Whale; VI. the Sulphur Bottom Whale.
FOLIOS. In this section, I’m including the following chapters:—I. The Sperm Whale; II. The Right Whale; III. The Fin-Back Whale; IV. The Hump-backed Whale; V. The Razor Back Whale; VI. The Sulphur Bottom Whale.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER I. (Sperm Whale).—This whale, among the English of old vaguely known as the Trumpa whale, and the Physeter whale, and the Anvil Headed whale, is the present Cachalot of the French, and the Pottsfich of the Germans, and the Macrocephalus of the Long Words. He is, without doubt, the largest inhabitant of the globe; the most formidable of all whales to encounter; the most majestic in aspect; and lastly, by far the most valuable in commerce; he being the only creature from which that valuable substance, spermaceti, is obtained. All his peculiarities will, in many other places, be enlarged upon. It is chiefly with his name that I now have to do. Philologically considered, it is absurd. Some centuries ago, when the Sperm whale was almost wholly unknown in his own proper individuality, and when his oil was only accidentally obtained from the stranded fish; in those days spermaceti, it would seem, was popularly supposed to be derived from a creature identical with the one then known in England as the Greenland or Right Whale. It was the idea also, that this same spermaceti was that quickening humor of the Greenland Whale which the first syllable of the word literally expresses. In those times, also, spermaceti was exceedingly scarce, not being used for light, but only as an ointment and medicament. It was only to be had from the druggists as you nowadays buy an ounce of rhubarb. When, as I opine, in the course of time, the true nature of spermaceti became known, its original name was still retained by the dealers; no doubt to enhance its value by a notion so strangely significant of its scarcity. And so the appellation must at last have come to be bestowed upon the whale from which this spermaceti was really derived.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER I. (Sperm Whale).—This whale, previously known among the English as the Trumpa whale, the Physeter whale, or the Anvil Headed whale, is called the Cachalot by the French, the Pottsfich by the Germans, and the Macrocephalus in scientific terminology. Without a doubt, it is the largest creature on Earth, the most dangerous whale to face, the most impressive in appearance, and by far the most commercially valuable, as it is the only animal that provides the prized substance known as spermaceti. All of its unique traits will be discussed in detail elsewhere; right now, I’m focusing on its name. Linguistically speaking, the name doesn’t make much sense. A few centuries ago, when the Sperm whale was largely unidentified as a distinct species, and its oil was only occasionally obtained from beached specimens, spermaceti was commonly thought to come from a creature identified in England as the Greenland or Right Whale. People believed that spermaceti represented a life-giving essence of the Greenland Whale, which is reflected in the literal meaning of the word’s first syllable. Back then, spermaceti was extremely rare and wasn’t used for lighting—it was only employed as a medicine or ointment, sold by druggists the way you might purchase a small quantity of a medicinal herb today. Over time, when the true origin of spermaceti was discovered, the original name stuck, probably because it seemed to emphasize its rarity and value. Eventually, the name came to be associated with the whale from which this substance was genuinely derived.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER II. (Right Whale).—In one respect this is the most venerable of the leviathans, being the one first regularly hunted by man. It yields the article commonly known as whalebone or baleen; and the oil specially known as “whale oil,” an inferior article in commerce. Among the fishermen, he is indiscriminately designated by all the following titles: The Whale; the Greenland Whale; the Black Whale; the Great Whale; the True Whale; the Right Whale. There is a deal of obscurity concerning the identity of the species thus multitudinously baptised. What then is the whale, which I include in the second species of my Folios? It is the Great Mysticetus of the English naturalists; the Greenland Whale of the English whalemen; the Baleine Ordinaire of the French whalemen; the Growlands Walfish of the Swedes. It is the whale which for more than two centuries past has been hunted by the Dutch and English in the Arctic seas; it is the whale which the American fishermen have long pursued in the Indian ocean, on the Brazil Banks, on the Nor’ West Coast, and various other parts of the world, designated by them Right Whale Cruising Grounds.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER II. (Right Whale).—In one way, this is the most respected of the leviathans, as it's the first one to be regularly hunted by humans. It provides the material commonly called whalebone or baleen, as well as the oil specifically known as “whale oil,” which is considered lower quality in the market. Among fishermen, it goes by many names, including: The Whale; the Greenland Whale; the Black Whale; the Great Whale; the True Whale; and the Right Whale. There’s quite a bit of confusion about the exact identity of the species called by all these names. So, what is the whale I classify as the second species in my Folios? It’s the Great Mysticetus, according to English naturalists; the Greenland Whale, according to English whalers; the Baleine Ordinaire, as the French whalers refer to it; and the Growlands Walfish to the Swedes. This is the whale that has been hunted for over 200 years by the Dutch and English in Arctic waters, and it’s also the whale that American fishermen have long pursued in the Indian Ocean, on the Brazil Banks, along the Northwest Coast, and in many other areas they call Right Whale Cruising Grounds.
Some pretend to see a difference between the Greenland whale of the English and the right whale of the Americans. But they precisely agree in all their grand features; nor has there yet been presented a single determinate fact upon which to ground a radical distinction. It is by endless subdivisions based upon the most inconclusive differences, that some departments of natural history become so repellingly intricate. The right whale will be elsewhere treated of at some length, with reference to elucidating the sperm whale.
Some people claim there's a difference between the Greenland whale that the English talk about and the right whale known to Americans. But they are exactly the same in all their major characteristics, and no definitive fact has been found to justify a fundamental distinction. It's through endless categorization based on the tiniest and most inconclusive differences that certain areas of natural history become so unnecessarily complicated. The right whale will be discussed in more detail later, particularly in relation to understanding the sperm whale.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER III. (Fin-Back).—Under this head I reckon a monster which, by the various names of Fin-Back, Tall-Spout, and Long-John, has been seen almost in every sea and is commonly the whale whose distant jet is so often descried by passengers crossing the Atlantic, in the New York packet-tracks. In the length he attains, and in his baleen, the Fin-back resembles the right whale, but is of a less portly girth, and a lighter colour, approaching to olive. His great lips present a cable-like aspect, formed by the intertwisting, slanting folds of large wrinkles. His grand distinguishing feature, the fin, from which he derives his name, is often a conspicuous object. This fin is some three or four feet long, growing vertically from the hinder part of the back, of an angular shape, and with a very sharp pointed end. Even if not the slightest other part of the creature be visible, this isolated fin will, at times, be seen plainly projecting from the surface. When the sea is moderately calm, and slightly marked with spherical ripples, and this gnomon-like fin stands up and casts shadows upon the wrinkled surface, it may well be supposed that the watery circle surrounding it somewhat resembles a dial, with its style and wavy hour-lines graved on it. On that Ahaz-dial the shadow often goes back. The Fin-Back is not gregarious. He seems a whale-hater, as some men are man-haters. Very shy; always going solitary; unexpectedly rising to the surface in the remotest and most sullen waters; his straight and single lofty jet rising like a tall misanthropic spear upon a barren plain; gifted with such wondrous power and velocity in swimming, as to defy all present pursuit from man; this leviathan seems the banished and unconquerable Cain of his race, bearing for his mark that style upon his back. From having the baleen in his mouth, the Fin-Back is sometimes included with the right whale, among a theoretic species denominated Whalebone whales, that is, whales with baleen. Of these so called Whalebone whales, there would seem to be several varieties, most of which, however, are little known. Broad-nosed whales and beaked whales; pike-headed whales; bunched whales; under-jawed whales and rostrated whales, are the fishermen’s names for a few sorts.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER III. (Fin-Back).—In this section, I’m talking about a type of whale known by various names like Fin-Back, Tall-Spout, and Long-John. This whale has been spotted in almost every ocean and is often the one whose distant spouts are seen by passengers crossing the Atlantic on New York packet routes. In length and the structure of its baleen, the Fin-Back is similar to the right whale, but it has a slimmer build and a lighter, olive-toned color. Its large lips have a rope-like appearance, created by the overlapping, slanted folds of deep wrinkles. The most distinguishing feature of this whale—and the reason for its name—is its prominent fin. This fin is about three or four feet long, standing vertically from the rear part of its back, shaped angularly with a sharply pointed end. Even if no other part of the whale is visible, this solitary fin is often seen sticking out of the water. When the sea is relatively calm, with soft spherical ripples, and this upright, sundial-like fin casts a shadow on the wrinkled surface, it’s easy to imagine the scene resembling a clock face, with the fin acting as its hand and its shadows forming wavering time marks. On this imaginary "Ahaz dial," the shadow sometimes seems to move backward. The Fin-Back is a solitary creature, not social. It seems to disdain other whales the way some people dislike mankind. It's extremely shy, always alone, surfacing unexpectedly in the most isolated and desolate waters. Its single, tall spray of water rises straight like a lonely, defiant spear in an empty wasteland. Capable of incredible speed and strength when swimming, the Fin-Back is almost impossible for humans to chase or capture. This whale appears to be the outcast of its kind—the untouchable, indomitable “Cain” of the whale world, carrying its signature fin as its mark. Since it has baleen in its mouth, the Fin-Back is sometimes grouped with the right whale under a conceptual category called Whalebone whales—whales with baleen. Within this group, there seem to be several subcategories, most of which are not well understood. Fishermen have named a few types, including broad-nosed whales, beaked whales, pike-headed whales, bunched whales, under-jawed whales, and rostrated whales.
In connection with this appellative of “Whalebone whales,” it is of great importance to mention, that however such a nomenclature may be convenient in facilitating allusions to some kind of whales, yet it is in vain to attempt a clear classification of the Leviathan, founded upon either his baleen, or hump, or fin, or teeth; notwithstanding that those marked parts or features very obviously seem better adapted to afford the basis for a regular system of Cetology than any other detached bodily distinctions, which the whale, in his kinds, presents. How then? The baleen, hump, back-fin, and teeth; these are things whose peculiarities are indiscriminately dispersed among all sorts of whales, without any regard to what may be the nature of their structure in other and more essential particulars. Thus, the sperm whale and the humpbacked whale, each has a hump; but there the similitude ceases. Then, this same humpbacked whale and the Greenland whale, each of these has baleen; but there again the similitude ceases. And it is just the same with the other parts above mentioned. In various sorts of whales, they form such irregular combinations; or, in the case of any one of them detached, such an irregular isolation; as utterly to defy all general methodization formed upon such a basis. On this rock every one of the whale-naturalists has split.
When it comes to calling them “Whalebone whales,” it’s important to note that while this naming might make it easier to refer to certain types of whales, it’s pointless to try to create a clear classification of whales based on features like their baleen, hump, fin, or teeth. Although these noticeable traits might seem like good starting points for a systematic study of whales, they don’t provide a reliable foundation because these features are scattered arbitrarily across different types of whales without aligning with other key characteristics. For example, both the sperm whale and the humpback whale have a hump, but that’s where the similarity ends. Similarly, the humpback whale and the Greenland whale both have baleen, but, again, the likeness stops there. The same inconsistency applies to all the other features mentioned. Across various types of whales, these traits appear in such unpredictable combinations—or in isolated, irregular ways—that any attempt to create a consistent system based on them becomes impossible. Every whale researcher so far has struggled with this issue.
But it may possibly be conceived that, in the internal parts of the whale, in his anatomy—there, at least, we shall be able to hit the right classification. Nay; what thing, for example, is there in the Greenland whale’s anatomy more striking than his baleen? Yet we have seen that by his baleen it is impossible correctly to classify the Greenland whale. And if you descend into the bowels of the various leviathans, why there you will not find distinctions a fiftieth part as available to the systematizer as those external ones already enumerated. What then remains? nothing but to take hold of the whales bodily, in their entire liberal volume, and boldly sort them that way. And this is the Bibliographical system here adopted; and it is the only one that can possibly succeed, for it alone is practicable. To proceed.
But maybe it could be imagined that, by studying the internal parts of the whale—its anatomy—we might finally manage to classify it correctly. Nope. Take the Greenland whale, for example: what’s more remarkable in its anatomy than its baleen? And yet, as we’ve seen, the baleen doesn’t allow us to accurately classify the Greenland whale. If we delve into the internal workings of various kinds of whales, we won’t find differences even a fraction as useful for classification as the external characteristics already mentioned. So what’s left? The only option is to consider the whales as a whole, in their full impressive form, and classify them that way. That’s the bibliographical system used here, and frankly, it’s the only way that works, because it’s the only one that’s practical. Let’s continue.
BOOK I. (Folio) CHAPTER IV. (Hump Back).—This whale is often seen on the northern American coast. He has been frequently captured there, and towed into harbor. He has a great pack on him like a peddler; or you might call him the Elephant and Castle whale. At any rate, the popular name for him does not sufficiently distinguish him, since the sperm whale also has a hump though a smaller one. His oil is not very valuable. He has baleen. He is the most gamesome and light-hearted of all the whales, making more gay foam and white water generally than any other of them.
BOOK I. (Folio) CHAPTER IV. (Humpback).—This whale is often spotted along the northern American coast. People have frequently captured it there and hauled it into harbor. It has a large hump on its back, much like a peddler's pack, or you might compare it to the Elephant and Castle sign. Either way, its popular name isn’t very specific, as the sperm whale also has a hump, though smaller. Its oil isn’t very valuable, but it does have baleen. This whale is the most playful and cheerful of them all, creating more lively foam and splashing white water than any of the others.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER V. (Razor Back).—Of this whale little is known but his name. I have seen him at a distance off Cape Horn. Of a retiring nature, he eludes both hunters and philosophers. Though no coward, he has never yet shown any part of him but his back, which rises in a long sharp ridge. Let him go. I know little more of him, nor does anybody else.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER V. (Razor Back).—Not much is known about this whale apart from its name. I’ve seen it from a distance near Cape Horn. It’s elusive by nature, avoiding both hunters and researchers. While it’s not a coward, the only part it’s ever revealed is its back, which forms a long, sharp ridge. Let it be. I don’t know much else about it, and neither does anyone else.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER VI. (Sulphur Bottom).—Another retiring gentleman, with a brimstone belly, doubtless got by scraping along the Tartarian tiles in some of his profounder divings. He is seldom seen; at least I have never seen him except in the remoter southern seas, and then always at too great a distance to study his countenance. He is never chased; he would run away with rope-walks of line. Prodigies are told of him. Adieu, Sulphur Bottom! I can say nothing more that is true of ye, nor can the oldest Nantucketer.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER VI. (Sulphur Bottom).—Another reserved gentleman, with a sulfur-yellow belly, probably from scraping along the volcanic seabed during his deeper dives. He’s rarely seen; at least, I’ve only spotted him in the far southern oceans, and even then, always from too far away to make out his features. No one ever chases him; he would outstrip miles of rope lines. Incredible stories are told about him. Farewell, Sulphur Bottom! There’s nothing more I can truthfully say about you, and neither can the oldest sailor from Nantucket.
Thus ends BOOK I. (Folio), and now begins BOOK II. (Octavo).
And so ends BOOK I. (Folio), and now begins BOOK II. (Octavo).
OCTAVOES.*—These embrace the whales of middling magnitude, among which present may be numbered:—I., the Grampus; II., the Black Fish; III., the Narwhale; IV., the Thrasher; V., the Killer.
OCTAVOS.*—These include whales of medium size, which currently may be listed as:—I., the Grampus; II., the Black Fish; III., the Narwhal; IV., the Thrasher; V., the Killer.
*Why this book of whales is not denominated the Quarto is very plain. Because, while the whales of this order, though smaller than those of the former order, nevertheless retain a proportionate likeness to them in figure, yet the bookbinder’s Quarto volume in its dimensioned form does not preserve the shape of the Folio volume, but the Octavo volume does.
Why this book of whales isn’t called the Quarto is pretty straightforward. While whales in this group, though smaller than those in the previous group, still share a proportional resemblance in shape, a bookbinder’s Quarto-sized book doesn’t maintain the same shape as a Folio-sized book—but an Octavo-sized book does.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER I. (Grampus).—Though this fish, whose loud sonorous breathing, or rather blowing, has furnished a proverb to landsmen, is so well known a denizen of the deep, yet is he not popularly classed among whales. But possessing all the grand distinctive features of the leviathan, most naturalists have recognised him for one. He is of moderate octavo size, varying from fifteen to twenty-five feet in length, and of corresponding dimensions round the waist. He swims in herds; he is never regularly hunted, though his oil is considerable in quantity, and pretty good for light. By some fishermen his approach is regarded as premonitory of the advance of the great sperm whale.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER I. (Grampus).—Even though this fish, whose loud, echoing breaths—or more accurately, blows—have inspired a saying among land-dwellers, is a well-known resident of the ocean, it isn’t commonly grouped with whales. However, because it shares all the major defining traits of the leviathan, most scientists have classified it as one. It’s a medium-sized creature in the octavo range, measuring between fifteen and twenty-five feet long, with a proportionate girth. It swims in groups, isn’t regularly hunted, although its oil is produced in decent amounts and is fairly good for lighting. Some fishermen see its arrival as a sign that the great sperm whale is on its way.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER II. (Black Fish).—I give the popular fishermen’s names for all these fish, for generally they are the best. Where any name happens to be vague or inexpressive, I shall say so, and suggest another. I do so now, touching the Black Fish, so-called, because blackness is the rule among almost all whales. So, call him the Hyena Whale, if you please. His voracity is well known, and from the circumstance that the inner angles of his lips are curved upwards, he carries an everlasting Mephistophelean grin on his face. This whale averages some sixteen or eighteen feet in length. He is found in almost all latitudes. He has a peculiar way of showing his dorsal hooked fin in swimming, which looks something like a Roman nose. When not more profitably employed, the sperm whale hunters sometimes capture the Hyena whale, to keep up the supply of cheap oil for domestic employment—as some frugal housekeepers, in the absence of company, and quite alone by themselves, burn unsavory tallow instead of odorous wax. Though their blubber is very thin, some of these whales will yield you upwards of thirty gallons of oil.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER II. (Black Fish).—I’m using the fishermen’s common names for all these whales, as they’re usually the most accurate. If a name is unclear or doesn’t fit, I’ll point it out and suggest a better one. That’s what I’m doing now with the Black Fish. It’s called that because most whales are generally dark in color. But you might as well call it the Hyena Whale, if you like. Its greediness is well-known, and its lips curve upward at the corners, giving it a permanent devilish grin, like something out of Mephistopheles. This whale is usually about sixteen to eighteen feet long and can be found nearly everywhere. It has a unique way of showing its dorsal hooked fin while swimming, which resembles the curve of a Roman nose. When sperm whale hunters have no better targets, they’ll sometimes catch the Hyena Whale to maintain their supply of cheap oil for general household use—similar to how thrifty housekeepers, when alone and not entertaining guests, might use foul-smelling tallow instead of fragrant wax. Even though its blubber is pretty thin, some of these whales can still produce more than thirty gallons of oil.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER III. (Narwhale), that is, Nostril whale.—Another instance of a curiously named whale, so named I suppose from his peculiar horn being originally mistaken for a peaked nose. The creature is some sixteen feet in length, while its horn averages five feet, though some exceed ten, and even attain to fifteen feet. Strictly speaking, this horn is but a lengthened tusk, growing out from the jaw in a line a little depressed from the horizontal. But it is only found on the sinister side, which has an ill effect, giving its owner something analogous to the aspect of a clumsy left-handed man. What precise purpose this ivory horn or lance answers, it would be hard to say. It does not seem to be used like the blade of the sword-fish and bill-fish; though some sailors tell me that the Narwhale employs it for a rake in turning over the bottom of the sea for food. Charley Coffin said it was used for an ice-piercer; for the Narwhale, rising to the surface of the Polar Sea, and finding it sheeted with ice, thrusts his horn up, and so breaks through. But you cannot prove either of these surmises to be correct. My own opinion is, that however this one-sided horn may really be used by the Narwhale—however that may be—it would certainly be very convenient to him for a folder in reading pamphlets. The Narwhale I have heard called the Tusked whale, the Horned whale, and the Unicorn whale. He is certainly a curious example of the Unicornism to be found in almost every kingdom of animated nature. From certain cloistered old authors I have gathered that this same sea-unicorn’s horn was in ancient days regarded as the great antidote against poison, and as such, preparations of it brought immense prices. It was also distilled to a volatile salts for fainting ladies, the same way that the horns of the male deer are manufactured into hartshorn. Originally it was in itself accounted an object of great curiosity. Black Letter tells me that Sir Martin Frobisher on his return from that voyage, when Queen Bess did gallantly wave her jewelled hand to him from a window of Greenwich Palace, as his bold ship sailed down the Thames; “when Sir Martin returned from that voyage,” saith Black Letter, “on bended knees he presented to her highness a prodigious long horn of the Narwhale, which for a long period after hung in the castle at Windsor.” An Irish author avers that the Earl of Leicester, on bended knees, did likewise present to her highness another horn, pertaining to a land beast of the unicorn nature.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER III. (Narwhal), that is, Nostril whale.—Here’s another example of a whale with an unusual name, probably called so because its unique horn was once mistaken for a pointed nose. This creature is about sixteen feet long, with its horn averaging around five feet, although some can grow over ten feet and even up to fifteen feet in length. Technically, this horn is just an elongated tusk that extends from the jaw at a slightly downward angle. Interestingly, it only grows on the left side, which gives the narwhal a somewhat awkward, lopsided appearance—similar to a clumsy left-handed person. What exactly this ivory horn or lance is used for is uncertain. It doesn’t appear to function like the sharp blades of a swordfish or a billfish, though some sailors claim the narwhal uses it like a rake to dig up the ocean floor for food. Charley Coffin suggested it might work as an ice breaker, with the narwhal using it to punch through the frozen surface of the polar sea to breathe. However, neither of these theories can be definitively proven. Personally, I think that whatever the horn’s real purpose might be, it would definitely make a fine tool for opening pamphlets. The narwhal is also called the Tusked whale, the Horned whale, and the Unicorn whale. It’s undoubtedly a fascinating example of the "unicorn" trait seen throughout various forms of life in nature. From some old, obscure writers, I’ve learned that in ancient times, the narwhal’s horn was considered a powerful antidote to poison, which made it incredibly valuable. People even made it into volatile salts to revive fainting women, much like how deer horns are processed into hartshorn. Back then, the horn itself was a prized curiosity. Black Letter tells me that when Sir Martin Frobisher returned from his famous voyage, Queen Elizabeth waved her jeweled hand at him from a window of Greenwich Palace as his ship sailed down the Thames. “Upon his return,” says Black Letter, “Sir Martin, on bended knee, presented her majesty with a remarkably long narwhal horn, which hung in Windsor Castle for a long time afterward.” An Irish writer adds that the Earl of Leicester, also kneeling, gifted her majesty another horn—this one belonging to a land-based unicorn-like creature.
The Narwhale has a very picturesque, leopard-like look, being of a milk-white ground colour, dotted with round and oblong spots of black. His oil is very superior, clear and fine; but there is little of it, and he is seldom hunted. He is mostly found in the circumpolar seas.
The Narwhal has a striking, leopard-like appearance, with a milk-white base color covered in round and oblong black spots. Its oil is of excellent quality—clear and fine—but there’s not much of it, so it’s rarely hunted. It is mostly found in the Arctic seas.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER IV. (Killer).—Of this whale little is precisely known to the Nantucketer, and nothing at all to the professed naturalist. From what I have seen of him at a distance, I should say that he was about the bigness of a grampus. He is very savage—a sort of Feegee fish. He sometimes takes the great Folio whales by the lip, and hangs there like a leech, till the mighty brute is worried to death. The Killer is never hunted. I never heard what sort of oil he has. Exception might be taken to the name bestowed upon this whale, on the ground of its indistinctness. For we are all killers, on land and on sea; Bonapartes and Sharks included.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER IV. (Killer).—Not much is really known about this whale by the Nantucketers, and the so-called naturalists know nothing at all. From what I've observed of him from afar, I’d guess he’s about the size of a grampus. He’s very aggressive—a kind of wild Feegee fish. Sometimes, he clamps onto the giant Folio whales by the lip and hangs on like a leech until the massive creature is harassed to death. The Killer is never hunted. I’ve never heard anything about the type of oil he produces. Some might criticize the name given to this whale, claiming it’s too vague. After all, we’re all killers, whether on land or at sea—Bonapartes and sharks included.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER V. (Thrasher).—This gentleman is famous for his tail, which he uses for a ferule in thrashing his foes. He mounts the Folio whale’s back, and as he swims, he works his passage by flogging him; as some schoolmasters get along in the world by a similar process. Still less is known of the Thrasher than of the Killer. Both are outlaws, even in the lawless seas.
BOOK II. (Octavo), CHAPTER V. (Thrasher).—This guy is well-known for his tail, which he uses like a whip to thrash his enemies. He climbs onto the back of a Folio whale, and as he swims, he moves forward by whipping it—kind of like how some strict schoolteachers make their way in life through similar methods. Even less is known about the Thrasher than the Killer. Both are renegades, even in the untamed seas.
Thus ends BOOK II. (Octavo), and begins BOOK III. (Duodecimo).
That’s the end of BOOK II. (Octavo), and the start of BOOK III. (Duodecimo).
DUODECIMOES.—These include the smaller whales. I. The Huzza Porpoise. II. The Algerine Porpoise. III. The Mealy-mouthed Porpoise.
DUODECIMOES.—These are the smaller whales: I. The Huzza Porpoise, II. The Algerine Porpoise, III. The Mealy-mouthed Porpoise.
To those who have not chanced specially to study the subject, it may possibly seem strange, that fishes not commonly exceeding four or five feet should be marshalled among WHALES—a word, which, in the popular sense, always conveys an idea of hugeness. But the creatures set down above as Duodecimoes are infallibly whales, by the terms of my definition of what a whale is—i.e. a spouting fish, with a horizontal tail.
To people who haven’t specifically studied the topic, it might seem odd that fish typically only four or five feet long are categorized as WHALES—a word that usually suggests something enormous. But the creatures listed above as Duodecimos are undeniably whales, according to my definition of what a whale is—i.e. a spouting fish with a horizontal tail.
BOOK III. (Duodecimo), CHAPTER 1. (Huzza Porpoise).—This is the common porpoise found almost all over the globe. The name is of my own bestowal; for there are more than one sort of porpoises, and something must be done to distinguish them. I call him thus, because he always swims in hilarious shoals, which upon the broad sea keep tossing themselves to heaven like caps in a Fourth-of-July crowd. Their appearance is generally hailed with delight by the mariner. Full of fine spirits, they invariably come from the breezy billows to windward. They are the lads that always live before the wind. They are accounted a lucky omen. If you yourself can withstand three cheers at beholding these vivacious fish, then heaven help ye; the spirit of godly gamesomeness is not in ye. A well-fed, plump Huzza Porpoise will yield you one good gallon of good oil. But the fine and delicate fluid extracted from his jaws is exceedingly valuable. It is in request among jewellers and watchmakers. Sailors put it on their hones. Porpoise meat is good eating, you know. It may never have occurred to you that a porpoise spouts. Indeed, his spout is so small that it is not very readily discernible. But the next time you have a chance, watch him; and you will then see the great Sperm whale himself in miniature.
BOOK III. (Duodecimo), CHAPTER 1. (Huzza Porpoise).—This is the common porpoise found almost everywhere around the world. The name is one I came up with because there are several types of porpoises, and they need to be distinguished somehow. I call it this because it always swims in cheerful groups, leaping joyfully in the open sea like hats tossed in a Fourth of July crowd. Sailors usually welcome their appearance with excitement. Full of energy, they always come from the windy waves upwind. These guys are always riding with the wind, and they’re seen as a sign of good luck. If you can resist joining in with cheers when you see these lively creatures, then good luck to you—because the spirit of playful fun isn’t in you. A healthy, well-fed Huzza Porpoise will give you about a gallon of high-quality oil. However, the fine, delicate fluid extracted from its jaws is especially valuable and highly sought after by jewelers and watchmakers. Sailors even use it for sharpening their blades. Porpoise meat is tasty, by the way. You might not have realized that a porpoise spouts water, but it does. Its spout is so small that it’s easy to miss, but next time you get the chance, watch closely—then you’ll see a tiny version of the mighty Sperm whale.
BOOK III. (Duodecimo), CHAPTER II. (Algerine Porpoise).—A pirate. Very savage. He is only found, I think, in the Pacific. He is somewhat larger than the Huzza Porpoise, but much of the same general make. Provoke him, and he will buckle to a shark. I have lowered for him many times, but never yet saw him captured.
BOOK III. (Duodecimo), CHAPTER II. (Algerine Porpoise).—A pirate. Very fierce. I think he’s only found in the Pacific. He’s a bit bigger than the Huzza Porpoise, but with a similar overall shape. If you provoke him, he’ll take on a shark head-on. I’ve gone after him many times, but I’ve never seen one caught.
BOOK III. (Duodecimo), CHAPTER III. (Mealy-mouthed Porpoise).—The largest kind of Porpoise; and only found in the Pacific, so far as it is known. The only English name, by which he has hitherto been designated, is that of the fishers—Right-Whale Porpoise, from the circumstance that he is chiefly found in the vicinity of that Folio. In shape, he differs in some degree from the Huzza Porpoise, being of a less rotund and jolly girth; indeed, he is of quite a neat and gentleman-like figure. He has no fins on his back (most other porpoises have), he has a lovely tail, and sentimental Indian eyes of a hazel hue. But his mealy-mouth spoils all. Though his entire back down to his side fins is of a deep sable, yet a boundary line, distinct as the mark in a ship’s hull, called the “bright waist,” that line streaks him from stem to stern, with two separate colours, black above and white below. The white comprises part of his head, and the whole of his mouth, which makes him look as if he had just escaped from a felonious visit to a meal-bag. A most mean and mealy aspect! His oil is much like that of the common porpoise.
BOOK III. (Duodecimo), CHAPTER III. (Mealy-mouthed Porpoise).—This is the largest type of porpoise, and as far as we know, it’s only found in the Pacific. The only English name it’s been called so far is the one given by fishermen—Right-Whale Porpoise—because it’s usually spotted near that species of whale. Its shape is a bit different from the Huzza Porpoise, being slimmer and more refined—not as round and jolly. It actually has a sleek, gentlemanly appearance. It doesn’t have any fins on its back (while most other porpoises do), but it boasts a graceful tail and hazel-colored eyes that are soft and expressive, almost poetic. However, its mealy mouth ruins the look. Its back, all the way down to its side fins, is a dark black, but there’s a sharp dividing line, like the “bright waist” of a ship, splitting it into two contrasting colors—black on top and white on the bottom. The white extends over part of its head and its entire mouth, making it seem like it just got caught sneaking into a bag of flour. It’s not a flattering look—a shabby and flour-dusted appearance! Its oil is pretty similar to that of a regular porpoise.
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Beyond the DUODECIMO, this system does not proceed, inasmuch as the Porpoise is the smallest of the whales. Above, you have all the Leviathans of note. But there are a rabble of uncertain, fugitive, half-fabulous whales, which, as an American whaleman, I know by reputation, but not personally. I shall enumerate them by their fore-castle appellations; for possibly such a list may be valuable to future investigators, who may complete what I have here but begun. If any of the following whales, shall hereafter be caught and marked, then he can readily be incorporated into this System, according to his Folio, Octavo, or Duodecimo magnitude:—The Bottle-Nose Whale; the Junk Whale; the Pudding-Headed Whale; the Cape Whale; the Leading Whale; the Cannon Whale; the Scragg Whale; the Coppered Whale; the Elephant Whale; the Iceberg Whale; the Quog Whale; the Blue Whale; etc. From Icelandic, Dutch, and old English authorities, there might be quoted other lists of uncertain whales, blessed with all manner of uncouth names. But I omit them as altogether obsolete; and can hardly help suspecting them for mere sounds, full of Leviathanism, but signifying nothing.
Beyond the DUODECIMO, this system doesn't go any further, since the Porpoise is the smallest of the whales. Above, you have all the notable Leviathans. But there’s a chaotic group of uncertain, elusive, half-mythical whales that, as an American whaler, I know by reputation but not firsthand. I’ll list them by their common shipboard names, as such a list might be useful to future researchers who could finish what I’ve only started here. If any of the following whales are ever caught and identified, they can be easily added to this system based on their Folio, Octavo, or Duodecimo size:—The Bottle-Nose Whale; the Junk Whale; the Pudding-Headed Whale; the Cape Whale; the Leading Whale; the Cannon Whale; the Scragg Whale; the Coppered Whale; the Elephant Whale; the Iceberg Whale; the Quog Whale; the Blue Whale; and so on. From Icelandic, Dutch, and old English sources, other lists of uncertain whales could be provided, bearing all sorts of strange names. But I’m leaving them out as they’re entirely outdated, and I can’t help but suspect they’re just sounds—full of grandeur but ultimately meaningless.
Finally: It was stated at the outset, that this system would not be here, and at once, perfected. You cannot but plainly see that I have kept my word. But I now leave my cetological System standing thus unfinished, even as the great Cathedral of Cologne was left, with the crane still standing upon the top of the uncompleted tower. For small erections may be finished by their first architects; grand ones, true ones, ever leave the copestone to posterity. God keep me from ever completing anything. This whole book is but a draught—nay, but the draught of a draught. Oh, Time, Strength, Cash, and Patience!
Finally: I mentioned at the beginning that this system wouldn't be complete or perfect right away. You can clearly see that I've kept my promise. But now, I leave my Cetological System unfinished, much like the great Cologne Cathedral, left with a crane still sitting on top of its incomplete tower. Small projects can be completed by their original creators; grand, meaningful ones always leave the final touch to future generations. May I never finish anything completely. This entire book is just a rough draft—actually, it's just a draft of a rough draft. Oh, Time, Strength, Money, and Patience!
CHAPTER 33. The Specksnyder.
Concerning the officers of the whale-craft, this seems as good a place as any to set down a little domestic peculiarity on ship-board, arising from the existence of the harpooneer class of officers, a class unknown of course in any other marine than the whale-fleet.
Regarding the officers of the whaling ship, this seems like a good place to point out a unique aspect of life onboard, stemming from the presence of the harpooner class of officers—a group, naturally, found only in the whaling industry and no other type of maritime service.
The large importance attached to the harpooneer’s vocation is evinced by the fact, that originally in the old Dutch Fishery, two centuries and more ago, the command of a whale ship was not wholly lodged in the person now called the captain, but was divided between him and an officer called the Specksnyder. Literally this word means Fat-Cutter; usage, however, in time made it equivalent to Chief Harpooneer. In those days, the captain’s authority was restricted to the navigation and general management of the vessel; while over the whale-hunting department and all its concerns, the Specksnyder or Chief Harpooneer reigned supreme. In the British Greenland Fishery, under the corrupted title of Specksioneer, this old Dutch official is still retained, but his former dignity is sadly abridged. At present he ranks simply as senior Harpooneer; and as such, is but one of the captain’s more inferior subalterns. Nevertheless, as upon the good conduct of the harpooneers the success of a whaling voyage largely depends, and since in the American Fishery he is not only an important officer in the boat, but under certain circumstances (night watches on a whaling ground) the command of the ship’s deck is also his; therefore the grand political maxim of the sea demands, that he should nominally live apart from the men before the mast, and be in some way distinguished as their professional superior; though always, by them, familiarly regarded as their social equal.
The significant importance of the harpooner’s role is shown by the fact that, originally, in the old Dutch whaling industry over two centuries ago, the command of a whaling ship wasn’t solely in the hands of the person we now call the captain. Instead, it was shared between the captain and an officer known as the Specksnyder. This word literally means "Fat-Cutter," but over time, it became synonymous with "Chief Harpooner." Back then, the captain’s authority was limited to managing navigation and the overall operation of the vessel, while the whale-hunting side of things and everything related to it was entirely under the control of the Specksnyder or Chief Harpooner. In the British Greenland whaling industry, this position is still recognized, though under the modified title of Specksioneer, but its former prominence has been greatly reduced. Today, he is simply ranked as the senior harpooner and is considered one of the captain’s lower-ranking subordinates. However, since the success of a whaling voyage depends heavily on the skill and conduct of the harpooners, and because in the American whaling industry he plays a major role in the boat and occasionally assumes command of the ship’s deck (such as during night watches on a whaling ground), the fundamental rule of sea politics dictates that he should nominally live apart from the regular crew and be recognized as their professional superior—even though he is still, among them, regarded as their social equal.
Now, the grand distinction drawn between officer and man at sea, is this—the first lives aft, the last forward. Hence, in whale-ships and merchantmen alike, the mates have their quarters with the captain; and so, too, in most of the American whalers the harpooneers are lodged in the after part of the ship. That is to say, they take their meals in the captain’s cabin, and sleep in a place indirectly communicating with it.
The big difference between officers and crew at sea is this: officers stay in the back of the ship, and the crew stays in the front. Because of this, on both whaling ships and merchant ships, the mates are quartered with the captain. Similarly, on most American whalers, the harpooners are also housed in the rear part of the ship. This means they eat in the captain’s cabin and sleep in a spot that’s indirectly connected to it.
Though the long period of a Southern whaling voyage (by far the longest of all voyages now or ever made by man), the peculiar perils of it, and the community of interest prevailing among a company, all of whom, high or low, depend for their profits, not upon fixed wages, but upon their common luck, together with their common vigilance, intrepidity, and hard work; though all these things do in some cases tend to beget a less rigorous discipline than in merchantmen generally; yet, never mind how much like an old Mesopotamian family these whalemen may, in some primitive instances, live together; for all that, the punctilious externals, at least, of the quarter-deck are seldom materially relaxed, and in no instance done away. Indeed, many are the Nantucket ships in which you will see the skipper parading his quarter-deck with an elated grandeur not surpassed in any military navy; nay, extorting almost as much outward homage as if he wore the imperial purple, and not the shabbiest of pilot-cloth.
Even though a Southern whaling voyage (by far the longest of any journey ever undertaken by humans) comes with its unique dangers and the shared sense of purpose among the crew—where everyone, from the captain to the lowest hand, relies on shared luck instead of fixed wages, along with a collective effort of alertness, bravery, and hard work—these factors may sometimes lead to a looser discipline compared to merchant ships. Still, no matter how much these whalers may live together like an old Mesopotamian family in certain primitive cases, the formalities of the quarterdeck are rarely compromised and never completely abandoned. In fact, on many Nantucket ships, you can find the captain striding across the quarterdeck with a pride and authority rivaling that of any naval officer, sometimes commanding nearly as much respect as if he were dressed in royal robes rather than the scruffiest pilot-cloth.
And though of all men the moody captain of the Pequod was the least given to that sort of shallowest assumption; and though the only homage he ever exacted, was implicit, instantaneous obedience; though he required no man to remove the shoes from his feet ere stepping upon the quarter-deck; and though there were times when, owing to peculiar circumstances connected with events hereafter to be detailed, he addressed them in unusual terms, whether of condescension or in terrorem, or otherwise; yet even Captain Ahab was by no means unobservant of the paramount forms and usages of the sea.
Even though the brooding captain of the Pequod was the last person to engage in shallow pretenses, and even though the only respect he ever demanded was instant and unquestioning obedience—he never required anyone to remove their shoes before stepping on the quarterdeck—and despite occasional moments, due to unique circumstances that will be explained later, when he spoke to them in unexpected ways, whether with condescension, intimidation (in terrorem), or something else, even Captain Ahab was far from ignoring the most essential traditions and customs of life at sea.
Nor, perhaps, will it fail to be eventually perceived, that behind those forms and usages, as it were, he sometimes masked himself; incidentally making use of them for other and more private ends than they were legitimately intended to subserve. That certain sultanism of his brain, which had otherwise in a good degree remained unmanifested; through those forms that same sultanism became incarnate in an irresistible dictatorship. For be a man’s intellectual superiority what it will, it can never assume the practical, available supremacy over other men, without the aid of some sort of external arts and entrenchments, always, in themselves, more or less paltry and base. This it is, that for ever keeps God’s true princes of the Empire from the world’s hustings; and leaves the highest honors that this air can give, to those men who become famous more through their infinite inferiority to the choice hidden handful of the Divine Inert, than through their undoubted superiority over the dead level of the mass. Such large virtue lurks in these small things when extreme political superstitions invest them, that in some royal instances even to idiot imbecility they have imparted potency. But when, as in the case of Nicholas the Czar, the ringed crown of geographical empire encircles an imperial brain; then, the plebeian herds crouch abased before the tremendous centralization. Nor, will the tragic dramatist who would depict mortal indomitableness in its fullest sweep and direct swing, ever forget a hint, incidentally so important in his art, as the one now alluded to.
It might eventually be recognized that, at times, he hid himself behind those traditions and practices, using them for more personal purposes than they were officially meant to serve. The commanding power of his mind, which might otherwise have remained unseen, became a physical reality—a kind of unstoppable authority—through those same forms. No matter how brilliant someone’s intellect may be, it can never achieve actual, practical dominance over others without the help of some kind of external tools or systems, which are, in themselves, usually trivial and imperfect. This is what forever keeps the true leaders of God’s empire away from public platforms and allows the highest worldly honors to go to men who become famous, not because they belong to the elite group of the Divine Elect, but rather due to their ability to rise above the mediocre masses. Even small, seemingly insignificant things can hold great power when exaggerated through fanatical political beliefs, so much so that, in certain cases, even utter stupidity has been given strength. But when, as with Nicholas the Czar, the crown of a massive empire rests on a brilliant mind, the common people bow in submission to such overwhelming central authority. And any tragic playwright aiming to portray unyielding human determination at its most expansive and direct expression would never overlook this insight, which is so significant to their craft.
But Ahab, my Captain, still moves before me in all his Nantucket grimness and shagginess; and in this episode touching Emperors and Kings, I must not conceal that I have only to do with a poor old whale-hunter like him; and, therefore, all outward majestical trappings and housings are denied me. Oh, Ahab! what shall be grand in thee, it must needs be plucked at from the skies, and dived for in the deep, and featured in the unbodied air!
But Ahab, my captain, still stands before me in all his rough, rugged Nantucket ways; and in this story about emperors and kings, I must admit that I’m only dealing with a simple old whale-hunter like him. So, all the fancy, majestic decorations and appearances are beyond my reach. Oh, Ahab! Whatever greatness there is in you must be pulled down from the heavens, dived for in the depths, and shaped from the invisible air!
CHAPTER 34. The Cabin-Table.
It is noon; and Dough-Boy, the steward, thrusting his pale loaf-of-bread face from the cabin-scuttle, announces dinner to his lord and master; who, sitting in the lee quarter-boat, has just been taking an observation of the sun; and is now mutely reckoning the latitude on the smooth, medallion-shaped tablet, reserved for that daily purpose on the upper part of his ivory leg. From his complete inattention to the tidings, you would think that moody Ahab had not heard his menial. But presently, catching hold of the mizen shrouds, he swings himself to the deck, and in an even, unexhilarated voice, saying, “Dinner, Mr. Starbuck,” disappears into the cabin.
It's midday, and Dough-Boy, the steward, pokes his pale, bread-like face out of the cabin hatch to announce dinner to his boss, who is sitting by the lee quarter-boat. Ahab has just been observing the sun and is now silently calculating the latitude on the smooth, medallion-shaped surface at the top of his ivory leg, a spot reserved for this daily task. From his complete lack of reaction, you'd think moody Ahab hadn't heard him. But soon, grabbing hold of the mizzen shrouds, he swings himself down to the deck and, in a calm but emotionless voice, says, "Dinner, Mr. Starbuck," before disappearing into the cabin.
When the last echo of his sultan’s step has died away, and Starbuck, the first Emir, has every reason to suppose that he is seated, then Starbuck rouses from his quietude, takes a few turns along the planks, and, after a grave peep into the binnacle, says, with some touch of pleasantness, “Dinner, Mr. Stubb,” and descends the scuttle. The second Emir lounges about the rigging awhile, and then slightly shaking the main brace, to see whether it will be all right with that important rope, he likewise takes up the old burden, and with a rapid “Dinner, Mr. Flask,” follows after his predecessors.
When the sound of the captain’s footsteps has completely faded, and Starbuck, the first officer, has every reason to believe he’s seated, Starbuck stirs from his stillness, paces the deck a few times, glances seriously into the binnacle, and with a hint of cheerfulness says, “Dinner, Mr. Stubb,” before heading down the hatch. The second officer lingers around the rigging for a bit, gives the main brace a small shake to check if everything’s in order with that important rope, then takes up his usual cue and, with a quick “Dinner, Mr. Flask,” follows the others below.
But the third Emir, now seeing himself all alone on the quarter-deck, seems to feel relieved from some curious restraint; for, tipping all sorts of knowing winks in all sorts of directions, and kicking off his shoes, he strikes into a sharp but noiseless squall of a hornpipe right over the Grand Turk’s head; and then, by a dexterous sleight, pitching his cap up into the mizentop for a shelf, he goes down rollicking so far at least as he remains visible from the deck, reversing all other processions, by bringing up the rear with music. But ere stepping into the cabin doorway below, he pauses, ships a new face altogether, and, then, independent, hilarious little Flask enters King Ahab’s presence, in the character of Abjectus, or the Slave.
But the third Emir, now realizing he’s completely alone on the quarterdeck, seems to loosen up as though free from some strange restraint. Winking slyly in every possible direction and kicking off his shoes, he breaks into a quiet but lively hornpipe dance right above the Grand Turk’s head. Then, with a quick and clever move, he tosses his cap into the mizzenmast top to use as a shelf and continues his wild antics—at least until he disappears from view—ending the scene with music as he amusingly brings up the rear of the reversed procession. But just before stepping through the cabin doorway below, he stops, adopts an entirely new expression, and, in a transformed manner, the carefree and spirited little Flask enters Captain Ahab’s presence in the role of Abjectus, or the Slave.
It is not the least among the strange things bred by the intense artificialness of sea-usages, that while in the open air of the deck some officers will, upon provocation, bear themselves boldly and defyingly enough towards their commander; yet, ten to one, let those very officers the next moment go down to their customary dinner in that same commander’s cabin, and straightway their inoffensive, not to say deprecatory and humble air towards him, as he sits at the head of the table; this is marvellous, sometimes most comical. Wherefore this difference? A problem? Perhaps not. To have been Belshazzar, King of Babylon; and to have been Belshazzar, not haughtily but courteously, therein certainly must have been some touch of mundane grandeur. But he who in the rightly regal and intelligent spirit presides over his own private dinner-table of invited guests, that man’s unchallenged power and dominion of individual influence for the time; that man’s royalty of state transcends Belshazzar’s, for Belshazzar was not the greatest. Who has but once dined his friends, has tasted what it is to be Cæsar. It is a witchery of social czarship which there is no withstanding. Now, if to this consideration you superadd the official supremacy of a ship-master, then, by inference, you will derive the cause of that peculiarity of sea-life just mentioned.
One of the strange things about the artificial customs of life at sea is that while some officers, out on the open deck, might boldly and even defiantly challenge their captain when provoked, the odds are high that the very same officers, moments later, will head down to their usual dinner in that captain's cabin and suddenly adopt a polite, almost overly humble attitude toward him as he sits at the head of the table. It's remarkable—sometimes even downright funny. Why does this happen? Is it a mystery? Maybe not. To have been Belshazzar, King of Babylon, and to have carried oneself not arrogantly but courteously, surely had its own worldly grandeur. But the one who, with true regal intelligence, hosts a private dinner at his table for invited guests—his power and personal influence in that setting, for the moment, surpasses that of Belshazzar. For Belshazzar was not the greatest. Anyone who has hosted a gathering at their table knows what it feels like to achieve a kind of Caesar-like authority. It’s a spellbinding influence of social power that can’t be resisted. Now, if you combine that with the official authority of a ship's captain, it becomes clear why this unique aspect of sea life exists.
Over his ivory-inlaid table, Ahab presided like a mute, maned sea-lion on the white coral beach, surrounded by his warlike but still deferential cubs. In his own proper turn, each officer waited to be served. They were as little children before Ahab; and yet, in Ahab, there seemed not to lurk the smallest social arrogance. With one mind, their intent eyes all fastened upon the old man’s knife, as he carved the chief dish before him. I do not suppose that for the world they would have profaned that moment with the slightest observation, even upon so neutral a topic as the weather. No! And when reaching out his knife and fork, between which the slice of beef was locked, Ahab thereby motioned Starbuck’s plate towards him, the mate received his meat as though receiving alms; and cut it tenderly; and a little started if, perchance, the knife grazed against the plate; and chewed it noiselessly; and swallowed it, not without circumspection. For, like the Coronation banquet at Frankfort, where the German Emperor profoundly dines with the seven Imperial Electors, so these cabin meals were somehow solemn meals, eaten in awful silence; and yet at table old Ahab forbade not conversation; only he himself was dumb. What a relief it was to choking Stubb, when a rat made a sudden racket in the hold below. And poor little Flask, he was the youngest son, and little boy of this weary family party. His were the shinbones of the saline beef; his would have been the drumsticks. For Flask to have presumed to help himself, this must have seemed to him tantamount to larceny in the first degree. Had he helped himself at that table, doubtless, never more would he have been able to hold his head up in this honest world; nevertheless, strange to say, Ahab never forbade him. And had Flask helped himself, the chances were Ahab had never so much as noticed it. Least of all, did Flask presume to help himself to butter. Whether he thought the owners of the ship denied it to him, on account of its clotting his clear, sunny complexion; or whether he deemed that, on so long a voyage in such marketless waters, butter was at a premium, and therefore was not for him, a subaltern; however it was, Flask, alas! was a butterless man!
At his table inlaid with ivory, Ahab sat like a silent, maned sea lion on a white coral beach, surrounded by his fierce yet respectful crew. Each officer patiently waited his turn to be served. They acted like children in Ahab's presence, yet there was no trace of arrogance in Ahab's demeanor. With focused eyes, they all watched as he cut into the main dish before him. I doubt they would have dared break the silence, even with a harmless comment about the weather. No, indeed. When Ahab used his knife and fork to push a slice of beef toward Starbuck’s plate, the mate accepted it as humbly as if it were a gift for the needy, cutting it carefully and eating it quietly. If his knife even lightly scraped the plate, he flinched slightly, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing cautiously. These meals were like the Coronation banquet in Frankfurt, where the German Emperor dined in solemnity with the seven Imperial Electors—silent and formal affairs. Yet Ahab never banned conversation at the table; he, however, rarely spoke. What a relief it was for Stubb when a rat suddenly made a commotion in the hold below. And poor little Flask—he was the youngest of this strange family, like the little kid at a tiring family dinner. He got the less desirable cuts of the salty beef and would have been handed the drumsticks if they’d had them. For Flask, the idea of helping himself to food felt like committing grand theft. If he had dared to serve himself, he’d probably never have been able to face the world again without shame. Yet, oddly enough, Ahab never told him not to. And if Flask had taken food on his own, Ahab likely wouldn’t have even noticed. Still, Flask wouldn’t dream of helping himself to butter. Perhaps he thought the ship's owners didn’t allow him butter to protect his smooth, youthful complexion, or maybe he assumed that on such a long journey, in waters where markets were nonexistent, butter was too valuable for someone of his low rank. Whatever the reason, poor Flask went without butter.
Another thing. Flask was the last person down at the dinner, and Flask is the first man up. Consider! For hereby Flask’s dinner was badly jammed in point of time. Starbuck and Stubb both had the start of him; and yet they also have the privilege of lounging in the rear. If Stubb even, who is but a peg higher than Flask, happens to have but a small appetite, and soon shows symptoms of concluding his repast, then Flask must bestir himself, he will not get more than three mouthfuls that day; for it is against holy usage for Stubb to precede Flask to the deck. Therefore it was that Flask once admitted in private, that ever since he had arisen to the dignity of an officer, from that moment he had never known what it was to be otherwise than hungry, more or less. For what he ate did not so much relieve his hunger, as keep it immortal in him. Peace and satisfaction, thought Flask, have for ever departed from my stomach. I am an officer; but, how I wish I could fish a bit of old-fashioned beef in the forecastle, as I used to when I was before the mast. There’s the fruits of promotion now; there’s the vanity of glory: there’s the insanity of life! Besides, if it were so that any mere sailor of the Pequod had a grudge against Flask in Flask’s official capacity, all that sailor had to do, in order to obtain ample vengeance, was to go aft at dinner-time, and get a peep at Flask through the cabin sky-light, sitting silly and dumfoundered before awful Ahab.
Another thing. Flask was the last person to show up for dinner, but he was the first to get up. Think about it! Because of this, Flask's dinner time was ridiculously short. Starbuck and Stubb both had a head start on him, yet they also had the luxury of lingering around afterward. Even Stubb, who's just one rank above Flask, could take his time if he wasn’t too hungry and finished his meal quickly. Meanwhile, Flask had to jump into action, or he wouldn't get more than a few bites that day because it was against ship rules for Stubb to head up to the deck before Flask. That’s why Flask once privately admitted that ever since he became an officer, he’d never really known what it was like to not feel at least a little hungry. What he ate didn’t so much satisfy his hunger as keep it alive forever. "Peace and satisfaction," Flask thought, "are long gone from my stomach. I’m an officer now, but how I wish I could sneak a bite of that old-fashioned beef down in the forecastle like I did when I was just a common sailor. This is what promotion gets you—this is the vanity of ambition, the madness of life!" And on top of that, if any regular sailor on the Pequod held a grudge against Flask in his role as an officer, all they had to do to get revenge was head to the back of the ship at dinner and take a look at Flask through the cabin skylight, sitting there looking dumb and out of place in front of the intimidating Ahab.
Now, Ahab and his three mates formed what may be called the first table in the Pequod’s cabin. After their departure, taking place in inverted order to their arrival, the canvas cloth was cleared, or rather was restored to some hurried order by the pallid steward. And then the three harpooneers were bidden to the feast, they being its residuary legatees. They made a sort of temporary servants’ hall of the high and mighty cabin.
Now, Ahab and his three officers made up what you could call the main table in the Pequod’s cabin. After they left, departing in the reverse order of how they had arrived, the tablecloth was cleared—or more like quickly tidied up—by the pale steward. Then, the three harpooners were invited to eat, as they were the ones who got whatever was left. They turned the grand and important cabin into a kind of makeshift servants’ hall.
In strange contrast to the hardly tolerable constraint and nameless invisible domineerings of the captain’s table, was the entire care-free license and ease, the almost frantic democracy of those inferior fellows the harpooneers. While their masters, the mates, seemed afraid of the sound of the hinges of their own jaws, the harpooneers chewed their food with such a relish that there was a report to it. They dined like lords; they filled their bellies like Indian ships all day loading with spices. Such portentous appetites had Queequeg and Tashtego, that to fill out the vacancies made by the previous repast, often the pale Dough-Boy was fain to bring on a great baron of salt-junk, seemingly quarried out of the solid ox. And if he were not lively about it, if he did not go with a nimble hop-skip-and-jump, then Tashtego had an ungentlemanly way of accelerating him by darting a fork at his back, harpoon-wise. And once Daggoo, seized with a sudden humor, assisted Dough-Boy’s memory by snatching him up bodily, and thrusting his head into a great empty wooden trencher, while Tashtego, knife in hand, began laying out the circle preliminary to scalping him. He was naturally a very nervous, shuddering sort of little fellow, this bread-faced steward; the progeny of a bankrupt baker and a hospital nurse. And what with the standing spectacle of the black terrific Ahab, and the periodical tumultuous visitations of these three savages, Dough-Boy’s whole life was one continual lip-quiver. Commonly, after seeing the harpooneers furnished with all things they demanded, he would escape from their clutches into his little pantry adjoining, and fearfully peep out at them through the blinds of its door, till all was over.
In stark contrast to the unbearable formality and unspoken rules of the captain’s table, there was the carefree freedom and wild equality among those lower-ranked guys—the harpooners. While their bosses, the mates, seemed hesitant to even open their mouths, the harpooners ate with such passion you could practically hear it. They dined like royalty, stuffing themselves like cargo ships loading up on spices all day. Queequeg and Tashtego had such colossal appetites that, to refill the gaps left by their last meal, the pale Dough-Boy often had to drag out a massive chunk of salted beef, as if it had been chiseled out of an entire ox. And if he wasn’t quick about it, if he didn’t rush to bring it with an energetic hustle, Tashtego had a rather rude habit of speeding him up by throwing a fork at his back like a harpoon. At one point, Daggoo, suddenly amused, helped jog Dough-Boy’s memory by grabbing him, hoisting him into the air, and shoving his head into a giant empty wooden bowl, while Tashtego, knife in hand, pretended to measure out the spot where he might scalp him. Dough-Boy was naturally a jittery, nervous little guy, with a pale, doughy complexion—the result of being born to a bankrupt baker and a hospital nurse. Between witnessing the constant looming presence of the terrifying black-bearded Ahab and enduring the chaotic antics of these three wild men, Dough-Boy’s life was one long, uninterrupted trembling lip. Usually, after delivering whatever the harpooners demanded, he would scramble out of their grasp and hide in his tiny pantry nearby. From there, he’d cautiously peek out at them through the slats in the door until the whole ordeal was finally over.
It was a sight to see Queequeg seated over against Tashtego, opposing his filed teeth to the Indian’s: crosswise to them, Daggoo seated on the floor, for a bench would have brought his hearse-plumed head to the low carlines; at every motion of his colossal limbs, making the low cabin framework to shake, as when an African elephant goes passenger in a ship. But for all this, the great negro was wonderfully abstemious, not to say dainty. It seemed hardly possible that by such comparatively small mouthfuls he could keep up the vitality diffused through so broad, baronial, and superb a person. But, doubtless, this noble savage fed strong and drank deep of the abounding element of air; and through his dilated nostrils snuffed in the sublime life of the worlds. Not by beef or by bread, are giants made or nourished. But Queequeg, he had a mortal, barbaric smack of the lip in eating—an ugly sound enough—so much so, that the trembling Dough-Boy almost looked to see whether any marks of teeth lurked in his own lean arms. And when he would hear Tashtego singing out for him to produce himself, that his bones might be picked, the simple-witted steward all but shattered the crockery hanging round him in the pantry, by his sudden fits of the palsy. Nor did the whetstone which the harpooneers carried in their pockets, for their lances and other weapons; and with which whetstones, at dinner, they would ostentatiously sharpen their knives; that grating sound did not at all tend to tranquillize poor Dough-Boy. How could he forget that in his Island days, Queequeg, for one, must certainly have been guilty of some murderous, convivial indiscretions. Alas! Dough-Boy! hard fares the white waiter who waits upon cannibals. Not a napkin should he carry on his arm, but a buckler. In good time, though, to his great delight, the three salt-sea warriors would rise and depart; to his credulous, fable-mongering ears, all their martial bones jingling in them at every step, like Moorish scimetars in scabbards.
It was quite a scene to watch Queequeg sitting across from Tashtego, his sharp-filed teeth facing the Indian’s: beside them on the floor was Daggoo, whose immense height made sitting on a bench impractical since it would have brought his feathered head up to the low beams. Every movement of his massive limbs shook the cabin’s framework, like the tremors of a ship carrying an African elephant aboard. Despite his size, the towering man was surprisingly restrained, even delicate, in his eating habits. It was hard to believe that such small bites could sustain his enormous, powerful body. Yet, undoubtedly, this proud warrior seemed to draw strength from the very air around him, breathing deeply through his flared nostrils as though taking in the essence of life itself. Giants like him aren’t built or fueled by simple things like meat or bread. Queequeg, however, made no pretenses of delicacy, smacking his lips as he ate in a distinctly barbaric and unsettling way—so much so that poor Dough-Boy, the nervous steward, would sometimes glance at his own scrawny arms, half-thinking he might find bite marks there. And whenever Tashtego called out to him, jokingly threatening to pick him clean like a chicken bone, Dough-Boy would nearly send the dishes crashing to the ground in a fit of panic. The harpooneers didn’t help matters either, pulling out the whetstones they carried in their pockets—used for sharpening their lances and other weapons—and noisily honing their knives right there at the table. The shrieking sound was anything but calming for poor Dough-Boy. How could he forget that back in his islander days, Queequeg almost certainly would have indulged in some bloody feasts? Poor Dough-Boy! Waiting on cannibals was no job for the faint-hearted. He shouldn’t be carrying a napkin on his arm; he needed a shield. Luckily for him, though, and much to his relief, the three rugged harpooneers would eventually finish eating and leave. To Dough-Boy, it seemed as though their battle-hardened bodies jingled as they walked away, like the clinking of Moorish scimitars in their sheaths.
But, though these barbarians dined in the cabin, and nominally lived there; still, being anything but sedentary in their habits, they were scarcely ever in it except at mealtimes, and just before sleeping-time, when they passed through it to their own peculiar quarters.
However, although these rough folks ate in the cabin and technically lived there, they were far from being the sort to sit still. They were hardly ever in the cabin except during meals and right before bedtime, when they moved through it on their way to their own special spaces.
In this one matter, Ahab seemed no exception to most American whale captains, who, as a set, rather incline to the opinion that by rights the ship’s cabin belongs to them; and that it is by courtesy alone that anybody else is, at any time, permitted there. So that, in real truth, the mates and harpooneers of the Pequod might more properly be said to have lived out of the cabin than in it. For when they did enter it, it was something as a street-door enters a house; turning inwards for a moment, only to be turned out the next; and, as a permanent thing, residing in the open air. Nor did they lose much hereby; in the cabin was no companionship; socially, Ahab was inaccessible. Though nominally included in the census of Christendom, he was still an alien to it. He lived in the world, as the last of the Grisly Bears lived in settled Missouri. And as when Spring and Summer had departed, that wild Logan of the woods, burying himself in the hollow of a tree, lived out the winter there, sucking his own paws; so, in his inclement, howling old age, Ahab’s soul, shut up in the caved trunk of his body, there fed upon the sullen paws of its gloom!
In this one aspect, Ahab wasn’t much different from most American whaling captains, who generally believed that the ship’s cabin rightfully belonged to them, and that anyone else’s presence there was purely a matter of courtesy. Because of this, the mates and harpooners of the Pequod could more accurately be described as living outside the cabin rather than in it. When they did step inside, it was much like how a street door briefly opens into a house—only to shut just as quickly, leaving them essentially living out under the open sky. They didn’t miss much because of it either; the cabin offered no real camaraderie. Socially, Ahab was unapproachable. Though technically a member of Christendom, he was still something of an outsider. He lived in the world much like the last of the Grizzly Bears once did in settled Missouri. And just as, during the harsh winter after spring and summer had passed, that wild hermit of the woods would burrow into the hollow of a tree and survive by sucking on his own paws, so too did Ahab, in his harsh, stormy old age, retreat into the hollowed-out trunk of his own body, feeding on the dark, brooding gloom of his soul.
CHAPTER 35. The Mast-Head.
It was during the more pleasant weather, that in due rotation with the other seamen my first mast-head came round.
It was during the nicer weather that, taking my turn like the other sailors, it was finally my time to go up to the masthead.
In most American whalemen the mast-heads are manned almost simultaneously with the vessel’s leaving her port; even though she may have fifteen thousand miles, and more, to sail ere reaching her proper cruising ground. And if, after a three, four, or five years’ voyage she is drawing nigh home with anything empty in her—say, an empty vial even—then, her mast-heads are kept manned to the last; and not till her skysail-poles sail in among the spires of the port, does she altogether relinquish the hope of capturing one whale more.
On most American whaling ships, the lookout posts are manned almost as soon as the ship leaves port, even if there's a journey of fifteen thousand miles or more before reaching the hunting grounds. And even after a three-, four-, or five-year voyage, if the ship is nearing home with anything empty—even an empty bottle—the lookouts remain on duty until the very end. It’s only when the ship’s topmost sails pass among the spires of the port that it finally gives up the hope of catching one last whale.
Now, as the business of standing mast-heads, ashore or afloat, is a very ancient and interesting one, let us in some measure expatiate here. I take it, that the earliest standers of mast-heads were the old Egyptians; because, in all my researches, I find none prior to them. For though their progenitors, the builders of Babel, must doubtless, by their tower, have intended to rear the loftiest mast-head in all Asia, or Africa either; yet (ere the final truck was put to it) as that great stone mast of theirs may be said to have gone by the board, in the dread gale of God’s wrath; therefore, we cannot give these Babel builders priority over the Egyptians. And that the Egyptians were a nation of mast-head standers, is an assertion based upon the general belief among archæologists, that the first pyramids were founded for astronomical purposes: a theory singularly supported by the peculiar stair-like formation of all four sides of those edifices; whereby, with prodigious long upliftings of their legs, those old astronomers were wont to mount to the apex, and sing out for new stars; even as the look-outs of a modern ship sing out for a sail, or a whale just bearing in sight. In Saint Stylites, the famous Christian hermit of old times, who built him a lofty stone pillar in the desert and spent the whole latter portion of his life on its summit, hoisting his food from the ground with a tackle; in him we have a remarkable instance of a dauntless stander-of-mast-heads; who was not to be driven from his place by fogs or frosts, rain, hail, or sleet; but valiantly facing everything out to the last, literally died at his post. Of modern standers-of-mast-heads we have but a lifeless set; mere stone, iron, and bronze men; who, though well capable of facing out a stiff gale, are still entirely incompetent to the business of singing out upon discovering any strange sight. There is Napoleon; who, upon the top of the column of Vendome, stands with arms folded, some one hundred and fifty feet in the air; careless, now, who rules the decks below; whether Louis Philippe, Louis Blanc, or Louis the Devil. Great Washington, too, stands high aloft on his towering main-mast in Baltimore, and like one of Hercules’ pillars, his column marks that point of human grandeur beyond which few mortals will go. Admiral Nelson, also, on a capstan of gun-metal, stands his mast-head in Trafalgar Square; and ever when most obscured by that London smoke, token is yet given that a hidden hero is there; for where there is smoke, must be fire. But neither great Washington, nor Napoleon, nor Nelson, will answer a single hail from below, however madly invoked to befriend by their counsels the distracted decks upon which they gaze; however it may be surmised, that their spirits penetrate through the thick haze of the future, and descry what shoals and what rocks must be shunned.
Now, since the act of standing watch on mastheads, whether on land or at sea, is both an ancient and fascinating practice, let’s delve into it a bit more. I believe the first masthead watchers were the ancient Egyptians because, in all my research, I haven’t found any earlier examples. Though their ancestors, the builders of the Tower of Babel, must have intended their tower to be the tallest masthead in all of Asia or Africa, it ultimately collapsed—like a great stone mast—under the fierce storm of God’s wrath. So, we can’t give the Babel builders precedence over the Egyptians. The idea that the Egyptians were masthead watchers comes from the widely accepted belief among archaeologists that the first pyramids were constructed for astronomical purposes. This theory is strongly supported by the unique step-like structure of the pyramids’ four sides, which allowed those ancient astronomers to climb to the top—probably with great effort—and call out when they spotted new stars, much like the lookouts on modern ships shout when they see a sail or a distant whale coming into view. In Saint Stylites, the famous Christian hermit of ancient times, who built himself a tall stone pillar in the desert and spent the latter part of his life on its summit while hoisting food up with ropes, we see a remarkable example of a fearless masthead watcher. He refused to give up his post in the face of fog, frost, rain, hail, or sleet, and ultimately, he died there, steadfast to the end. As for modern masthead watchers, they’re a lifeless group—made of stone, iron, and bronze. While they may endure harsh gales with ease, they’re completely incapable of calling out a discovery if they see anything unusual. Take Napoleon, for example, standing atop the Vendôme Column with his arms crossed, about 150 feet above ground, indifferent to who’s ruling below—whether it’s Louis Philippe, Louis Blanc, or even Louis the Devil. Then there’s George Washington, standing tall on his column in Baltimore, marking, like one of Hercules’ pillars, the limits of human greatness. Admiral Nelson, too, occupies his masthead on a gun-metal pedestal in Trafalgar Square. Even when he’s shrouded by London’s thick smoke, you’re reminded there’s a hidden hero up there—because where there’s smoke, there must be fire. But despite their towering positions, neither Washington, Napoleon, nor Nelson will respond to cries from below, no matter how desperate the call for advice from the chaotic decks below them. Even if we might imagine their spirits piercing through the fog of the future, spotting the dangers ahead, they remain silent, unable to warn of the shoals and rocks that must be avoided.
It may seem unwarrantable to couple in any respect the mast-head standers of the land with those of the sea; but that in truth it is not so, is plainly evinced by an item for which Obed Macy, the sole historian of Nantucket, stands accountable. The worthy Obed tells us, that in the early times of the whale fishery, ere ships were regularly launched in pursuit of the game, the people of that island erected lofty spars along the sea-coast, to which the look-outs ascended by means of nailed cleats, something as fowls go upstairs in a hen-house. A few years ago this same plan was adopted by the Bay whalemen of New Zealand, who, upon descrying the game, gave notice to the ready-manned boats nigh the beach. But this custom has now become obsolete; turn we then to the one proper mast-head, that of a whale-ship at sea. The three mast-heads are kept manned from sun-rise to sun-set; the seamen taking their regular turns (as at the helm), and relieving each other every two hours. In the serene weather of the tropics it is exceedingly pleasant the mast-head; nay, to a dreamy meditative man it is delightful. There you stand, a hundred feet above the silent decks, striding along the deep, as if the masts were gigantic stilts, while beneath you and between your legs, as it were, swim the hugest monsters of the sea, even as ships once sailed between the boots of the famous Colossus at old Rhodes. There you stand, lost in the infinite series of the sea, with nothing ruffled but the waves. The tranced ship indolently rolls; the drowsy trade winds blow; everything resolves you into languor. For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner—for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.
It might seem unreasonable to compare land-based lookouts with those at sea, but actually, it's not unreasonable at all, as proven by an account from Obed Macy, the sole historian of Nantucket. The admirable Obed tells us that in the early days of whaling, before ships were regularly launched in pursuit of whales, the islanders set up tall poles along the coast. Lookouts would climb these poles using nailed steps, much like chickens climbing into a henhouse. A few years back, whalers in the Bay of New Zealand tried a similar method: when they spotted whales, they signaled the nearby men in boats on the beach. However, this practice is now outdated. Let us turn instead to the true masthead—the one on a whaling ship at sea. The three mastheads on a ship are manned from sunrise to sunset, with sailors rotating in shifts just like they do when steering the ship, switching out every two hours. In the calm weather of the tropics, being up on the masthead can be quite enjoyable—actually, a reflective, dreamy person might even find it blissful. Up there, you're about a hundred feet above the quiet deck, moving over the water as though the masts are massive stilts. Below you, giant creatures of the sea swim between the masts and your legs, much like ships once passed under the legs of the famous Colossus of Rhodes. You stand there, immersed in the endless expanse of the ocean, with nothing disturbed except the waves. The ship gently sways as if in a trance, the lazy trade winds blow, and everything around you feels steeped in calm. For the most part, life in the tropics on a whaling ship is profoundly uneventful. You're out of touch with the news—no newspapers, no sensational updates to stir you up about mundane matters. You're spared from hearing about personal tragedies, financial hardships, or shifts in the stock market. You never even have to wonder what’s for dinner—your meals for the next three years or more are securely stored in barrels, and your menu is permanently set.
In one of those southern whalesmen, on a long three or four years’ voyage, as often happens, the sum of the various hours you spend at the mast-head would amount to several entire months. And it is much to be deplored that the place to which you devote so considerable a portion of the whole term of your natural life, should be so sadly destitute of anything approaching to a cosy inhabitiveness, or adapted to breed a comfortable localness of feeling, such as pertains to a bed, a hammock, a hearse, a sentry box, a pulpit, a coach, or any other of those small and snug contrivances in which men temporarily isolate themselves. Your most usual point of perch is the head of the t’ gallant-mast, where you stand upon two thin parallel sticks (almost peculiar to whalemen) called the t’ gallant cross-trees. Here, tossed about by the sea, the beginner feels about as cosy as he would standing on a bull’s horns. To be sure, in cold weather you may carry your house aloft with you, in the shape of a watch-coat; but properly speaking the thickest watch-coat is no more of a house than the unclad body; for as the soul is glued inside of its fleshy tabernacle, and cannot freely move about in it, nor even move out of it, without running great risk of perishing (like an ignorant pilgrim crossing the snowy Alps in winter); so a watch-coat is not so much of a house as it is a mere envelope, or additional skin encasing you. You cannot put a shelf or chest of drawers in your body, and no more can you make a convenient closet of your watch-coat.
On one of those southern whaling ships during a long three- or four-year voyage, as often happens, the total hours you spend at the masthead would add up to several entire months. It's unfortunate that the place where you spend such a significant part of your life is so utterly lacking in anything resembling comfort or coziness—none of that snug feeling you might get from being in a bed, a hammock, a hearse, a sentry box, a pulpit, a coach, or any number of small, enclosed spaces where people tend to feel tucked away. Instead, your usual perch is the top of the t’gallant mast, where you’re balancing on two thin parallel sticks, peculiar to whaling ships, called the t’gallant cross-trees. Up there, tossed around by the sea, a beginner feels about as comfortable as if they were standing on a bull’s horns. Sure, in cold weather you might bring some warmth with you in the form of a watch-coat, but really, the thickest watch-coat still doesn't qualify as a house. It’s no more a house than your bare body—it’s just an extra layer, like another skin wrapped around you. Just as your soul is confined inside your body, unable to wander freely or escape without courting serious danger (like a clueless pilgrim trying to cross snowy Alps in the winter), so too your watch-coat is merely a covering, not a shelter. You can’t store a shelf or a chest of drawers inside your body, and likewise, you can't turn your watch-coat into a convenient little storage closet.
Concerning all this, it is much to be deplored that the mast-heads of a southern whale ship are unprovided with those enviable little tents or pulpits, called crow’s-nests, in which the look-outs of a Greenland whaler are protected from the inclement weather of the frozen seas. In the fireside narrative of Captain Sleet, entitled “A Voyage among the Icebergs, in quest of the Greenland Whale, and incidentally for the re-discovery of the Lost Icelandic Colonies of Old Greenland;” in this admirable volume, all standers of mast-heads are furnished with a charmingly circumstantial account of the then recently invented crow’s-nest of the Glacier, which was the name of Captain Sleet’s good craft. He called it the Sleet’s crow’s-nest, in honor of himself; he being the original inventor and patentee, and free from all ridiculous false delicacy, and holding that if we call our own children after our own names (we fathers being the original inventors and patentees), so likewise should we denominate after ourselves any other apparatus we may beget. In shape, the Sleet’s crow’s-nest is something like a large tierce or pipe; it is open above, however, where it is furnished with a movable side-screen to keep to windward of your head in a hard gale. Being fixed on the summit of the mast, you ascend into it through a little trap-hatch in the bottom. On the after side, or side next the stern of the ship, is a comfortable seat, with a locker underneath for umbrellas, comforters, and coats. In front is a leather rack, in which to keep your speaking trumpet, pipe, telescope, and other nautical conveniences. When Captain Sleet in person stood his mast-head in this crow’s-nest of his, he tells us that he always had a rifle with him (also fixed in the rack), together with a powder flask and shot, for the purpose of popping off the stray narwhales, or vagrant sea unicorns infesting those waters; for you cannot successfully shoot at them from the deck owing to the resistance of the water, but to shoot down upon them is a very different thing. Now, it was plainly a labor of love for Captain Sleet to describe, as he does, all the little detailed conveniences of his crow’s-nest; but though he so enlarges upon many of these, and though he treats us to a very scientific account of his experiments in this crow’s-nest, with a small compass he kept there for the purpose of counteracting the errors resulting from what is called the “local attraction” of all binnacle magnets; an error ascribable to the horizontal vicinity of the iron in the ship’s planks, and in the Glacier’s case, perhaps, to there having been so many broken-down blacksmiths among her crew; I say, that though the Captain is very discreet and scientific here, yet, for all his learned “binnacle deviations,” “azimuth compass observations,” and “approximate errors,” he knows very well, Captain Sleet, that he was not so much immersed in those profound magnetic meditations, as to fail being attracted occasionally towards that well replenished little case-bottle, so nicely tucked in on one side of his crow’s nest, within easy reach of his hand. Though, upon the whole, I greatly admire and even love the brave, the honest, and learned Captain; yet I take it very ill of him that he should so utterly ignore that case-bottle, seeing what a faithful friend and comforter it must have been, while with mittened fingers and hooded head he was studying the mathematics aloft there in that bird’s nest within three or four perches of the pole.
It's definitely unfortunate that southern whaling ships don’t equip their mast-tops with those desirable little shelters or platforms known as *crow’s-nests*, which offer protection for the lookouts on a Greenland whaler enduring the harsh weather of the icy seas. In Captain Sleet’s fireside tale, "A Voyage Among the Icebergs, in Quest of the Greenland Whale, and Incidentally for the Re-discovery of the Lost Icelandic Colonies of Old Greenland," the reader is treated to a detailed description of the newly invented *crow’s-nest* on the *Glacier*, Captain Sleet’s vessel. He named it *Sleet’s crow’s-nest* after himself, as he was its inventor and quite unapologetic about it—asserting, much like one names their children, that it only made sense to name inventions after their creators. The *Sleet’s crow’s-nest* was shaped somewhat like a large barrel but open at the top, complete with a movable screen to shield the user from the wind during rough weather. It was mounted at the very top of the mast, and one would climb into it via a small trapdoor in the bottom. On the side facing the stern of the ship was a comfortable seat with a storage compartment underneath for personal items like umbrellas, scarves, and coats. In front, there was a leather rack to hold essential tools like a speaking trumpet, telescope, or pipe—basically, all the necessary gear for a sailor. Captain Sleet himself often manned the crow’s-nest, always bringing a rifle along with powder and shot, stored in the rack, to take aim at stray narwhals or sea unicorns that swam below. Shooting down on them from the crow’s-nest was much more effective than doing so from the deck, where the water’s resistance made accurate shots nearly impossible. Captain Sleet clearly took a lot of pride in describing the many details and conveniences of his crow’s-nest. He even shares information on his experiments with a small compass he kept there to counteract "local attraction," a distortion caused by the ship's iron components, which affected the accuracy of navigation instruments. In the case of the *Glacier*, those errors might have been exacerbated by the large number of former blacksmiths working on the ship. While Captain Sleet delves into these technical matters with great precision and expertise, it’s pretty evident that amidst his observations of magnetic deviations, azimuth compass readings, and navigation errors, he wasn’t always as focused on science as he might claim. He frequently found himself drawn to a well-stocked little bottle tucked neatly into the crow’s-nest—a comforting companion that was always within arm’s reach. As much as I greatly admire and even feel affection for the brave, honest, and learned Captain Sleet, I can’t help but feel slight annoyance that he would completely overlook mentioning that trusty bottle, which surely served as a loyal source of solace during those freezing moments, with his hands bundled in mittens and his head wrapped up against the cold. All the while, he studied his calculations in that makeshift bird’s nest, mere feet away from the Arctic pole.
But if we Southern whale-fishers are not so snugly housed aloft as Captain Sleet and his Greenlandmen were; yet that disadvantage is greatly counter-balanced by the widely contrasting serenity of those seductive seas in which we South fishers mostly float. For one, I used to lounge up the rigging very leisurely, resting in the top to have a chat with Queequeg, or any one else off duty whom I might find there; then ascending a little way further, and throwing a lazy leg over the top-sail yard, take a preliminary view of the watery pastures, and so at last mount to my ultimate destination.
But even though us Southern whale-fishermen don’t have as cozy accommodations up high as Captain Sleet and his Greenland crew, that downside is pretty well made up for by the peaceful charm of the calm, inviting seas we tend to sail in. Personally, I’d take my time climbing the rigging, casually hanging out in the top to chat with Queequeg or anyone else off-duty who happened to be there. Then I’d climb a bit higher, toss a lazy leg over the topsail yard, take a quick look at the sprawling seas, and finally make my way up to my final spot.
Let me make a clean breast of it here, and frankly admit that I kept but sorry guard. With the problem of the universe revolving in me, how could I—being left completely to myself at such a thought-engendering altitude—how could I but lightly hold my obligations to observe all whale-ships’ standing orders, “Keep your weather eye open, and sing out every time.”
I'll be honest here and admit I didn’t do a great job of keeping watch. With the mysteries of the universe swirling around in my head, how could I—left entirely to my own thoughts at such a mind-stirring height—how could I take seriously the duty to follow every whale ship’s standard rule: “Stay alert and call out whenever necessary”?
And let me in this place movingly admonish you, ye ship-owners of Nantucket! Beware of enlisting in your vigilant fisheries any lad with lean brow and hollow eye; given to unseasonable meditativeness; and who offers to ship with the Phædon instead of Bowditch in his head. Beware of such an one, I say; your whales must be seen before they can be killed; and this sunken-eyed young Platonist will tow you ten wakes round the world, and never make you one pint of sperm the richer. Nor are these monitions at all unneeded. For nowadays, the whale-fishery furnishes an asylum for many romantic, melancholy, and absent-minded young men, disgusted with the carking cares of earth, and seeking sentiment in tar and blubber. Childe Harold not unfrequently perches himself upon the mast-head of some luckless disappointed whale-ship, and in moody phrase ejaculates:—
And let me take this opportunity to seriously warn you, ship-owners of Nantucket! Be careful about bringing on board any young man with a gaunt face and hollow eyes, prone to untimely daydreaming, and who comes aboard more interested in philosophy than navigation charts. Watch out for someone like that, I’m telling you; your whales have to be spotted before they can be caught, and this sunken-eyed young dreamer will drag you around the world in aimless circles without ever making you a single drop of oil richer. These warnings aren’t unnecessary, either. These days, whaling has become a refuge for many romantic, gloomy, and absent-minded young men, fed up with the worries of the world and looking for poetic meaning in sails and blubber. It’s not unusual to find Childe Harold himself perched at the masthead of some unlucky, disappointed whaling ship, brooding and uttering moody remarks like:—
“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!
Ten thousand blubber-hunters sweep over thee in vain.”
“Roll on, you deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand whale hunters sweep over you in vain.”
Very often do the captains of such ships take those absent-minded young philosophers to task, upbraiding them with not feeling sufficient “interest” in the voyage; half-hinting that they are so hopelessly lost to all honorable ambition, as that in their secret souls they would rather not see whales than otherwise. But all in vain; those young Platonists have a notion that their vision is imperfect; they are short-sighted; what use, then, to strain the visual nerve? They have left their opera-glasses at home.
Ship captains often criticize these absent-minded young philosophers, scolding them for not showing enough "interest" in the voyage and almost accusing them of being so lacking in ambition that, deep down, they'd prefer not to see whales at all. But it's pointless; these young thinkers believe their eyesight is flawed—they're nearsighted—so what's the use of straining their eyes? They left their binoculars at home.
“Why, thou monkey,” said a harpooneer to one of these lads, “we’ve been cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarce as hen’s teeth whenever thou art up here.” Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Cranmer’s sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over.
"Listen, you little monkey," said a harpooner to one of these young men, "we’ve been out here for almost three years, and you haven’t spotted a single whale yet. Whales seem as rare as a hen’s teeth when you’re on watch." Maybe they were scarce, or maybe there were schools of them out on the distant horizon. But this absent-minded youth, lulled into a dreamlike state by the rhythmic sound of the waves and his wandering thoughts, loses all sense of himself. He sees the vast, mysterious ocean at his feet as a mirror of the deep, endless soul that connects humanity and nature. Every strange, half-glimpsed, beautiful thing that slips away from him—every faintly visible fin rising out of some unseen shape—seems to embody those fleeting, elusive ideas that wander through his soul without ever staying. In this spellbound state, his spirit drifts away to where it began, spreading out across time and space; like Cranmer’s scattered, pantheistic ashes, becoming part of every shore across the entire globe.
There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!
There’s no life in you now, except for the gentle rocking movement given by a slowly rolling ship—borrowed from the sea, and the sea, in turn, from the unfathomable tides of God. But while you’re in this sleep, this dream, move your foot or hand just an inch; lose your grip even slightly, and your sense of self returns in terror. You’re hovering over Descartian whirlpools. And maybe, in the middle of the day, in the best of weather, with a half-stifled scream, you slip through the clear air into the summer sea, never to rise again. Take this to heart, you Pantheists!
CHAPTER 36. The Quarter-Deck.
(Enter Ahab: Then, all.)
(Enter Ahab: Everyone.)
It was not a great while after the affair of the pipe, that one morning shortly after breakfast, Ahab, as was his wont, ascended the cabin-gangway to the deck. There most sea-captains usually walk at that hour, as country gentlemen, after the same meal, take a few turns in the garden.
It wasn’t long after the incident with the pipe that one morning, shortly after breakfast, Ahab, as usual, climbed up the cabin-gangway to the deck. Around that time, most sea captains usually take a walk there, much like country gentlemen take a few laps around the garden after the same meal.
Soon his steady, ivory stride was heard, as to and fro he paced his old rounds, upon planks so familiar to his tread, that they were all over dented, like geological stones, with the peculiar mark of his walk. Did you fixedly gaze, too, upon that ribbed and dented brow; there also, you would see still stranger foot-prints—the foot-prints of his one unsleeping, ever-pacing thought.
Soon his steady, pale stride could be heard as he paced back and forth along his usual path on the wooden planks so worn by his steps that they were marked all over, like ancient rocks shaped by time, with the unique pattern of his walk. If you looked closely at his lined and furrowed brow, you'd find even stranger marks—traces of his one restless, ever-present thought.
But on the occasion in question, those dents looked deeper, even as his nervous step that morning left a deeper mark. And, so full of his thought was Ahab, that at every uniform turn that he made, now at the main-mast and now at the binnacle, you could almost see that thought turn in him as he turned, and pace in him as he paced; so completely possessing him, indeed, that it all but seemed the inward mould of every outer movement.
But on that particular day, those dents seemed even deeper, just like the nervous way he walked that morning left a more noticeable impression. Ahab was so consumed by his thoughts that every time he made his habitual turn—now at the mainmast, now at the binnacle—you could almost see his thoughts turning with him and pacing inside him as he paced. They had such a hold on him that it felt like his inner thoughts were shaping every movement he made.
“D’ye mark him, Flask?” whispered Stubb; “the chick that’s in him pecks the shell. ’Twill soon be out.”
“Do you see him, Flask?” whispered Stubb. “The chick inside him is pecking at the shell. It’ll break out soon.”
The hours wore on;—Ahab now shut up within his cabin; anon, pacing the deck, with the same intense bigotry of purpose in his aspect.
The hours passed by—Ahab was now locked away in his cabin; then again, pacing the deck with the same intense, single-minded determination written all over his face.
It drew near the close of day. Suddenly he came to a halt by the bulwarks, and inserting his bone leg into the auger-hole there, and with one hand grasping a shroud, he ordered Starbuck to send everybody aft.
The day was nearly over. Suddenly, he stopped by the rail, stuck his bone leg into the hole there, grabbed a rope with one hand, and told Starbuck to call everyone to the back.
“Sir!” said the mate, astonished at an order seldom or never given on ship-board except in some extraordinary case.
"Sir!" said the mate, surprised by an order that was rarely, if ever, given on a ship except in truly unusual circumstances.
“Send everybody aft,” repeated Ahab. “Mast-heads, there! come down!”
"Tell everyone to go to the back," Ahab repeated. "Lookouts up there, come down!"
When the entire ship’s company were assembled, and with curious and not wholly unapprehensive faces, were eyeing him, for he looked not unlike the weather horizon when a storm is coming up, Ahab, after rapidly glancing over the bulwarks, and then darting his eyes among the crew, started from his standpoint; and as though not a soul were nigh him resumed his heavy turns upon the deck. With bent head and half-slouched hat he continued to pace, unmindful of the wondering whispering among the men; till Stubb cautiously whispered to Flask, that Ahab must have summoned them there for the purpose of witnessing a pedestrian feat. But this did not last long. Vehemently pausing, he cried:—
When the whole crew had gathered, their faces curious and a little uneasy as they watched him—since he looked a bit like the stormy horizon before bad weather—Ahab quickly glanced over the ship’s railings, then darted his eyes among the men. Suddenly he stepped away from his spot and, as if no one else was there, resumed his intense pacing on the deck. With his head down and his hat tilted low, he kept walking back and forth, ignoring the murmured questions and whispers of the crew. Stubb leaned over and quietly joked to Flask that maybe Ahab had called them all there just to show off his walking skills. But it didn’t last long. Abruptly stopping in his tracks, Ahab shouted:—
“What do ye do when ye see a whale, men?”
"What do you do when you see a whale, guys?"
“Sing out for him!” was the impulsive rejoinder from a score of clubbed voices.
"Shout out for him!" came the spontaneous response from a bunch of voices joined together.
“Good!” cried Ahab, with a wild approval in his tones; observing the hearty animation into which his unexpected question had so magnetically thrown them.
"Good!" shouted Ahab, his voice filled with wild approval, as he noticed the enthusiastic energy his unexpected question had so magnetically sparked in them.
“And what do ye next, men?”
"And what do you do next, men?"
“Lower away, and after him!”
“Lower down, and after him!”
“And what tune is it ye pull to, men?”
"And what song are you all rowing to, guys?"
“A dead whale or a stove boat!”
"A dead whale or a wrecked boat!"
More and more strangely and fiercely glad and approving, grew the countenance of the old man at every shout; while the mariners began to gaze curiously at each other, as if marvelling how it was that they themselves became so excited at such seemingly purposeless questions.
The old man's face grew increasingly and intensely glad and approving with every shout, while the sailors started glancing curiously at each other, as if wondering how they themselves were getting so worked up over what seemed like pointless questions.
But, they were all eagerness again, as Ahab, now half-revolving in his pivot-hole, with one hand reaching high up a shroud, and tightly, almost convulsively grasping it, addressed them thus:—
But they were all excited again as Ahab, now half-turning in his spot, with one hand reaching high up to grab a shroud and gripping it tightly, almost like a spasm, spoke to them like this:—
“All ye mast-headers have before now heard me give orders about a white whale. Look ye! d’ye see this Spanish ounce of gold?”—holding up a broad bright coin to the sun—“it is a sixteen dollar piece, men. D’ye see it? Mr. Starbuck, hand me yon top-maul.”
"All you lookouts have heard me talk about a white whale before. Look here! Do you see this gold coin?"—he held up a shiny, broad piece to the sunlight—"this is a sixteen-dollar piece, men. Do you see it? Mr. Starbuck, hand me that mallet over there."
While the mate was getting the hammer, Ahab, without speaking, was slowly rubbing the gold piece against the skirts of his jacket, as if to heighten its lustre, and without using any words was meanwhile lowly humming to himself, producing a sound so strangely muffled and inarticulate that it seemed the mechanical humming of the wheels of his vitality in him.
While the mate went to get the hammer, Ahab silently rubbed the gold coin against the hem of his jacket, as if trying to make it shinier. At the same time, without saying a word, he quietly hummed to himself, creating a sound so faint and indistinct that it felt like the mechanical humming of the inner workings of his life force.
Receiving the top-maul from Starbuck, he advanced towards the main-mast with the hammer uplifted in one hand, exhibiting the gold with the other, and with a high raised voice exclaiming: “Whosoever of ye raises me a white-headed whale with a wrinkled brow and a crooked jaw; whosoever of ye raises me that white-headed whale, with three holes punctured in his starboard fluke—look ye, whosoever of ye raises me that same white whale, he shall have this gold ounce, my boys!”
Taking the hammer from Starbuck, he walked toward the main mast with the hammer raised in one hand, showing off the gold with the other, and shouted loudly: “Whoever among you spots a white-headed whale with a wrinkled brow and a crooked jaw; whoever among you finds that white-headed whale with three holes punched in his starboard fin—listen up, whoever finds me that same white whale, he’ll get this gold coin, my friends!”
“Huzza! huzza!” cried the seamen, as with swinging tarpaulins they hailed the act of nailing the gold to the mast.
"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted the sailors, waving their tarps as they cheered on the act of nailing the gold to the mast.
“It’s a white whale, I say,” resumed Ahab, as he threw down the topmaul: “a white whale. Skin your eyes for him, men; look sharp for white water; if ye see but a bubble, sing out.”
“It’s a white whale, I’m telling you,” Ahab said again as he tossed down the mallet. “A white whale. Keep your eyes peeled for him, men; stay alert for any white water. If you see even a single bubble, shout out.”
All this while Tashtego, Daggoo, and Queequeg had looked on with even more intense interest and surprise than the rest, and at the mention of the wrinkled brow and crooked jaw they had started as if each was separately touched by some specific recollection.
All this time, Tashtego, Daggoo, and Queequeg had been watching with even greater interest and surprise than everyone else, and when the wrinkled brow and crooked jaw were mentioned, they reacted as if each of them had been struck by a personal memory.
“Captain Ahab,” said Tashtego, “that white whale must be the same that some call Moby Dick.”
"Captain Ahab," said Tashtego, "that white whale must be the one some people call Moby Dick."
“Moby Dick?” shouted Ahab. “Do ye know the white whale then, Tash?”
"Moby Dick?" shouted Ahab. "You know the white whale, Tash?"
“Does he fan-tail a little curious, sir, before he goes down?” said the Gay-Header deliberately.
“Does he fan his tail a bit curiously, sir, before diving?” asked the Gay-Header calmly.
“And has he a curious spout, too,” said Daggoo, “very bushy, even for a parmacetty, and mighty quick, Captain Ahab?”
"And does he have an unusual spout too," said Daggoo, "really bushy, even for a sperm whale, and super fast, Captain Ahab?"
“And he have one, two, three—oh! good many iron in him hide, too, Captain,” cried Queequeg disjointedly, “all twiske-tee be-twisk, like him—him—” faltering hard for a word, and screwing his hand round and round as though uncorking a bottle—“like him—him—”
"And he has one, two, three—oh! a whole lot of iron stuck inside him too, Captain," Queequeg said haltingly. "All twisted up, like—like—" he struggled to find the word, twisting his hand around as if he were uncorking a bottle, "like—like—"
“Corkscrew!” cried Ahab, “aye, Queequeg, the harpoons lie all twisted and wrenched in him; aye, Daggoo, his spout is a big one, like a whole shock of wheat, and white as a pile of our Nantucket wool after the great annual sheep-shearing; aye, Tashtego, and he fan-tails like a split jib in a squall. Death and devils! men, it is Moby Dick ye have seen—Moby Dick—Moby Dick!”
"Corkscrew!" shouted Ahab. "Yeah, Queequeg, the harpoons are all twisted and jammed in him. Yeah, Daggoo, his spout is massive, like a whole bundle of wheat, and as white as a pile of Nantucket wool after the big annual sheep-shearing. Yeah, Tashtego, and his tail fans out like a torn sail in a storm. Damn it, men, it's Moby Dick you've seen—Moby Dick—Moby Dick!"
“Captain Ahab,” said Starbuck, who, with Stubb and Flask, had thus far been eyeing his superior with increasing surprise, but at last seemed struck with a thought which somewhat explained all the wonder. “Captain Ahab, I have heard of Moby Dick—but it was not Moby Dick that took off thy leg?”
"Captain Ahab," said Starbuck, who, along with Stubb and Flask, had been watching their commander with growing surprise but suddenly seemed to realize something that partially explained their astonishment. "Captain Ahab, I've heard of Moby Dick—but it wasn't Moby Dick that took your leg, was it?"
“Who told thee that?” cried Ahab; then pausing, “Aye, Starbuck; aye, my hearties all round; it was Moby Dick that dismasted me; Moby Dick that brought me to this dead stump I stand on now. Aye, aye,” he shouted with a terrific, loud, animal sob, like that of a heart-stricken moose; “Aye, aye! it was that accursed white whale that razeed me; made a poor pegging lubber of me for ever and a day!” Then tossing both arms, with measureless imprecations he shouted out: “Aye, aye! and I’ll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition’s flames before I give him up. And this is what ye have shipped for, men! to chase that white whale on both sides of land, and over all sides of earth, till he spouts black blood and rolls fin out. What say ye, men, will ye splice hands on it, now? I think ye do look brave.”
"Who told you that?" yelled Ahab; then paused. "Yes, Starbuck, yes, my crew, all of you; it was Moby Dick that destroyed my ship; Moby Dick that left me standing on this dead stump I have now. Yes, yes," he shouted with a roaring, raw cry, like the sound of a wounded moose. "Yes, yes! It was that cursed white whale that ruined me; turned me into a wretched, one-legged sailor forever!" Then, throwing both arms into the air with endless curses, he bellowed, "Yes, yes! And I’ll chase him around the Cape of Good Hope, and around the Horn, and around the Norway Maelstrom, and even through hell’s flames before I ever let him go. And this is what you’ve signed up for, men! To chase that white whale across seas and shores, to the ends of the earth, until he spurts black blood and his fin rolls lifeless. What do you say, men, will you join hands on this now? I think you look ready for it."
“Aye, aye!” shouted the harpooneers and seamen, running closer to the excited old man: “A sharp eye for the white whale; a sharp lance for Moby Dick!”
"Yes, yes!" shouted the harpooners and sailors, rushing toward the excited old man: "Keep a sharp eye out for the white whale; a sharp spear for Moby Dick!"
“God bless ye,” he seemed to half sob and half shout. “God bless ye, men. Steward! go draw the great measure of grog. But what’s this long face about, Mr. Starbuck; wilt thou not chase the white whale? art not game for Moby Dick?”
“God bless you,” he seemed to half sob and half shout. “God bless you, men. Steward! Go pour out the big round of grog. But what’s with the long face, Mr. Starbuck? Won’t you go after the white whale? Aren’t you up for Moby Dick?”
“I am game for his crooked jaw, and for the jaws of Death too, Captain Ahab, if it fairly comes in the way of the business we follow; but I came here to hunt whales, not my commander’s vengeance. How many barrels will thy vengeance yield thee even if thou gettest it, Captain Ahab? it will not fetch thee much in our Nantucket market.”
"I'm up for taking on his crooked jaw and even the jaws of Death too, Captain Ahab, if it comes naturally as part of our work. But I signed up to hunt whales, not to chase my captain's revenge. How many barrels will your revenge bring you, even if you get it, Captain Ahab? It won't fetch you much in the Nantucket market."
“Nantucket market! Hoot! But come closer, Starbuck; thou requirest a little lower layer. If money’s to be the measurer, man, and the accountants have computed their great counting-house the globe, by girdling it with guineas, one to every three parts of an inch; then, let me tell thee, that my vengeance will fetch a great premium here!”
"Nantucket market? Ha! But come closer, Starbuck; you need to dig a little deeper. If money’s the measure of everything, man, and the accountants have turned the whole world into one giant counting house, wrapping it in gold coins at a rate of one for every three parts of an inch, then let me tell you, my vengeance will be worth a hefty price here!"
“He smites his chest,” whispered Stubb, “what’s that for? methinks it rings most vast, but hollow.”
"He’s beating his chest," Stubb whispered. "What’s that about? Sounds huge, but empty."
“Vengeance on a dumb brute!” cried Starbuck, “that simply smote thee from blindest instinct! Madness! To be enraged with a dumb thing, Captain Ahab, seems blasphemous.”
"Revenge on a mindless animal!" exclaimed Starbuck. "It struck you out of pure instinct! This is madness! Being furious with a senseless creature, Captain Ahab, feels like blasphemy."
“Hark ye yet again—the little lower layer. All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event—in the living act, the undoubted deed—there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me. Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond. But ’tis enough. He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it. That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him. Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the sun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. But not my master, man, is even that fair play. Who’s over me? Truth hath no confines. Take off thine eye! more intolerable than fiends’ glarings is a doltish stare! So, so; thou reddenest and palest; my heat has melted thee to anger-glow. But look ye, Starbuck, what is said in heat, that thing unsays itself. There are men from whom warm words are small indignity. I meant not to incense thee. Let it go. Look! see yonder Turkish cheeks of spotted tawn—living, breathing pictures painted by the sun. The Pagan leopards—the unrecking and unworshipping things, that live; and seek, and give no reasons for the torrid life they feel! The crew, man, the crew! Are they not one and all with Ahab, in this matter of the whale? See Stubb! he laughs! See yonder Chilian! he snorts to think of it. Stand up amid the general hurricane, thy one tost sapling cannot, Starbuck! And what is it? Reckon it. ’Tis but to help strike a fin; no wondrous feat for Starbuck. What is it more? From this one poor hunt, then, the best lance out of all Nantucket, surely he will not hang back, when every foremast-hand has clutched a whetstone? Ah! constrainings seize thee; I see! the billow lifts thee! Speak, but speak!—Aye, aye! thy silence, then, that voices thee. (Aside) Something shot from my dilated nostrils, he has inhaled it in his lungs. Starbuck now is mine; cannot oppose me now, without rebellion.”
"Listen closely again—go a little deeper. All we see in the world, man, are just hollow masks. But in every moment—in every act, in every real deed—there’s something unknown but still intelligent shaping its meaning from behind the mask. If a man must strike, he should strike through the mask! How else can a prisoner break free except by breaking through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, pushed close to me. Sometimes I think there’s nothing beyond it. But even if that’s the case, it’s enough. He challenges me; he exhausts me; I see in him outrageous power paired with an unfathomable malice that drives it. That mysterious malice is what I hate most; whether the white whale is an agent or the cause himself, I’ll let my hatred fall on him. Don’t preach to me about blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun itself if it insulted me. Because if the sun could wrong me, then I would have the right to strike back—there’s a kind of fairness governing all things, jealousy threading through creation. But no, not even that fairness controls me, man. Who rules over me? There are no boundaries for truth. Look somewhere else with that stare of yours! Worse than the glares of fiends is a stupid stare! Ah, I see it now; you flush, then pale—my heat has provoked your anger. But understand, Starbuck, what’s said in passion retracts itself. There are men who feel no offense from heated words. I didn’t mean to anger you. Forget it. Look there, see those sunburned, dappled faces—living, breathing portraits painted by the sun. The pagan leopards—those reckless, worshipless beings who live, strive, and give no thought to explaining the fire of life that drives them! The crew, man, the crew! Aren’t they all with Ahab on this hunt for the whale? Look at Stubb; he’s laughing! And see that Chilian over there; he snorts at the thought! In the middle of this storm, how can your one solitary resolve stand firm, Starbuck? And what is it, after all? Measure it. It’s nothing more than helping to take down a fin; no monumental task for Starbuck. What else is it? From this one small hunt, surely the best harpooner in all of Nantucket won’t back out, especially when every other sailor is sharpening their blades. Ah! You’re hesitating; I can see it! The tide is pulling you up! Speak, just say the word!—Yes, yes! Your silence speaks for you. (To himself) Something carried out in the breath from my nostrils—he’s inhaled it. Starbuck is mine now; there’s no resisting me without rebellion."
“God keep me!—keep us all!” murmured Starbuck, lowly.
"God help me!—help us all!" Starbuck murmured quietly.
But in his joy at the enchanted, tacit acquiescence of the mate, Ahab did not hear his foreboding invocation; nor yet the low laugh from the hold; nor yet the presaging vibrations of the winds in the cordage; nor yet the hollow flap of the sails against the masts, as for a moment their hearts sank in. For again Starbuck’s downcast eyes lighted up with the stubbornness of life; the subterranean laugh died away; the winds blew on; the sails filled out; the ship heaved and rolled as before. Ah, ye admonitions and warnings! why stay ye not when ye come? But rather are ye predictions than warnings, ye shadows! Yet not so much predictions from without, as verifications of the foregoing things within. For with little external to constrain us, the innermost necessities in our being, these still drive us on.
But in his excitement over the silent, enchanted agreement of the mate, Ahab didn’t notice the ominous warning in his own words, nor the faint laugh echoing from below deck, nor the eerie hum of the wind in the rigging, nor the hollow slap of the sails against the masts as their spirits faltered for a moment. But soon, Starbuck’s downcast eyes sparked again with the stubborn resilience of life; the faint laugh faded away; the wind kept blowing; the sails filled once more; and the ship rose and rolled as it always had. Oh, you warnings and signs! Why don’t you linger when you appear? Instead, are you more like predictions than actual warnings, mere shadows? And yet, not so much predictions from the outside world as validations of the forces already within us. For with little outside pressure, it’s the deep necessities of our own nature that still drive us forward.
“The measure! the measure!” cried Ahab.
"The measurement! The measurement!" shouted Ahab.
Receiving the brimming pewter, and turning to the harpooneers, he ordered them to produce their weapons. Then ranging them before him near the capstan, with their harpoons in their hands, while his three mates stood at his side with their lances, and the rest of the ship’s company formed a circle round the group; he stood for an instant searchingly eyeing every man of his crew. But those wild eyes met his, as the bloodshot eyes of the prairie wolves meet the eye of their leader, ere he rushes on at their head in the trail of the bison; but, alas! only to fall into the hidden snare of the Indian.
Taking the filled pewter mug and turning to the harpooners, he told them to bring out their weapons. Then, lining them up in front of him near the capstan, with their harpoons in hand, while his three mates stood beside him holding their lances, and the rest of the crew formed a circle around the group, he paused for a moment, carefully scanning each man in the crew. But those wild eyes stared back at him, like the bloodshot eyes of prairie wolves meeting their leader’s gaze before he charges ahead of them on the trail of the bison—only, sadly, to fall into the hidden trap set by the Indian.
“Drink and pass!” he cried, handing the heavy charged flagon to the nearest seaman. “The crew alone now drink. Round with it, round! Short draughts—long swallows, men; ’tis hot as Satan’s hoof. So, so; it goes round excellently. It spiralizes in ye; forks out at the serpent-snapping eye. Well done; almost drained. That way it went, this way it comes. Hand it me—here’s a hollow! Men, ye seem the years; so brimming life is gulped and gone. Steward, refill!
"Drink up and pass it on!" he yelled, handing the heavy, full flagon to the closest sailor. "Only the crew drinks now. Pass it around, pass it around! Take short sips—long swigs, men; it’s as hot as the devil’s hoof. That’s it, that’s it; it’s making the rounds perfectly. It spirals through you; sparks fly from your sharp eyes like a snapping serpent. Well done; almost empty. That was the way it went, now this is the way it comes. Hand it back—this one’s for me! Men, you’re like the years; life overflows, gets swallowed, and then it’s gone. Steward, fill it up again!"
“Attend now, my braves. I have mustered ye all round this capstan; and ye mates, flank me with your lances; and ye harpooneers, stand there with your irons; and ye, stout mariners, ring me in, that I may in some sort revive a noble custom of my fisherman fathers before me. O men, you will yet see that—Ha! boy, come back? bad pennies come not sooner. Hand it me. Why, now, this pewter had run brimming again, wer’t not thou St. Vitus’ imp—away, thou ague!
"Listen up, my warriors. I’ve gathered you all around this capstan; and you mates, stand beside me with your spears; and you harpooners, hold your harpoons ready; and you strong sailors, surround me, so I can, in a way, bring back a noble tradition from my fisherman ancestors. Oh men, you’ll see—Wait, boy, you came back? Bad pennies sure show up quick. Hand it over. Why, this pewter would’ve been full again if it weren’t for you, you twitchy little imp—be gone, you feverish pest!"
“Advance, ye mates! Cross your lances full before me. Well done! Let me touch the axis.” So saying, with extended arm, he grasped the three level, radiating lances at their crossed centre; while so doing, suddenly and nervously twitched them; meanwhile, glancing intently from Starbuck to Stubb; from Stubb to Flask. It seemed as though, by some nameless, interior volition, he would fain have shocked into them the same fiery emotion accumulated within the Leyden jar of his own magnetic life. The three mates quailed before his strong, sustained, and mystic aspect. Stubb and Flask looked sideways from him; the honest eye of Starbuck fell downright.
"Step forward, mates! Cross your lances right in front of me. Good work! Let me touch the center." Saying this, he stretched out his arm and grabbed the three level, crossed lances at their center; as he did, he suddenly and tensely jerked them. At the same time, he focused his intense gaze, moving it from Starbuck to Stubb, then from Stubb to Flask. It felt as if, through some unexplainable inner force, he was trying to ignite in them the same fiery intensity stored up like an electric charge in the magnetic energy of his own being. The three mates shrank back under his powerful, mysterious presence. Stubb and Flask glanced away from him, while Starbuck’s honest gaze dropped straight to the ground.
“In vain!” cried Ahab; “but, maybe, ’tis well. For did ye three but once take the full-forced shock, then mine own electric thing, that had perhaps expired from out me. Perchance, too, it would have dropped ye dead. Perchance ye need it not. Down lances! And now, ye mates, I do appoint ye three cupbearers to my three pagan kinsmen there—yon three most honorable gentlemen and noblemen, my valiant harpooneers. Disdain the task? What, when the great Pope washes the feet of beggars, using his tiara for ewer? Oh, my sweet cardinals! your own condescension, that shall bend ye to it. I do not order ye; ye will it. Cut your seizings and draw the poles, ye harpooneers!”
"In vain!" cried Ahab. "But maybe it's for the best. If you three had taken the full force of the shock, perhaps my own electric spark would have burned out. Maybe it would have killed you too. Maybe you don't even need it. Lower your lances! And now, my mates, I appoint you three as cupbearers to my three pagan kinsmen over there—those three most honorable gentlemen, my brave harpooners. Do you scorn the task? What, when the great Pope himself washes the feet of beggars, using his crown as a basin? Ah, my dear cardinals, your humility will bring you to this. I don't command you; you'll want to do it yourselves. Cut your bindings and draw the poles, harpooners!"
Silently obeying the order, the three harpooneers now stood with the detached iron part of their harpoons, some three feet long, held, barbs up, before him.
Silently following the order, the three harpooners now stood holding the detached metal part of their harpoons, about three feet long, with the barbs pointing upward in front of him.
“Stab me not with that keen steel! Cant them; cant them over! know ye not the goblet end? Turn up the socket! So, so; now, ye cup-bearers, advance. The irons! take them; hold them while I fill!” Forthwith, slowly going from one officer to the other, he brimmed the harpoon sockets with the fiery waters from the pewter.
“Don’t stab me with that sharp steel! Tip them; tip them over! Don’t you know the cup end? Turn up the socket! That’s it, that’s it; now, you cup-bearers, step up. The irons! Grab them; hold them while I pour!” Slowly, he went from one officer to the next, filling the harpoon sockets with fiery liquor from the pewter.
“Now, three to three, ye stand. Commend the murderous chalices! Bestow them, ye who are now made parties to this indissoluble league. Ha! Starbuck! but the deed is done! Yon ratifying sun now waits to sit upon it. Drink, ye harpooneers! drink and swear, ye men that man the deathful whaleboat’s bow—Death to Moby Dick! God hunt us all, if we do not hunt Moby Dick to his death!” The long, barbed steel goblets were lifted; and to cries and maledictions against the white whale, the spirits were simultaneously quaffed down with a hiss. Starbuck paled, and turned, and shivered. Once more, and finally, the replenished pewter went the rounds among the frantic crew; when, waving his free hand to them, they all dispersed; and Ahab retired within his cabin.
“Now, three against three, you stand. Raise the deadly cups! Pass them around, you who are now part of this unbreakable bond. Ha! Starbuck! But it’s done! That approving sun above now waits to seal it. Drink, harpooneers! Drink and swear, you men who ride the deadly whale boat’s bow—death to Moby Dick! May God hunt us all if we don’t hunt Moby Dick to his death!” The long, sharp steel goblets were raised, and with shouts and curses aimed at the white whale, the spirits were swallowed with a hiss. Starbuck went pale, turned away, and shivered. One last time, the refilled pewter mugs made their way around the frenzied crew; then, waving them off with his free hand, they all scattered, and Ahab retreated to his cabin.
CHAPTER 37. Sunset.
The cabin; by the stern windows; Ahab sitting alone, and gazing out.
The cabin; by the stern windows; Ahab sits alone, staring out.
I leave a white and turbid wake; pale waters, paler cheeks, where’er I sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track; let them; but first I pass.
I leave a white and foamy wake; pale waters, paler faces, wherever I sail. The jealous waves rise on the sides, trying to engulf my path; let them, but I pass through first.
Yonder, by ever-brimming goblet’s rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun—slow dived from noon—goes down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then, the crown too heavy that I wear? this Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet is it bright with many a gem; I the wearer, see not its far flashings; but darkly feel that I wear that, that dazzlingly confounds. ’Tis iron—that I know—not gold. ’Tis split, too—that I feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against the solid metal; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight!
Over there, at the ever-filled goblet's edge, the warm waves blush like wine. The golden horizon dips into the blue. The sun, slowly sinking from its midday height, goes down while my soul rises! She grows tired from her endless climb. Is the crown I wear too heavy, then? This Iron Crown of Lombardy. Yet it glimmers with many gems; I, the one who wears it, can’t see its distant flashes but can only feel its dark weight, dazzling and overwhelming. It’s iron—that much I know—not gold. It’s split too—that I feel; the jagged edge wounds me so deeply that my brain feels like it’s pounding against the solid metal. Yes, my skull is steel; the kind that needs no helmet even in the most mind-crushing battles!
Dry heat upon my brow? Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred me, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not me; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne’er enjoy. Gifted with the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most subtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise! Good night—good night! (waving his hand, he moves from the window.)
Dry heat on my forehead? Oh! There was a time when sunrise filled me with energy, and sunset calmed me. Not anymore. This beautiful light doesn’t shine for me; all beauty feels like torment because I can't enjoy it. Blessed with great perception, I lack the simple ability to enjoy; cursed in the cruelest and most ironic way! Cursed right here in paradise! Good night—good night! (waving his hand, he steps away from the window.)
’Twas not so hard a task. I thought to find one stubborn, at the least; but my one cogged circle fits into all their various wheels, and they revolve. Or, if you will, like so many ant-hills of powder, they all stand before me; and I their match. Oh, hard! that to fire others, the match itself must needs be wasting! What I’ve dared, I’ve willed; and what I’ve willed, I’ll do! They think me mad—Starbuck does; but I’m demoniac, I am madness maddened! That wild madness that’s only calm to comprehend itself! The prophecy was that I should be dismembered; and—Aye! I lost this leg. I now prophesy that I will dismember my dismemberer. Now, then, be the prophet and the fulfiller one. That’s more than ye, ye great gods, ever were. I laugh and hoot at ye, ye cricket-players, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blinded Bendigoes! I will not say as schoolboys do to bullies—Take some one of your own size; don’t pommel me! No, ye’ve knocked me down, and I am up again; but ye have run and hidden. Come forth from behind your cotton bags! I have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab’s compliments to ye; come and see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye swerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!
It wasn’t such a hard task. I thought I’d find at least one stubborn person, but my one rigged cog fits into all their different wheels, and they keep turning. Or, if you like, they’re like a bunch of powder-filled anthills, all lined up before me, and I’m their match. Oh, the irony! That to spark others, the match itself has to burn away! What I’ve dared, I’ve decided; and what I’ve decided, I’ll do! They think I’m insane—Starbuck does—but I’m not just mad, I’m madness taken to the next level! That wild kind of madness that’s calm enough to understand itself! The prophecy said I’d be torn apart, and—yeah! I lost this leg. Now I’ll make my own prophecy: I will tear apart the one who tore me apart. Now I’ll be both the prophet and the one who fulfills it. That’s more than you gods ever managed. I laugh and mock you—cricketers, boxers, blind Burkes, and blindfolded Bendigoes! I won’t say, like schoolboys to bullies, “Pick on someone your own size; don’t hit me!” No, you knocked me down, and I got back up—but now you’ve run off and hidden. Come out from behind your cotton-barrier hiding spots! I don’t have a long-range gun to reach you, but come on! Ahab sends his regards—come see if you can shake me. Shake me? You can’t shake me unless you shake yourselves! Humanity has the upper hand there. Shake me? My purpose is fixed, and the path to it is laid with iron tracks, with my soul locked on its course. Over bottomless canyons, through the hollowed-out hearts of mountains, under riverbeds—I race on without error! Nothing’s a roadblock, nothing’s a bend for the iron path!
CHAPTER 38. Dusk.
By the Mainmast; Starbuck leaning against it.
By the Mainmast; Starbuck leaning against it.
My soul is more than matched; she’s overmanned; and by a madman! Insufferable sting, that sanity should ground arms on such a field! But he drilled deep down, and blasted all my reason out of me! I think I see his impious end; but feel that I must help him to it. Will I, nill I, the ineffable thing has tied me to him; tows me with a cable I have no knife to cut. Horrible old man! Who’s over him, he cries;—aye, he would be a democrat to all above; look, how he lords it over all below! Oh! I plainly see my miserable office,—to obey, rebelling; and worse yet, to hate with touch of pity! For in his eyes I read some lurid woe would shrivel me up, had I it. Yet is there hope. Time and tide flow wide. The hated whale has the round watery world to swim in, as the small gold-fish has its glassy globe. His heaven-insulting purpose, God may wedge aside. I would up heart, were it not like lead. But my whole clock’s run down; my heart the all-controlling weight, I have no key to lift again.
My soul is completely overwhelmed; it’s overpowered—and by a madman! The unbearable sting of knowing that sanity must surrender in such a fight! But he dug deep and shattered all my reasoning! I think I see his blasphemous goal, but I feel like I’m bound to help him achieve it. Whether I want to or not, this unshakable force has tied me to him, dragging me along with a rope I can’t cut. Curse that horrible old man! Who can control him, he asks—oh, he’d call himself a democrat to those above him, yet see how he rules over everyone beneath him! Oh! I see so clearly now the miserable burden I bear—to obey him while rebelling inside; and even worse, to hate him while feeling a trace of pity! Because in his eyes, I see some grim sorrow that would consume me if I understood it. And yet, there’s hope. The flow of time and tide is vast. The detested whale roams the endless watery world, just as the tiny goldfish circles its glass bowl. Maybe God will overturn his heaven-defying plan. I’d lift my spirits if they weren’t so heavy. But my entire system feels like it’s wound down; my heart, the driving force of it all, is a weight I can no longer lift.
[A burst of revelry from the forecastle.]
[A sudden burst of partying from the ship's forecastle.]
Oh, God! to sail with such a heathen crew that have small touch of human mothers in them! Whelped somewhere by the sharkish sea. The white whale is their demigorgon. Hark! the infernal orgies! that revelry is forward! mark the unfaltering silence aft! Methinks it pictures life. Foremost through the sparkling sea shoots on the gay, embattled, bantering bow, but only to drag dark Ahab after it, where he broods within his sternward cabin, builded over the dead water of the wake, and further on, hunted by its wolfish gurglings. The long howl thrills me through! Peace! ye revellers, and set the watch! Oh, life! ’tis in an hour like this, with soul beat down and held to knowledge,—as wild, untutored things are forced to feed—Oh, life! ’tis now that I do feel the latent horror in thee! but ’tis not me! that horror’s out of me! and with the soft feeling of the human in me, yet will I try to fight ye, ye grim, phantom futures! Stand by me, hold me, bind me, O ye blessed influences!
Oh, God! To sail with a crew like this—a bunch of godless heathens with barely a trace of humanity in them! Born somewhere in the merciless depths of the shark-filled sea. The white whale is their cursed idol. Listen! Those hellish celebrations up front! Their wild partying echoes ahead! But look at the unwavering silence in the back! It feels like a metaphor for life. Up front, cutting through the sparkling sea, the lively, mocking bow charges forward—but only to drag dark, brooding Ahab behind it, where he sits in his gloomy cabin at the stern, built over the dead stillness of the ship's wake, haunted further by the eerie, wolf-like sounds chasing us. That long, chilling howl sends shivers through me! Enough! You wild partiers, keep watch! Oh, life! It’s moments like this, when my spirit is crushed and forced to confront the truth—like wild, untamed creatures being made to eat their fill—oh, life! It's now that I truly feel the hidden terror within you! But that terror isn’t part of me! It’s outside of me! And with the gentle touch of human sensibility still within my heart, I will try to fight you, you grim, shadowy futures! Stay with me, hold me, strengthen me, oh you blessed forces!
CHAPTER 39. First Night-Watch.
Fore-Top.
Fore-Top.
(Stubb solus, and mending a brace.)
Stubb alone, fixing a brace.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! hem! clear my throat!—I’ve been thinking over it ever since, and that ha, ha’s the final consequence. Why so? Because a laugh’s the wisest, easiest answer to all that’s queer; and come what will, one comfort’s always left—that unfailing comfort is, it’s all predestinated. I heard not all his talk with Starbuck; but to my poor eye Starbuck then looked something as I the other evening felt. Be sure the old Mogul has fixed him, too. I twigged it, knew it; had had the gift, might readily have prophesied it—for when I clapped my eye upon his skull I saw it. Well, Stubb, wise Stubb—that’s my title—well, Stubb, what of it, Stubb? Here’s a carcase. I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I’ll go to it laughing. Such a waggish leering as lurks in all your horribles! I feel funny. Fa, la! lirra, skirra! What’s my juicy little pear at home doing now? Crying its eyes out?—Giving a party to the last arrived harpooneers, I dare say, gay as a frigate’s pennant, and so am I—fa, la! lirra, skirra! Oh—
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ahem! Let me clear my throat—I've been mulling it over ever since, and that ha, ha is the end result. Why? Because laughing is the smartest and easiest way to deal with anything strange; and no matter what happens, there’s always one comfort left—that unshakable comfort is that it’s all meant to be. I didn’t hear everything he said to Starbuck, but from what I could see, Starbuck looked a lot like I felt the other night. You can bet the old Mogul’s gotten to him too. I caught on to it, knew what was happening; if I had the gift, I could’ve predicted it—because when I took one look at his face, I just knew. Well, Stubb, *wise* Stubb—that’s my title—well, Stubb, what now, Stubb? Here’s a corpse. I don’t know what’s coming, but whatever it is, I’ll face it with a laugh. There’s something so mischievous and mocking hidden in all the terrifying things! I feel like laughing. Fa, la! Lira, skirra! What’s my sweet little pear back home doing right now? Crying their eyes out? Throwing a party for the latest batch of harpooners, I’d bet; cheerful as a ship with all her flags flying—and so am I—fa, la! Lira, skirra! Oh—
We’ll drink to-night with hearts as light,
To love, as gay and fleeting
As bubbles that swim, on the beaker’s brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.
We’ll drink tonight with hearts so light,
To love, as cheerful and brief
As bubbles that float, on the glass’s edge,
And burst on the lips when they meet.A brave stave that—who calls? Mr. Starbuck? Aye, aye, sir—(Aside) he’s my superior, he has his too, if I’m not mistaken.—Aye, aye, sir, just through with this job—coming.
A bold chant that—who’s calling? Mr. Starbuck? Yes, sir—(Aside) he's my boss, but he has his own boss too, if I’m not mistaken.—Yes, sir, just finishing this task—on my way.
CHAPTER 40. Midnight, Forecastle.
HARPOONEERS AND SAILORS.
Whalers and sailors.
(Foresail rises and discovers the watch standing, lounging, leaning, and lying in various attitudes, all singing in chorus.)
(The foresail is raised, revealing the crew on watch—standing, lounging, leaning, and lying around in different poses, all singing together in unison.)
Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies!
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain!
Our captain’s commanded.—
Goodbye and take care to you, Spanish ladies!
Goodbye and take care to you, ladies of Spain!
Our captain's given the order.—1ST NANTUCKET SAILOR. Oh, boys, don’t be sentimental; it’s bad for the digestion! Take a tonic, follow me!
1ST NANTUCKET SAILOR. Hey, guys, don’t get all emotional; it’s bad for your stomach! Grab a pick-me-up and follow me!
(Sings, and all follow.)
(Sings, and everyone follows.)
Our captain stood upon the deck,
A spy-glass in his hand,
A viewing of those gallant whales
That blew at every strand.
Oh, your tubs in your boats, my boys,
And by your braces stand,
And we’ll have one of those fine whales,
Hand, boys, over hand!
So, be cheery, my lads! may your hearts never fail!
While the bold harpooner is striking the whale!
Our captain stood on the deck,
A spyglass in his hand,
Looking out at those brave whales
That surfaced at every shore.
Oh, your barrels in your boats, guys,
And hold onto your lines,
And we’ll get one of those beautiful whales,
Hand, boys, over hand!
So, cheer up, my friends! May your spirits never drop!
While the brave harpooner is going after the whale!MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Eight bells there, forward!
FIRST MATE'S VOICE FROM THE QUARTERDECK: Eight bells up front!
2ND NANTUCKET SAILOR. Avast the chorus! Eight bells there! d’ye hear, bell-boy? Strike the bell eight, thou Pip! thou blackling! and let me call the watch. I’ve the sort of mouth for that—the hogshead mouth. So, so, (thrusts his head down the scuttle,) Star-bo-l-e-e-n-s, a-h-o-y! Eight bells there below! Tumble up!
2ND NANTUCKET SAILOR. Stop the singing! It's eight bells, you hear that, bell-boy? Ring the bell eight times, Pip! Hey, you little rascal! Let me call the watch. I've got just the voice for it—the booming one. Alright, alright, (sticks his head down the hatch,) Starboard watch, ahoy! Eight bells below! Get up here!
DUTCH SAILOR. Grand snoozing to-night, maty; fat night for that. I mark this in our old Mogul’s wine; it’s quite as deadening to some as filliping to others. We sing; they sleep—aye, lie down there, like ground-tier butts. At ’em again! There, take this copper-pump, and hail ’em through it. Tell ’em to avast dreaming of their lasses. Tell ’em it’s the resurrection; they must kiss their last, and come to judgment. That’s the way—that’s it; thy throat ain’t spoiled with eating Amsterdam butter.
DUTCH SAILOR. Great night for sleeping, mate; perfect night for that. I can tell from our old Mogul’s drink—it’s just as numbing for some as it is energizing for others. We sing; they sleep—yeah, lying there like barrels in the hold. Go at it again! Here, take this copper pump and shout at them through it. Tell them to stop dreaming about their sweethearts. Tell them it’s judgment day; they’ve got to say their goodbyes and face the reckoning. That’s the way—*that’s* it; your voice hasn’t been ruined by eating too much Amsterdam butter.
FRENCH SAILOR. Hist, boys! let’s have a jig or two before we ride to anchor in Blanket Bay. What say ye? There comes the other watch. Stand by all legs! Pip! little Pip! hurrah with your tambourine!
FRENCH SAILOR. Hey, guys! Let’s dance a bit before we drop anchor in Blanket Bay. What do you say? Here comes the other crew. Get ready, everyone! Pip! Little Pip! Play your tambourine, let’s go!
PIP. (Sulky and sleepy.) Don’t know where it is.
PIP. (Sulking and sleepy.) I don’t know where it is.
FRENCH SAILOR. Beat thy belly, then, and wag thy ears. Jig it, men, I say; merry’s the word; hurrah! Damn me, won’t you dance? Form, now, Indian-file, and gallop into the double-shuffle? Throw yourselves! Legs! legs!
FRENCH SAILOR. Slap your belly, then, and shake your head. Move it, guys, I’m telling you; fun’s the word; let’s go! Damn it, won’t you dance? Line up, now, single file, and break into a shuffle? Let’s go! Legs! Legs!
ICELAND SAILOR. I don’t like your floor, maty; it’s too springy to my taste. I’m used to ice-floors. I’m sorry to throw cold water on the subject; but excuse me.
ICELAND SAILOR. I don’t like your floor, mate; it’s too bouncy for my taste. I’m used to ice floors. Sorry to pour cold water on the topic, but excuse me.
MALTESE SAILOR. Me too; where’s your girls? Who but a fool would take his left hand by his right, and say to himself, how d’ye do? Partners! I must have partners!
MALTESE SAILOR. Me too; where are your girls? Who but an idiot would shake his own hand and say, "How are you?" I need partners!
SICILIAN SAILOR. Aye; girls and a green!—then I’ll hop with ye; yea, turn grasshopper!
SICILIAN SAILOR. Sure, girls and some green!—then I’m in; yeah, I’ll jump around like a grasshopper!
LONG-ISLAND SAILOR. Well, well, ye sulkies, there’s plenty more of us. Hoe corn when you may, say I. All legs go to harvest soon. Ah! here comes the music; now for it!
LONG-ISLAND SAILOR. Well, well, you grumpy ones, there's plenty more of us. Plant corn while you can, I say. Everyone's going to work the fields soon enough. Ah! Here comes the music; let's get to it!
AZORE SAILOR. (Ascending, and pitching the tambourine up the scuttle.) Here you are, Pip; and there’s the windlass-bitts; up you mount! Now, boys! (The half of them dance to the tambourine; some go below; some sleep or lie among the coils of rigging. Oaths a-plenty.)
AZORE SAILOR. (Climbing up and tossing the tambourine through the hatch.) Here you go, Pip; and there’s the windlass-bitts—climb on up! Alright, guys! (Half of them dance to the tambourine; some head below deck; others sleep or lounge around on the rigging coils. Plenty of cursing is heard.)
AZORE SAILOR. (Dancing) Go it, Pip! Bang it, bell-boy! Rig it, dig it, stig it, quig it, bell-boy! Make fire-flies; break the jinglers!
AZORE SAILOR. (Dancing) Go for it, Pip! Hit it, bell-boy! Spin it, dig it, flip it, whip it, bell-boy! Make fireflies; shatter the jinglers!
PIP. Jinglers, you say?—there goes another, dropped off; I pound it so.
PIP. Jinglers, you say?—there goes another one, fell off. I keep pounding away like this.
CHINA SAILOR. Rattle thy teeth, then, and pound away; make a pagoda of thyself.
CHINA SAILOR. Chatter your teeth, then, and keep hammering; turn yourself into a pagoda.
FRENCH SAILOR. Merry-mad! Hold up thy hoop, Pip, till I jump through it! Split jibs! tear yourselves!
FRENCH SAILOR. Wild and crazy! Hold up your hoop, Pip, so I can jump through it! Rip sails! Go wild!
TASHTEGO. (Quietly smoking.) That’s a white man; he calls that fun: humph! I save my sweat.
TASHTEGO. (Quietly smoking.) That’s a white guy; he calls that fun. Hmph! I’ll save my energy.
OLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder whether those jolly lads bethink them of what they are dancing over. I’ll dance over your grave, I will—that’s the bitterest threat of your night-women, that beat head-winds round corners. O Christ! to think of the green navies and the green-skulled crews! Well, well; belike the whole world’s a ball, as you scholars have it; and so ’tis right to make one ballroom of it. Dance on, lads, you’re young; I was once.
OLD MANX SAILOR. I wonder if those cheerful guys ever think about what they're dancing on. "I'll dance on your grave, I will"—that’s the harshest threat of those night-women, who rage against the wind around corners. Oh Christ! To imagine the green ships and their green-skulled crews! Well, well; maybe the whole world is just a ball, like you scholars say; so I guess it’s only right to turn it into a ballroom. Keep dancing, boys, you're young; I used to be too.
3D NANTUCKET SAILOR. Spell oh!—whew! this is worse than pulling after whales in a calm—give us a whiff, Tash.
3D NANTUCKET SAILOR. Ugh, oh!—phew! This is tougher than chasing whales on a still day—pass me a puff, Tash.
(They cease dancing, and gather in clusters. Meantime the sky darkens—the wind rises.)
(They stop dancing and gather in small groups. Meanwhile, the sky grows darker, and the wind picks up.)
LASCAR SAILOR. By Brahma! boys, it’ll be douse sail soon. The sky-born, high-tide Ganges turned to wind! Thou showest thy black brow, Seeva!
LASCAR SAILOR. By Brahma, guys, we’ll be lowering the sails soon. The Ganges, risen high with the tide, has turned to wind! You're showing your dark face, Shiva!
MALTESE SAILOR. (Reclining and shaking his cap.) It’s the waves—the snow’s caps turn to jig it now. They’ll shake their tassels soon. Now would all the waves were women, then I’d go drown, and chassee with them evermore! There’s naught so sweet on earth—heaven may not match it!—as those swift glances of warm, wild bosoms in the dance, when the over-arboring arms hide such ripe, bursting grapes.
MALTESE SAILOR. (Leaning back and shaking his hat.) It’s the waves—they’re dancing now, like snowcaps swirling around. Pretty soon, they’ll be tossing their tassels. If only all the waves were women, I’d dive right in and dance with them forever! There’s nothing on earth as sweet—and maybe not even in heaven!—as those quick, fiery glances of passionate, free-spirited dancers, with their arms raised and hiding such ripe, bursting grapes.
SICILIAN SAILOR. (Reclining.) Tell me not of it! Hark ye, lad—fleet interlacings of the limbs—lithe swayings—coyings—flutterings! lip! heart! hip! all graze: unceasing touch and go! not taste, observe ye, else come satiety. Eh, Pagan? (Nudging.)
SICILIAN SAILOR. (Reclining.) Don’t talk to me about it! Listen, kid—quick twists of the body—graceful movements—teasing—fluttering! Lips! Heart! Hips! All brushing together: constant touch and go! Not tasting, mind you, or else you’ll get bored. Right, Pagan? (Nudging.)
TAHITAN SAILOR. (Reclining on a mat.) Hail, holy nakedness of our dancing girls!—the Heeva-Heeva! Ah! low veiled, high palmed Tahiti! I still rest me on thy mat, but the soft soil has slid! I saw thee woven in the wood, my mat! green the first day I brought ye thence; now worn and wilted quite. Ah me!—not thou nor I can bear the change! How then, if so be transplanted to yon sky? Hear I the roaring streams from Pirohitee’s peak of spears, when they leap down the crags and drown the villages?—The blast! the blast! Up, spine, and meet it! (Leaps to his feet.)
TAHITIAN SAILOR. (Reclining on a mat.) Cheers to the sacred freedom of our dancing girls!—the Heeva-Heeva! Oh, beautiful and serene Tahiti! I still lie on your mat, but the soft earth has slipped away! I remember when I first brought this mat from the forest—it was fresh and green that day; now it’s worn out and faded completely. Oh, neither you nor I can handle the change! What if we were taken up to that sky above? Do I hear the roaring waterfalls of Pirohitee’s mountain of spears, crashing down the cliffs and flooding the villages?—The storm! The storm! Straighten up, back, and face it! (Jumps to his feet.)
PORTUGUESE SAILOR. How the sea rolls swashing ’gainst the side! Stand by for reefing, hearties! the winds are just crossing swords, pell-mell they’ll go lunging presently.
PORTUGUESE SAILOR. Look how the sea crashes against the side! Get ready to reef, guys! The winds are just starting to battle—it’s going to be chaos soon.
DANISH SAILOR. Crack, crack, old ship! so long as thou crackest, thou holdest! Well done! The mate there holds ye to it stiffly. He’s no more afraid than the isle fort at Cattegat, put there to fight the Baltic with storm-lashed guns, on which the sea-salt cakes!
DANISH SAILOR. Creak, creak, old ship! As long as you're creaking, you're holding together! Good job! The mate up there is keeping you steady. He's just as fearless as the fortress on the Cattegat, built to battle the Baltic with storm-battered cannons, crusted with sea salt!
4TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. He has his orders, mind ye that. I heard old Ahab tell him he must always kill a squall, something as they burst a waterspout with a pistol—fire your ship right into it!
4TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. He's got his orders, you know. I heard old Ahab tell him he must always take down a storm, kind of like they blast a waterspout with a gun—steer the ship straight into it!
ENGLISH SAILOR. Blood! but that old man’s a grand old cove! We are the lads to hunt him up his whale!
ENGLISH SAILOR. Damn! That old man's one impressive guy! We're the ones to help him catch his whale!
ALL. Aye! aye!
ALL. Yes!
OLD MANX SAILOR. How the three pines shake! Pines are the hardest sort of tree to live when shifted to any other soil, and here there’s none but the crew’s cursed clay. Steady, helmsman! steady. This is the sort of weather when brave hearts snap ashore, and keeled hulls split at sea. Our captain has his birthmark; look yonder, boys, there’s another in the sky—lurid-like, ye see, all else pitch black.
OLD MANX SAILOR. Look at how the three pines tremble! Pines are the toughest type of tree to survive when moved to different soil, and here it’s nothing but this cursed clay from the crew. Steady, helmsman! Stay steady. This is the kind of weather that breaks brave hearts on land and splits sturdy ships at sea. Our captain has his birthmark; look over there, boys, there’s another in the sky—glowing red, you see, with everything else pitch black.
DAGGOO. What of that? Who’s afraid of black’s afraid of me! I’m quarried out of it!
DAGGOO. So what? If you're scared of black, you're scared of me! I was born from it!
SPANISH SAILOR. (Aside.) He wants to bully, ah!—the old grudge makes me touchy (Advancing.) Aye, harpooneer, thy race is the undeniable dark side of mankind—devilish dark at that. No offence.
SPANISH SAILOR. (Aside) He’s trying to act tough, huh!—that old grudge makes me sensitive. (Steps forward) Yeah, harpooneer, your people are definitely the darker side of humanity—devilishly dark, at that. No offense.
DAGGOO (grimly). None.
DAGGOO (grimly). None.
ST. JAGO’S SAILOR. That Spaniard’s mad or drunk. But that can’t be, or else in his one case our old Mogul’s fire-waters are somewhat long in working.
ST. JAGO’S SAILOR. That Spaniard’s either crazy or drunk. But that can’t be it, unless in his case our old Mogul’s liquor takes a while to kick in.
5TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. What’s that I saw—lightning? Yes.
5TH NANTUCKET SAILOR. Was that lightning I just saw? Yeah.
SPANISH SAILOR. No; Daggoo showing his teeth.
SPANISH SAILOR. No, Daggoo is baring his teeth.
DAGGOO (springing). Swallow thine, mannikin! White skin, white liver!
DAGGOO (jumping up). Swallow yours, little man! Pale skin, cowardly heart!
SPANISH SAILOR (meeting him). Knife thee heartily! big frame, small spirit!
SPANISH SAILOR (meeting him). Stab you with all my heart! Big body, small spirit!
ALL. A row! a row! a row!
Everyone: A fight! A fight! A fight!
TASHTEGO (with a whiff). A row a’low, and a row aloft—Gods and men—both brawlers! Humph!
TASHTEGO (with a sniff). A fight below, and a fight above—gods and humans—both troublemakers! Hmph!
BELFAST SAILOR. A row! arrah a row! The Virgin be blessed, a row! Plunge in with ye!
BELFAST SAILOR. A fight! Oh, a fight! Thank the Virgin, a fight! Jump in with you!
ENGLISH SAILOR. Fair play! Snatch the Spaniard’s knife! A ring, a ring!
ENGLISH SAILOR. Play fair! Take the Spaniard's knife! Make a circle, make a circle!
OLD MANX SAILOR. Ready formed. There! the ringed horizon. In that ring Cain struck Abel. Sweet work, right work! No? Why then, God, mad’st thou the ring?
Old Manx Sailor. Already made. Look! The circular horizon. Within that circle, Cain killed Abel. Lovely work, righteous work! Isn't it? Then why, God, did you make the circle?
MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Hands by the halyards! in top-gallant sails! Stand by to reef topsails!
MATE’S VOICE FROM THE QUARTER-DECK. Crew, get ready by the halyards! Take in the top-gallant sails! Prepare to reef the topsails!
ALL. The squall! the squall! jump, my jollies! (They scatter.)
ALL. The storm! The storm! Move it, everyone! (They scatter.)
PIP (shrinking under the windlass). Jollies? Lord help such jollies! Crish, crash! there goes the jib-stay! Blang-whang! God! Duck lower, Pip, here comes the royal yard! It’s worse than being in the whirled woods, the last day of the year! Who’d go climbing after chestnuts now? But there they go, all cursing, and here I don’t. Fine prospects to ’em; they’re on the road to heaven. Hold on hard! Jimmini, what a squall! But those chaps there are worse yet—they are your white squalls, they. White squalls? white whale, shirr! shirr! Here have I heard all their chat just now, and the white whale—shirr! shirr!—but spoken of once! and only this evening—it makes me jingle all over like my tambourine—that anaconda of an old man swore ’em in to hunt him! Oh, thou big white God aloft there somewhere in yon darkness, have mercy on this small black boy down here; preserve him from all men that have no bowels to feel fear!
PIP (huddling under the windlass): Jollies? God help those jollies! Crash, smash! There goes the jib-stay! Bang-whang! God! Get lower, Pip, the royal yard's swinging through! This is worse than being stuck in the wild woods on New Year's Eve! Who'd climb after chestnuts now? But look at them, all cursing, while I’m not. Good luck to them—they're heading straight to heaven. Hold on tight! Wow, what a storm! But those guys are even worse—they're like those white squalls. White squalls? White whale—shirr! shirr! I’ve just listened to them talk and that white whale—shirr! shirr!—almost never gets mentioned! And only tonight—makes me shake all over like my tambourine—that old snake of a man made them swear to hunt it! Oh, you big white God up there somewhere in this dark sky, please have mercy on this small Black boy down here; protect him from all those heartless men who don’t know fear!
CHAPTER 41. Moby Dick.
I, Ishmael, was one of that crew; my shouts had gone up with the rest; my oath had been welded with theirs; and stronger I shouted, and more did I hammer and clinch my oath, because of the dread in my soul. A wild, mystical, sympathetical feeling was in me; Ahab’s quenchless feud seemed mine. With greedy ears I learned the history of that murderous monster against whom I and all the others had taken our oaths of violence and revenge.
I, Ishmael, was part of that crew; I shouted along with everyone else; I swore the same oath they did, and I shouted louder and swore harder because of the fear deep in my soul. I felt this wild, mystical, almost sympathetic connection; Ahab’s relentless vendetta felt like my own. I eagerly soaked up every detail about the deadly creature we had all sworn to destroy and avenge.
For some time past, though at intervals only, the unaccompanied, secluded White Whale had haunted those uncivilized seas mostly frequented by the Sperm Whale fishermen. But not all of them knew of his existence; only a few of them, comparatively, had knowingly seen him; while the number who as yet had actually and knowingly given battle to him, was small indeed. For, owing to the large number of whale-cruisers; the disorderly way they were sprinkled over the entire watery circumference, many of them adventurously pushing their quest along solitary latitudes, so as seldom or never for a whole twelvemonth or more on a stretch, to encounter a single news-telling sail of any sort; the inordinate length of each separate voyage; the irregularity of the times of sailing from home; all these, with other circumstances, direct and indirect, long obstructed the spread through the whole world-wide whaling-fleet of the special individualizing tidings concerning Moby Dick. It was hardly to be doubted, that several vessels reported to have encountered, at such or such a time, or on such or such a meridian, a Sperm Whale of uncommon magnitude and malignity, which whale, after doing great mischief to his assailants, had completely escaped them; to some minds it was not an unfair presumption, I say, that the whale in question must have been no other than Moby Dick. Yet as of late the Sperm Whale fishery had been marked by various and not unfrequent instances of great ferocity, cunning, and malice in the monster attacked; therefore it was, that those who by accident ignorantly gave battle to Moby Dick; such hunters, perhaps, for the most part, were content to ascribe the peculiar terror he bred, more, as it were, to the perils of the Sperm Whale fishery at large, than to the individual cause. In that way, mostly, the disastrous encounter between Ahab and the whale had hitherto been popularly regarded.
For a while now, though only occasionally, the solitary and elusive White Whale had been spotted in the wild seas mostly visited by sperm whale hunters. However, not all of them were aware of his existence; only a few had knowingly seen him, and an even smaller number had actually and deliberately fought him. Due to the large number of whaling ships and the disorganized way they were scattered across the vast ocean, with many venturing into isolated areas where they might go an entire year or more without encountering another ship to share news with, along with the incredible length of each voyage and the irregular departure times from home, the spread of specific and detailed news about Moby Dick throughout the global whaling fleet had been greatly delayed. It was likely that several ships reported coming across, at certain times and locations, a sperm whale of unusual size and viciousness—one that had caused massive destruction to its attackers before completely escaping. For some, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that this whale was none other than Moby Dick. Yet, as the sperm whale fishery had recently been characterized by numerous instances of whales showing extreme ferocity, cunning, and malicious behavior during hunts, many hunters who unknowingly fought Moby Dick often attributed the unique fear he inspired more to the inherent dangers of sperm whale hunting in general than to the actions of a single whale. For the most part, that’s how the disastrous encounter between Ahab and the White Whale had been commonly understood up until then.
And as for those who, previously hearing of the White Whale, by chance caught sight of him; in the beginning of the thing they had every one of them, almost, as boldly and fearlessly lowered for him, as for any other whale of that species. But at length, such calamities did ensue in these assaults—not restricted to sprained wrists and ankles, broken limbs, or devouring amputations—but fatal to the last degree of fatality; those repeated disastrous repulses, all accumulating and piling their terrors upon Moby Dick; those things had gone far to shake the fortitude of many brave hunters, to whom the story of the White Whale had eventually come.
As for those who had heard about the White Whale and then happened to see him, at first, nearly all of them lowered their boats to chase him as boldly and fearlessly as they would any other whale of that kind. But in time, the disasters that followed these hunts—ranging from sprained wrists and ankles, broken bones, or even devastating losses of limbs, to outright fatal outcomes—piled terror upon terror around Moby Dick. These repeated catastrophic failures deeply unsettled the courage of many brave hunters who later heard the tale of the White Whale.
Nor did wild rumors of all sorts fail to exaggerate, and still the more horrify the true histories of these deadly encounters. For not only do fabulous rumors naturally grow out of the very body of all surprising terrible events,—as the smitten tree gives birth to its fungi; but, in maritime life, far more than in that of terra firma, wild rumors abound, wherever there is any adequate reality for them to cling to. And as the sea surpasses the land in this matter, so the whale fishery surpasses every other sort of maritime life, in the wonderfulness and fearfulness of the rumors which sometimes circulate there. For not only are whalemen as a body unexempt from that ignorance and superstitiousness hereditary to all sailors; but of all sailors, they are by all odds the most directly brought into contact with whatever is appallingly astonishing in the sea; face to face they not only eye its greatest marvels, but, hand to jaw, give battle to them. Alone, in such remotest waters, that though you sailed a thousand miles, and passed a thousand shores, you would not come to any chiseled hearth-stone, or aught hospitable beneath that part of the sun; in such latitudes and longitudes, pursuing too such a calling as he does, the whaleman is wrapped by influences all tending to make his fancy pregnant with many a mighty birth.
Wild rumors of all kinds didn’t miss the chance to exaggerate and make the true stories of these deadly encounters even more terrifying. That’s because not only do unbelievable rumors naturally spring up from any shocking and terrible events—like mushrooms growing from a damaged tree—but in the maritime world, even more than on land, wild rumors thrive whenever they have some truth to latch onto. And as the sea surpasses the land in this regard, the whale fishery surpasses all other types of seafaring life in the sheer strangeness and scariness of the stories that sometimes spread there. Whalemen, like all sailors, are not immune to the ignorance and superstitions common in their trade, but among sailors, they are by far the most likely to come face to face with anything astonishing and terrifying at sea. They don’t just witness the sea’s greatest wonders—they battle them, up close and personal. Alone, in the most remote parts of the ocean, where you could sail a thousand miles or pass a thousand shores without finding a single fireplace or anything welcoming under that part of the sun, the whaleman, pursuing his dangerous trade, is surrounded by influences that ignite his imagination, inspiring it to bring forth grand and sometimes wild ideas.
No wonder, then, that ever gathering volume from the mere transit over the widest watery spaces, the outblown rumors of the White Whale did in the end incorporate with themselves all manner of morbid hints, and half-formed fœtal suggestions of supernatural agencies, which eventually invested Moby Dick with new terrors unborrowed from anything that visibly appears. So that in many cases such a panic did he finally strike, that few who by those rumors, at least, had heard of the White Whale, few of those hunters were willing to encounter the perils of his jaw.
No surprise, then, that as the rumors about the White Whale spread and grew from crossing the vast oceans, they picked up all kinds of dark hints and vague, half-developed ideas about supernatural forces. This eventually gave Moby Dick an extra layer of fear that had nothing to do with anything people had actually seen. In many cases, the panic he inspired became so intense that few who had even heard of the White Whale—just from those rumors—were willing to face the danger of his jaws.
But there were still other and more vital practical influences at work. Not even at the present day has the original prestige of the Sperm Whale, as fearfully distinguished from all other species of the leviathan, died out of the minds of the whalemen as a body. There are those this day among them, who, though intelligent and courageous enough in offering battle to the Greenland or Right whale, would perhaps—either from professional inexperience, or incompetency, or timidity, decline a contest with the Sperm Whale; at any rate, there are plenty of whalemen, especially among those whaling nations not sailing under the American flag, who have never hostilely encountered the Sperm Whale, but whose sole knowledge of the leviathan is restricted to the ignoble monster primitively pursued in the North; seated on their hatches, these men will hearken with a childish fireside interest and awe, to the wild, strange tales of Southern whaling. Nor is the pre-eminent tremendousness of the great Sperm Whale anywhere more feelingly comprehended, than on board of those prows which stem him.
But there were still other, more important practical forces at play. Even today, the original reputation of the Sperm Whale, as fearfully distinct from all other species of leviathans, hasn’t faded from the minds of whalemen as a group. There are still some among them who, while smart and brave enough to take on the Greenland or Right whale, might—whether due to inexperience, lack of skill, or fear—hesitate to face the Sperm Whale. In fact, there are plenty of whalemen, especially from nations that don’t sail under the American flag, who have never battled the Sperm Whale but only know leviathans as the lesser creatures historically hunted in the North. Sitting on their hatches, these men listen with a childlike fascination and awe to the wild, strange tales of Southern whaling. Nowhere is the unparalleled might of the great Sperm Whale felt more deeply than on the decks of the ships that pursue it.
And as if the now tested reality of his might had in former legendary times thrown its shadow before it; we find some book naturalists—Olassen and Povelson—declaring the Sperm Whale not only to be a consternation to every other creature in the sea, but also to be so incredibly ferocious as continually to be athirst for human blood. Nor even down to so late a time as Cuvier’s, were these or almost similar impressions effaced. For in his Natural History, the Baron himself affirms that at sight of the Sperm Whale, all fish (sharks included) are “struck with the most lively terrors,” and “often in the precipitancy of their flight dash themselves against the rocks with such violence as to cause instantaneous death.” And however the general experiences in the fishery may amend such reports as these; yet in their full terribleness, even to the bloodthirsty item of Povelson, the superstitious belief in them is, in some vicissitudes of their vocation, revived in the minds of the hunters.
And as if the proven reality of its power had cast a shadow before it in ancient legends, we find some early naturalists—Olassen and Povelson—claiming that the Sperm Whale is not only a terror to every other creature in the sea but also so incredibly ferocious that it is constantly craving human blood. Even as late as Cuvier’s time, these or very similar beliefs had not been entirely dismissed. In his *Natural History*, the Baron himself states that at the sight of the Sperm Whale, all fish (including sharks) are “struck with the most intense fear,” and “often, in their panicked flight, they crash into rocks with such force that it causes instant death.” And although the general experiences of the fishery might challenge these accounts, even the bloodthirsty claim from Povelson, the superstitious belief in them occasionally resurfaces in the minds of the hunters during certain harsh moments of their trade.
So that overawed by the rumors and portents concerning him, not a few of the fishermen recalled, in reference to Moby Dick, the earlier days of the Sperm Whale fishery, when it was oftentimes hard to induce long practised Right whalemen to embark in the perils of this new and daring warfare; such men protesting that although other leviathans might be hopefully pursued, yet to chase and point lance at such an apparition as the Sperm Whale was not for mortal man. That to attempt it, would be inevitably to be torn into a quick eternity. On this head, there are some remarkable documents that may be consulted.
So, intimidated by the rumors and omens surrounding him, quite a few fishermen started recalling the early days of Sperm Whale hunting, when it was often hard to convince experienced Right Whale hunters to take on the dangers of this new and risky pursuit. These men would argue that, while other whales might be hunted with some hope of success, chasing and trying to harpoon a creature like the Sperm Whale was beyond human capability. They believed that attempting it would surely result in being ripped into an instant eternity. On this matter, there are some notable records that can be referred to.
Nevertheless, some there were, who even in the face of these things were ready to give chase to Moby Dick; and a still greater number who, chancing only to hear of him distantly and vaguely, without the specific details of any certain calamity, and without superstitious accompaniments, were sufficiently hardy not to flee from the battle if offered.
Still, there were some who, even faced with all of this, were willing to go after Moby Dick; and an even larger group who, only hearing about him in a distant and vague way, without the specific details of any particular disaster or the superstitions attached to him, were bold enough not to back away from the fight if it came their way.
One of the wild suggestions referred to, as at last coming to be linked with the White Whale in the minds of the superstitiously inclined, was the unearthly conceit that Moby Dick was ubiquitous; that he had actually been encountered in opposite latitudes at one and the same instant of time.
One of the wild ideas mentioned, which eventually became connected to the White Whale in the minds of the superstitious, was the bizarre notion that Moby Dick was everywhere at once; that he had actually been spotted in completely different parts of the world at the exact same time.
Nor, credulous as such minds must have been, was this conceit altogether without some faint show of superstitious probability. For as the secrets of the currents in the seas have never yet been divulged, even to the most erudite research; so the hidden ways of the Sperm Whale when beneath the surface remain, in great part, unaccountable to his pursuers; and from time to time have originated the most curious and contradictory speculations regarding them, especially concerning the mystic modes whereby, after sounding to a great depth, he transports himself with such vast swiftness to the most widely distant points.
Even though such minds were naturally inclined to believe anything, this idea wasn’t entirely without a hint of superstitious plausibility. Since the secrets of ocean currents have yet to be fully revealed, even by the most advanced research, the hidden movements of the Sperm Whale beneath the surface remain largely unexplained to those who hunt them. This has, over time, led to some of the most curious and contradictory theories—especially about the mysterious ways in which the whale, after diving to great depths, manages to travel with incredible speed to far-off locations.
It is a thing well known to both American and English whale-ships, and as well a thing placed upon authoritative record years ago by Scoresby, that some whales have been captured far north in the Pacific, in whose bodies have been found the barbs of harpoons darted in the Greenland seas. Nor is it to be gainsaid, that in some of these instances it has been declared that the interval of time between the two assaults could not have exceeded very many days. Hence, by inference, it has been believed by some whalemen, that the Nor’ West Passage, so long a problem to man, was never a problem to the whale. So that here, in the real living experience of living men, the prodigies related in old times of the inland Strello mountain in Portugal (near whose top there was said to be a lake in which the wrecks of ships floated up to the surface); and that still more wonderful story of the Arethusa fountain near Syracuse (whose waters were believed to have come from the Holy Land by an underground passage); these fabulous narrations are almost fully equalled by the realities of the whalemen.
Both American and English whaling ships, as well as authoritative accounts from years ago by Scoresby, widely recognize that some whales have been caught far north in the Pacific with harpoon barbs in their bodies from the Greenland seas. What's more, it has been reported in some cases that the time between these two encounters couldn’t have been more than a few days. From this, some whalemen have inferred that the Northwest Passage, long a mystery to humans, was never a mystery to whales. This real-life experience among actual men almost rivals the old tales of the inland Strello mountain in Portugal, said to have a lake near its summit where shipwrecks would rise to the surface, and the even stranger story of the Arethusa fountain near Syracuse, believed to carry waters underground all the way from the Holy Land. These incredible realities of the whalemen come remarkably close to matching those ancient legends.
Forced into familiarity, then, with such prodigies as these; and knowing that after repeated, intrepid assaults, the White Whale had escaped alive; it cannot be much matter of surprise that some whalemen should go still further in their superstitions; declaring Moby Dick not only ubiquitous, but immortal (for immortality is but ubiquity in time); that though groves of spears should be planted in his flanks, he would still swim away unharmed; or if indeed he should ever be made to spout thick blood, such a sight would be but a ghastly deception; for again in unensanguined billows hundreds of leagues away, his unsullied jet would once more be seen.
Forced to become familiar with such incredible creatures, and knowing that after repeated, fearless attacks, the White Whale had always managed to survive, it’s not too surprising that some whalers went even further with their superstitions. They claimed that Moby Dick was not only everywhere at once but also immortal (since immortality is just being everywhere over time). Even if forests of harpoons were embedded in his sides, they believed he would still swim away without harm. And if he ever did spout thick blood, they thought it would only be a horrifying illusion, because somewhere hundreds of miles away, his pure white spout would rise up again, untouched.
But even stripped of these supernatural surmisings, there was enough in the earthly make and incontestable character of the monster to strike the imagination with unwonted power. For, it was not so much his uncommon bulk that so much distinguished him from other sperm whales, but, as was elsewhere thrown out—a peculiar snow-white wrinkled forehead, and a high, pyramidical white hump. These were his prominent features; the tokens whereby, even in the limitless, uncharted seas, he revealed his identity, at a long distance, to those who knew him.
But even without these supernatural speculations, the sheer reality and undeniable nature of the creature were enough to ignite the imagination with extraordinary intensity. It wasn’t just his massive size that set him apart from other sperm whales, but—as mentioned elsewhere—a unique snow-white wrinkled forehead and a towering, pyramid-shaped white hump. These were his defining features, the unmistakable marks that, even in the vast, uncharted oceans, made him recognizable from afar to those who knew him.
The rest of his body was so streaked, and spotted, and marbled with the same shrouded hue, that, in the end, he had gained his distinctive appellation of the White Whale; a name, indeed, literally justified by his vivid aspect, when seen gliding at high noon through a dark blue sea, leaving a milky-way wake of creamy foam, all spangled with golden gleamings.
The rest of his body was so streaked, spotted, and marbled with that same ghostly color that he eventually earned the name "the White Whale." The name was truly fitting, given his striking appearance when seen gliding through the deep blue sea at midday, leaving a milky trail of creamy foam sparkling with golden glimmers.
Nor was it his unwonted magnitude, nor his remarkable hue, nor yet his deformed lower jaw, that so much invested the whale with natural terror, as that unexampled, intelligent malignity which, according to specific accounts, he had over and over again evinced in his assaults. More than all, his treacherous retreats struck more of dismay than perhaps aught else. For, when swimming before his exulting pursuers, with every apparent symptom of alarm, he had several times been known to turn round suddenly, and, bearing down upon them, either stave their boats to splinters, or drive them back in consternation to their ship.
It wasn’t his unusual size, his striking color, or even his deformed lower jaw that made the whale so terrifying. Instead, it was the unmatched, cunning malice he repeatedly showed during his attacks, as detailed in countless accounts. Most of all, it was his deceptive retreats that caused more fear than anything else. While seeming panicked and fleeing from his overconfident pursuers, he was known to suddenly turn around and charge at them, either smashing their boats to pieces or forcing them, shocked and scared, to retreat back to their ship.
Already several fatalities had attended his chase. But though similar disasters, however little bruited ashore, were by no means unusual in the fishery; yet, in most instances, such seemed the White Whale’s infernal aforethought of ferocity, that every dismembering or death that he caused, was not wholly regarded as having been inflicted by an unintelligent agent.
Already, several deaths had occurred during his pursuit. But although similar tragedies, rarely talked about on land, were not uncommon in whaling; still, in most cases, it seemed the White Whale's hellish intent and ferocity were so deliberate that every injury or death he caused wasn’t entirely seen as the work of a mindless creature.
Judge, then, to what pitches of inflamed, distracted fury the minds of his more desperate hunters were impelled, when amid the chips of chewed boats, and the sinking limbs of torn comrades, they swam out of the white curds of the whale’s direful wrath into the serene, exasperating sunlight, that smiled on, as if at a birth or a bridal.
Imagine, then, the extremes of fiery, frantic rage that consumed the minds of his more reckless hunters as they swam out of the foaming chaos of the whale's terrifying wrath—surrounded by shattered boats and the sinking bodies of their injured comrades—into the calm, infuriating sunlight that beamed down cheerfully, as if it were celebrating a birth or a wedding.
His three boats stove around him, and oars and men both whirling in the eddies; one captain, seizing the line-knife from his broken prow, had dashed at the whale, as an Arkansas duellist at his foe, blindly seeking with a six inch blade to reach the fathom-deep life of the whale. That captain was Ahab. And then it was, that suddenly sweeping his sickle-shaped lower jaw beneath him, Moby Dick had reaped away Ahab’s leg, as a mower a blade of grass in the field. No turbaned Turk, no hired Venetian or Malay, could have smote him with more seeming malice. Small reason was there to doubt, then, that ever since that almost fatal encounter, Ahab had cherished a wild vindictiveness against the whale, all the more fell for that in his frantic morbidness he at last came to identify with him, not only all his bodily woes, but all his intellectual and spiritual exasperations. The White Whale swam before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left living on with half a heart and half a lung. That intangible malignity which has been from the beginning; to whose dominion even the modern Christians ascribe one-half of the worlds; which the ancient Ophites of the east reverenced in their statue devil;—Ahab did not fall down and worship it like them; but deliriously transferring its idea to the abhorred white whale, he pitted himself, all mutilated, against it. All that most maddens and torments; all that stirs up the lees of things; all truth with malice in it; all that cracks the sinews and cakes the brain; all the subtle demonisms of life and thought; all evil, to crazy Ahab, were visibly personified, and made practically assailable in Moby Dick. He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.
His three boats were wrecked around him, with oars and men spinning in the whirlpools. One captain, grabbing the line-knife from his shattered bow, charged at the whale like an Arkansas duelist taking on their enemy, blindly trying to strike the whale’s deep, unreachable life with a six-inch blade. That captain was Ahab. And then, suddenly, Moby Dick swept his curved lower jaw beneath him, slicing off Ahab’s leg like a mower cutting grass in a field. No warrior, no Venetian mercenary, no Malay assassin could have struck him with more apparent malice. There was little reason to doubt that, ever since that nearly fatal encounter, Ahab had nursed a wild, vengeful hatred for the whale—a hatred made even more intense by his desperate obsession, where he began to attribute not just his physical suffering but all his intellectual and spiritual frustrations to the creature. To him, the White Whale became the living embodiment of all the malicious forces that tormented humanity—the kind that some deep-thinking men feel gnawing at them until they’re left living with only half a heart or half a lung. That unseen evil, present since the beginning of time, to which even modern Christians assign half the world’s misery, and which the ancient Eastern Ophites worshiped in their statue of the devil—Ahab didn’t bow down to it like they did. Instead, in his madness, he transferred that idea to the dreaded White Whale and set himself, broken and battered, against it. Everything that enraged and tormented him; everything that stirred up the darkest depths of life; every painful truth laced with malevolence; every force that strained his body and clouded his mind; every demonic aspect of life and thought; all of it, to the crazed Ahab, took on physical form and could be fought in Moby Dick. He heaped upon the whale’s white back all the collective rage and hatred of humanity since Adam, and then, as if his chest were a cannon, he exploded his fiery anger right at it.
It is not probable that this monomania in him took its instant rise at the precise time of his bodily dismemberment. Then, in darting at the monster, knife in hand, he had but given loose to a sudden, passionate, corporal animosity; and when he received the stroke that tore him, he probably but felt the agonizing bodily laceration, but nothing more. Yet, when by this collision forced to turn towards home, and for long months of days and weeks, Ahab and anguish lay stretched together in one hammock, rounding in mid winter that dreary, howling Patagonian Cape; then it was, that his torn body and gashed soul bled into one another; and so interfusing, made him mad. That it was only then, on the homeward voyage, after the encounter, that the final monomania seized him, seems all but certain from the fact that, at intervals during the passage, he was a raving lunatic; and, though unlimbed of a leg, yet such vital strength yet lurked in his Egyptian chest, and was moreover intensified by his delirium, that his mates were forced to lace him fast, even there, as he sailed, raving in his hammock. In a strait-jacket, he swung to the mad rockings of the gales. And, when running into more sufferable latitudes, the ship, with mild stun’sails spread, floated across the tranquil tropics, and, to all appearances, the old man’s delirium seemed left behind him with the Cape Horn swells, and he came forth from his dark den into the blessed light and air; even then, when he bore that firm, collected front, however pale, and issued his calm orders once again; and his mates thanked God the direful madness was now gone; even then, Ahab, in his hidden self, raved on. Human madness is oftentimes a cunning and most feline thing. When you think it fled, it may have but become transfigured into some still subtler form. Ahab’s full lunacy subsided not, but deepeningly contracted; like the unabated Hudson, when that noble Northman flows narrowly, but unfathomably through the Highland gorge. But, as in his narrow-flowing monomania, not one jot of Ahab’s broad madness had been left behind; so in that broad madness, not one jot of his great natural intellect had perished. That before living agent, now became the living instrument. If such a furious trope may stand, his special lunacy stormed his general sanity, and carried it, and turned all its concentred cannon upon its own mad mark; so that far from having lost his strength, Ahab, to that one end, did now possess a thousand fold more potency than ever he had sanely brought to bear upon any one reasonable object.
It’s unlikely that Ahab’s obsession began the exact moment he lost his leg. At that moment, when he charged at the monster with his knife, his fury was purely physical and passionate. When he was struck and maimed, he must have felt the excruciating pain of his injury, but nothing more. However, when he was forced to head home and spent months confined with his pain, lying side by side with his agony in the same hammock, enduring the freezing, wild winds of Cape Horn in midwinter, that’s when his wounded body and tortured soul seemed to merge into one – and that fusion drove him mad. It was only during that return journey, after the attack, that his obsession fully took hold. This is evident because, at times during the voyage, he was completely deranged. Despite losing his leg, an almost superhuman strength seemed to pour out of his broad chest, amplified by his delirium, so much so that his crew had to tie him down in his hammock as he raved. Restrained in a straitjacket, he swung with the furious, chaotic rhythm of the storms. When the ship eventually reached calmer waters, spreading its sails to glide gently across the tropical serenity, it seemed, at least outwardly, that Ahab’s madness had been left behind in the harsh swells of Cape Horn. He emerged from his dark quarters into the soothing light and air, pale but composed, issuing calm, steady orders once again. His crew thanked God, believing his frenzy had passed. Yet, even then, deep inside, Ahab was still consumed by his hidden madness. Human insanity is often deceptive and sneaky—it can disguise itself in subtler forms when you think it’s gone. Ahab’s lunacy didn’t vanish; it became more focused and intense, like the Hudson River when it narrows and rushes unfathomably through a mountain gorge. Though his madness became more concentrated, none of its ferocity had been lost; and likewise, none of Ahab’s immense intellect was diminished. Instead of merely living with his madness, his mind became its weapon. His unique madness overwhelmed his sanity and turned all his intellect and energy toward one obsessive goal. Far from being weakened, Ahab now had a singular focus that gave him a thousand times the strength he’d ever used for any rational purpose in his life.
This is much; yet Ahab’s larger, darker, deeper part remains unhinted. But vain to popularize profundities, and all truth is profound. Winding far down from within the very heart of this spiked Hotel de Cluny where we here stand—however grand and wonderful, now quit it;—and take your way, ye nobler, sadder souls, to those vast Roman halls of Thermes; where far beneath the fantastic towers of man’s upper earth, his root of grandeur, his whole awful essence sits in bearded state; an antique buried beneath antiquities, and throned on torsoes! So with a broken throne, the great gods mock that captive king; so like a Caryatid, he patient sits, upholding on his frozen brow the piled entablatures of ages. Wind ye down there, ye prouder, sadder souls! question that proud, sad king! A family likeness! aye, he did beget ye, ye young exiled royalties; and from your grim sire only will the old State-secret come.
This is much; yet Ahab’s larger, darker, deeper side remains unseen. But it’s pointless to simplify profound truths, because all truth runs deep. Descend far from the very heart of this spiked Hotel de Cluny where we now stand—impressive and stunning as it is, leave it;—and make your way, noble and sorrowful souls, to the vast Roman halls of Thermes. There, far below the imaginative structures of humanity’s surface world, lies the root of greatness, the very essence of awe, sitting in solemn majesty; an ancient relic buried beneath layers of even older antiquity, enthroned upon shattered statues! On a broken throne, the mighty gods ridicule the captive king; like a sturdy Caryatid, he quietly endures, bearing on his frozen brow the accumulated weight of centuries. Descend there, proud and sorrowful souls! Confront that proud, sorrowful king! A family resemblance! Yes, he begot you, exiled heirs of royalty; and only from your grim father will the ancient secret be revealed.
Now, in his heart, Ahab had some glimpse of this, namely: all my means are sane, my motive and my object mad. Yet without power to kill, or change, or shun the fact; he likewise knew that to mankind he did long dissemble; in some sort, did still. But that thing of his dissembling was only subject to his perceptibility, not to his will determinate. Nevertheless, so well did he succeed in that dissembling, that when with ivory leg he stepped ashore at last, no Nantucketer thought him otherwise than but naturally grieved, and that to the quick, with the terrible casualty which had overtaken him.
Now, deep down, Ahab had some awareness of this: all my methods are rational, but my motive and goal are insane. Yet, he couldn’t kill, change, or avoid the truth. He also knew that he had long pretended otherwise to people—and, in some way, still did. But this act of pretending wasn’t something he fully controlled; it was tied to his awareness, not his conscious decision. Nevertheless, he was so good at hiding it that, when he finally stepped ashore on his ivory leg, no one in Nantucket thought of him as anything other than naturally heartbroken—deeply so—by the horrible accident that had happened to him.
The report of his undeniable delirium at sea was likewise popularly ascribed to a kindred cause. And so too, all the added moodiness which always afterwards, to the very day of sailing in the Pequod on the present voyage, sat brooding on his brow. Nor is it so very unlikely, that far from distrusting his fitness for another whaling voyage, on account of such dark symptoms, the calculating people of that prudent isle were inclined to harbor the conceit, that for those very reasons he was all the better qualified and set on edge, for a pursuit so full of rage and wildness as the bloody hunt of whales. Gnawed within and scorched without, with the infixed, unrelenting fangs of some incurable idea; such an one, could he be found, would seem the very man to dart his iron and lift his lance against the most appalling of all brutes. Or, if for any reason thought to be corporeally incapacitated for that, yet such an one would seem superlatively competent to cheer and howl on his underlings to the attack. But be all this as it may, certain it is, that with the mad secret of his unabated rage bolted up and keyed in him, Ahab had purposely sailed upon the present voyage with the one only and all-engrossing object of hunting the White Whale. Had any one of his old acquaintances on shore but half dreamed of what was lurking in him then, how soon would their aghast and righteous souls have wrenched the ship from such a fiendish man! They were bent on profitable cruises, the profit to be counted down in dollars from the mint. He was intent on an audacious, immitigable, and supernatural revenge.
The rumors about his undeniable madness at sea were also commonly attributed to a similar cause. Likewise, all the added gloominess that hung over him from then on, right up to the day he set sail on the Pequod for the current voyage, seemed to weigh heavily on his expression. And it’s not so far-fetched to think that, rather than doubting his ability to handle another whaling trip because of these dark signs, the practical folk of that cautious island might have entertained the belief that those very traits made him even more suited and driven for a profession so filled with fury and chaos as the brutal hunt for whales. Tormented inside and burned out on the surface by the inescapable grip of some obsessive idea, a man like that—if such a one could be found—would seem a perfect match to hurl his harpoon and wield his lance against the most terrifying of all creatures. Or, even if he were somehow physically unfit for such tasks, a man like that would still seem ideally suited to urge and command his crew forward into the fray. But whatever the case may be, one thing is certain: with the insane fury of his unrelenting obsession locked up inside him, Ahab had deliberately embarked on this journey with one sole and all-consuming purpose—to hunt the White Whale. If even one of his old acquaintances on land had suspected even half of what was driving him, how quickly would their horrified and moral instincts have stopped that ship from falling into the hands of such a madman! They sought lucrative voyages, profits measurable in minted dollars. He, on the other hand, was consumed with a bold, relentless, and almost supernatural revenge.
Here, then, was this grey-headed, ungodly old man, chasing with curses a Job’s whale round the world, at the head of a crew, too, chiefly made up of mongrel renegades, and castaways, and cannibals—morally enfeebled also, by the incompetence of mere unaided virtue or right-mindedness in Starbuck, the invulnerable jollity of indifference and recklessness in Stubb, and the pervading mediocrity in Flask. Such a crew, so officered, seemed specially picked and packed by some infernal fatality to help him to his monomaniac revenge. How it was that they so aboundingly responded to the old man’s ire—by what evil magic their souls were possessed, that at times his hate seemed almost theirs; the White Whale as much their insufferable foe as his; how all this came to be—what the White Whale was to them, or how to their unconscious understandings, also, in some dim, unsuspected way, he might have seemed the gliding great demon of the seas of life,—all this to explain, would be to dive deeper than Ishmael can go. The subterranean miner that works in us all, how can one tell whither leads his shaft by the ever shifting, muffled sound of his pick? Who does not feel the irresistible arm drag? What skiff in tow of a seventy-four can stand still? For one, I gave myself up to the abandonment of the time and the place; but while yet all a-rush to encounter the whale, could see naught in that brute but the deadliest ill.
Here was this gray-haired, godless old man, chasing a Job-like whale around the world with curses, leading a crew mostly made up of half-breed outcasts, exiles, and cannibals—morally weakened by Starbuck’s powerless virtue and rightness, Stubb’s carefree indifference and recklessness, and Flask’s overall mediocrity. Such a crew, under such leadership, seemed almost handpicked by some demonic force to assist him in his obsessive revenge. How they responded so completely to the old man’s fury—what dark power had taken hold of their souls so that his hatred seemed to become theirs; how the White Whale became as much their unbearable enemy as his; what the White Whale symbolized to them, or how, in some vague, unconscious way, they too might have seen it as the lurking demon of life’s vast seas—all this is beyond Ishmael’s ability to explain. The unknown depths within us all are like an underground miner—who can say where his tunnel leads from the faint, muffled echo of his pick? Who hasn’t felt the pull of that irresistible unseen force? What small boat, tied to a seventy-four-gun warship, can stay still? For my part, I gave in to the moment, surrendered to the time and place; but even as we rushed to meet the whale, I could see nothing in that creature except the deadliest of evils.
CHAPTER 42. The Whiteness of the Whale.
What the white whale was to Ahab, has been hinted; what, at times, he was to me, as yet remains unsaid.
What the white whale meant to Ahab has been suggested; what he sometimes meant to me still hasn't been explained.
Aside from those more obvious considerations touching Moby Dick, which could not but occasionally awaken in any man’s soul some alarm, there was another thought, or rather vague, nameless horror concerning him, which at times by its intensity completely overpowered all the rest; and yet so mystical and well nigh ineffable was it, that I almost despair of putting it in a comprehensible form. It was the whiteness of the whale that above all things appalled me. But how can I hope to explain myself here; and yet, in some dim, random way, explain myself I must, else all these chapters might be naught.
Aside from the more obvious concerns about Moby Dick, which naturally stirred some fear in any man’s heart from time to time, there was another thought—or more like a vague, nameless terror about him—that sometimes grew so intense it completely drowned out all the others. Yet, it was so mystical and almost impossible to put into words that I nearly give up trying to explain it. It was the whiteness of the whale that, more than anything else, terrified me. But how can I hope to make myself clear here? Still, in some vague, haphazard way, I have to try, or else all these chapters would mean nothing.
Though in many natural objects, whiteness refiningly enhances beauty, as if imparting some special virtue of its own, as in marbles, japonicas, and pearls; and though various nations have in some way recognised a certain royal preeminence in this hue; even the barbaric, grand old kings of Pegu placing the title “Lord of the White Elephants” above all their other magniloquent ascriptions of dominion; and the modern kings of Siam unfurling the same snow-white quadruped in the royal standard; and the Hanoverian flag bearing the one figure of a snow-white charger; and the great Austrian Empire, Cæsarian, heir to overlording Rome, having for the imperial colour the same imperial hue; and though this pre-eminence in it applies to the human race itself, giving the white man ideal mastership over every dusky tribe; and though, besides, all this, whiteness has been even made significant of gladness, for among the Romans a white stone marked a joyful day; and though in other mortal sympathies and symbolizings, this same hue is made the emblem of many touching, noble things—the innocence of brides, the benignity of age; though among the Red Men of America the giving of the white belt of wampum was the deepest pledge of honor; though in many climes, whiteness typifies the majesty of Justice in the ermine of the Judge, and contributes to the daily state of kings and queens drawn by milk-white steeds; though even in the higher mysteries of the most august religions it has been made the symbol of the divine spotlessness and power; by the Persian fire worshippers, the white forked flame being held the holiest on the altar; and in the Greek mythologies, Great Jove himself being made incarnate in a snow-white bull; and though to the noble Iroquois, the midwinter sacrifice of the sacred White Dog was by far the holiest festival of their theology, that spotless, faithful creature being held the purest envoy they could send to the Great Spirit with the annual tidings of their own fidelity; and though directly from the Latin word for white, all Christian priests derive the name of one part of their sacred vesture, the alb or tunic, worn beneath the cassock; and though among the holy pomps of the Romish faith, white is specially employed in the celebration of the Passion of our Lord; though in the Vision of St. John, white robes are given to the redeemed, and the four-and-twenty elders stand clothed in white before the great white throne, and the Holy One that sitteth there white like wool; yet for all these accumulated associations, with whatever is sweet, and honorable, and sublime, there yet lurks an elusive something in the innermost idea of this hue, which strikes more of panic to the soul than that redness which affrights in blood.
Although in many natural objects, whiteness beautifully enhances their appearance—like in marbles, camellias, and pearls—as if giving them some special quality of its own; and although various cultures have, in some way, acknowledged a certain royal superiority in this color—even the ancient, majestic kings of Pegu prioritized the title "Lord of the White Elephants" over all their other elaborate symbols of power; and the modern kings of Siam raise the same pure white elephant on their royal flag; and the Hanoverian banner displays a single snow-white horse; and the mighty Austrian Empire, successor to imperial Rome, adopts this regal shade as its imperial color; and even in humanity itself, this supremacy is symbolized, granting the white man perceived mastery over every darker-skinned race; and although whiteness also symbolizes joy—among the Romans, for example, a white stone marked a happy day; and in other emotional connections and symbols, this color is associated with many noble and profound ideas, like the purity of brides or the kindness of old age; and though among the Native Americans, the gifting of the white belt of wampum was the ultimate pledge of honor; and in various regions, whiteness represents the majesty of Justice, as seen in the judge’s white ermine robes, and adds to the grandeur of kings and queens drawn by snow-white horses; and even in the sacred mysteries of the most revered religions, whiteness serves as a symbol of divine purity and power—such as the white flames considered holy on the altars of Persian fire worshippers, or Zeus in Greek mythology being portrayed as a snow-white bull; and even to the noble Iroquois, the midwinter sacrifice of the sacred White Dog was the most sacred ritual of their faith, where this spotless, loyal creature was seen as their purest envoy to the Great Spirit, delivering annual tokens of their loyalty; and even the very name of one part of the sacred robe worn by Christian priests, the alb, comes directly from the Latin word for white; and in the solemn ceremonies of the Catholic faith, white is especially used during the Passion of the Lord; and in St. John’s Revelation, white robes are gifted to the saved, while the twenty-four elders stand dressed in white before the great white throne, and the Holy One seated there is described as white like wool—yet, despite all these positive and majestic associations with whiteness, there still lies something deeply unsettling within the essence of this color, something that stirs a fear in the soul unmatched even by the blood-red terror of violence.
This elusive quality it is, which causes the thought of whiteness, when divorced from more kindly associations, and coupled with any object terrible in itself, to heighten that terror to the furthest bounds. Witness the white bear of the poles, and the white shark of the tropics; what but their smooth, flaky whiteness makes them the transcendent horrors they are? That ghastly whiteness it is which imparts such an abhorrent mildness, even more loathsome than terrific, to the dumb gloating of their aspect. So that not the fierce-fanged tiger in his heraldic coat can so stagger courage as the white-shrouded bear or shark.*
That elusive quality is what makes the idea of whiteness, when separated from more comforting associations and paired with something inherently terrifying, amplify that terror to its absolute limit. Think of the white bear in the Arctic or the white shark in the tropics—what else but their smooth, icy whiteness turns them into the ultimate horrors they are? It's that eerie whiteness that gives their silent, haunting appearance such a horrifying and unsettling calmness, even more offensive than outright terror. Not even the sharp-fanged tiger with its striking coat can overwhelm courage the way the white-coated bear or shark can.
*With reference to the Polar bear, it may possibly be urged by him who would fain go still deeper into this matter, that it is not the whiteness, separately regarded, which heightens the intolerable hideousness of that brute; for, analysed, that heightened hideousness, it might be said, only rises from the circumstance, that the irresponsible ferociousness of the creature stands invested in the fleece of celestial innocence and love; and hence, by bringing together two such opposite emotions in our minds, the Polar bear frightens us with so unnatural a contrast. But even assuming all this to be true; yet, were it not for the whiteness, you would not have that intensified terror.
Regarding the polar bear, one might argue—digging even deeper into the topic—that it’s not the whiteness alone that amplifies the unbearable terror of the creature. It could be said that the added fear comes from the fact that the creature’s savage and uncontrollable nature is wrapped in a coat of pure innocence and love. This collision of such opposite feelings in our minds makes the polar bear so unnervingly frightening. However, even if all of this is true, without the whiteness, that fear wouldn’t be as intense.
As for the white shark, the white gliding ghostliness of repose in that creature, when beheld in his ordinary moods, strangely tallies with the same quality in the Polar quadruped. This peculiarity is most vividly hit by the French in the name they bestow upon that fish. The Romish mass for the dead begins with “Requiem eternam” (eternal rest), whence Requiem denominating the mass itself, and any other funeral music. Now, in allusion to the white, silent stillness of death in this shark, and the mild deadliness of his habits, the French call him Requin.
When it comes to the white shark, the calm, ghostly glide of that creature as it moves in its usual manner is oddly similar to the same quality seen in the Polar bear. This distinct feature is perfectly captured by the French in the name they’ve given this fish. The Catholic mass for the dead begins with “Requiem eternam” (eternal rest), from which the term Requiem comes, referring to the mass itself and any other funeral music. Reflecting the white, silent stillness of death in this shark and its calm yet deadly nature, the French have named it Requin.
Bethink thee of the albatross, whence come those clouds of spiritual wonderment and pale dread, in which that white phantom sails in all imaginations? Not Coleridge first threw that spell; but God’s great, unflattering laureate, Nature.*
Think about the albatross—where do those feelings of spiritual awe and pale fear come from, as that white phantom soars through everyone's imagination? It wasn’t Coleridge who first cast that spell, but Nature, God’s great and unapologetic laureate.*
*I remember the first albatross I ever saw. It was during a prolonged gale, in waters hard upon the Antarctic seas. From my forenoon watch below, I ascended to the overclouded deck; and there, dashed upon the main hatches, I saw a regal, feathery thing of unspotted whiteness, and with a hooked, Roman bill sublime. At intervals, it arched forth its vast archangel wings, as if to embrace some holy ark. Wondrous flutterings and throbbings shook it. Though bodily unharmed, it uttered cries, as some king’s ghost in supernatural distress. Through its inexpressible, strange eyes, methought I peeped to secrets which took hold of God. As Abraham before the angels, I bowed myself; the white thing was so white, its wings so wide, and in those for ever exiled waters, I had lost the miserable warping memories of traditions and of towns. Long I gazed at that prodigy of plumage. I cannot tell, can only hint, the things that darted through me then. But at last I awoke; and turning, asked a sailor what bird was this. A goney, he replied. Goney! never had heard that name before; is it conceivable that this glorious thing is utterly unknown to men ashore! never! But some time after, I learned that goney was some seaman’s name for albatross. So that by no possibility could Coleridge’s wild Rhyme have had aught to do with those mystical impressions which were mine, when I saw that bird upon our deck. For neither had I then read the Rhyme, nor knew the bird to be an albatross. Yet, in saying this, I do but indirectly burnish a little brighter the noble merit of the poem and the poet.
I remember the first albatross I ever saw. It was during a long, brutal storm near the Antarctic seas. Coming up from my morning watch below deck, I stepped onto the gloomy, overcast deck and saw, sprawled across the main hatches, a majestic creature of pure white feathers, with a noble, curved beak like something out of ancient Rome. Every so often, it stretched out its massive, angelic wings as though reaching to embrace some holy relic. It trembled with incredible movements, and though physically unharmed, it let out cries like the anguished wail of a king’s ghost. Its eerie, otherworldly eyes seemed to offer a glimpse into divine secrets. Like Abraham bowing before the angels, I stood in awe; the bird was so dazzlingly white, its wings so vast, and in those remote, desolate waters, I felt freed from the dismal memories of cities and old traditions. I stared at that miracle of feathers for what felt like an eternity. I can’t fully describe—only vaguely suggest—the emotions and thoughts rushing through me then. But eventually, I snapped out of it and turned to ask a sailor what kind of bird it was. “A goney,” he said. Goney! I’d never heard that name before. Could it really be that this magnificent creature was completely unknown to people on land? Impossible! Later, I learned that “goney” was a sailor’s nickname for an albatross. So, it was entirely coincidental that my mystical impressions of this bird had nothing to do with Coleridge’s famous poem. At the time, I hadn’t read *The Rime of the Ancient Mariner* and didn’t even know the creature was an albatross. Still, by pointing this out, I think I only add to the brilliance of that poem and its author.
I assert, then, that in the wondrous bodily whiteness of the bird chiefly lurks the secret of the spell; a truth the more evinced in this, that by a solecism of terms there are birds called grey albatrosses; and these I have frequently seen, but never with such emotions as when I beheld the Antarctic fowl.
I claim, then, that the magical charm of the bird lies mostly in its astonishing pure white color; this is proven even more by the fact that, strangely, some birds are called gray albatrosses. I've seen them often, but they never stirred the same feelings in me as when I saw the Antarctic bird.
But how had the mystic thing been caught? Whisper it not, and I will tell; with a treacherous hook and line, as the fowl floated on the sea. At last the Captain made a postman of it; tying a lettered, leathern tally round its neck, with the ship’s time and place; and then letting it escape. But I doubt not, that leathern tally, meant for man, was taken off in Heaven, when the white fowl flew to join the wing-folding, the invoking, and adoring cherubim!
But how was the mysterious creature caught? Don’t speak of it aloud, and I’ll tell you: with a sneaky hook and line, as the bird floated on the sea. In the end, the Captain turned it into a messenger, tying a leather tag with writing on it around its neck that recorded the ship’s time and location, then letting it go. But I have no doubt that the leather tag, intended for humans, was removed in Heaven when the white bird flew to join the wing-folding, worshipping, and adoring cherubim!
Most famous in our Western annals and Indian traditions is that of the White Steed of the Prairies; a magnificent milk-white charger, large-eyed, small-headed, bluff-chested, and with the dignity of a thousand monarchs in his lofty, overscorning carriage. He was the elected Xerxes of vast herds of wild horses, whose pastures in those days were only fenced by the Rocky Mountains and the Alleghanies. At their flaming head he westward trooped it like that chosen star which every evening leads on the hosts of light. The flashing cascade of his mane, the curving comet of his tail, invested him with housings more resplendent than gold and silver-beaters could have furnished him. A most imperial and archangelical apparition of that unfallen, western world, which to the eyes of the old trappers and hunters revived the glories of those primeval times when Adam walked majestic as a god, bluff-browed and fearless as this mighty steed. Whether marching amid his aides and marshals in the van of countless cohorts that endlessly streamed it over the plains, like an Ohio; or whether with his circumambient subjects browsing all around at the horizon, the White Steed gallopingly reviewed them with warm nostrils reddening through his cool milkiness; in whatever aspect he presented himself, always to the bravest Indians he was the object of trembling reverence and awe. Nor can it be questioned from what stands on legendary record of this noble horse, that it was his spiritual whiteness chiefly, which so clothed him with divineness; and that this divineness had that in it which, though commanding worship, at the same time enforced a certain nameless terror.
The most famous in our Western history and Native American legends is the White Steed of the Prairies: a stunning, milk-white stallion with large eyes, a small head, a broad chest, and the regal bearing of a thousand kings in his proud, commanding presence. He was the chosen leader of vast herds of wild horses, whose grazing lands at that time were bounded only by the Rocky Mountains and the Alleghenies. Leading them westward with fiery determination, he trotted like the chosen star that ushers in the evening’s light. The shimmering cascade of his mane and the flowing tail like a comet made him appear adorned with splendor far beyond what gold or silver could provide. He was an imperial, almost angelic figure of the untamed, unspoiled West—a sight that, to rugged trappers and hunters of the old days, recalled the glories of a primal era when Adam strode the Earth, majestic as a deity, strong and fearless like this grand steed. Whether he marched at the forefront of his aides and officers, leading countless streaming herds like a great river across the plains, or whether he stood with his subjects grazing all around the horizon, the White Steed would gallop past them, his nostrils flaring with warm redness against his cool, pure whiteness. No matter how he appeared, he inspired a mix of awe and trembling reverence, even among the bravest Native Americans. And without question, the legends about this noble horse testify that his spiritual whiteness was what gave him his divine aura—a divinity that demanded worship but also stirred an undefinable sense of fear.
But there are other instances where this whiteness loses all that accessory and strange glory which invests it in the White Steed and Albatross.
But there are other cases where this whiteness loses all the extra, mysterious majesty that surrounds it in the White Steed and the Albatross.
What is it that in the Albino man so peculiarly repels and often shocks the eye, as that sometimes he is loathed by his own kith and kin! It is that whiteness which invests him, a thing expressed by the name he bears. The Albino is as well made as other men—has no substantive deformity—and yet this mere aspect of all-pervading whiteness makes him more strangely hideous than the ugliest abortion. Why should this be so?
What is it about an Albino person that so uniquely unsettles and often shocks people, to the point that even their own family might feel repulsed by them? It’s that whiteness that defines them, a quality reflected in the name they carry. An Albino is built just as well as anyone else—there’s nothing physically deformed about them—and yet this all-encompassing whiteness makes them more oddly disturbing than the most grotesque physical deformity. Why is that?
Nor, in quite other aspects, does Nature in her least palpable but not the less malicious agencies, fail to enlist among her forces this crowning attribute of the terrible. From its snowy aspect, the gauntleted ghost of the Southern Seas has been denominated the White Squall. Nor, in some historic instances, has the art of human malice omitted so potent an auxiliary. How wildly it heightens the effect of that passage in Froissart, when, masked in the snowy symbol of their faction, the desperate White Hoods of Ghent murder their bailiff in the market-place!
Neither, in other ways, does Nature—through her most intangible yet no less dangerous forces—fail to use this ultimate quality of terror. Because of its snowy appearance, the menacing phantom of the Southern Seas has been called the White Squall. And in some historical events, human cruelty has not ignored this powerful ally. How vividly it amplifies the scene in Froissart, where the desperate White Hoods of Ghent, disguised by the snowy emblem of their cause, murder their bailiff in the marketplace!
Nor, in some things, does the common, hereditary experience of all mankind fail to bear witness to the supernaturalism of this hue. It cannot well be doubted, that the one visible quality in the aspect of the dead which most appals the gazer, is the marble pallor lingering there; as if indeed that pallor were as much like the badge of consternation in the other world, as of mortal trepidation here. And from that pallor of the dead, we borrow the expressive hue of the shroud in which we wrap them. Nor even in our superstitions do we fail to throw the same snowy mantle round our phantoms; all ghosts rising in a milk-white fog—Yea, while these terrors seize us, let us add, that even the king of terrors, when personified by the evangelist, rides on his pallid horse.
In some things, the shared, inherited experience of humanity doesn't fail to confirm the supernatural nature of this color. It's hard to deny that the one visible quality of the dead that most unnerves the viewer is the marble-like paleness that lingers, as if that pallor symbolizes shock in the next world just as much as it reflects fear in this one. From that pallor of death, we take the symbolic color of the shroud we use to wrap them. Even in our superstitions, we drape the same snowy mantle around our ghosts, who appear shrouded in a milk-white mist. Yes, as these fears grip us, let’s also note that even the so-called king of terrors, when depicted by the evangelist, rides a pale horse.
Therefore, in his other moods, symbolize whatever grand or gracious thing he will by whiteness, no man can deny that in its profoundest idealized significance it calls up a peculiar apparition to the soul.
So, in his other moods, no matter what noble or beautiful thing he might symbolize with whiteness, no one can deny that, in its deepest idealized meaning, it stirs a unique vision in the soul.
But though without dissent this point be fixed, how is mortal man to account for it? To analyse it, would seem impossible. Can we, then, by the citation of some of those instances wherein this thing of whiteness—though for the time either wholly or in great part stripped of all direct associations calculated to impart to it aught fearful, but nevertheless, is found to exert over us the same sorcery, however modified;—can we thus hope to light upon some chance clue to conduct us to the hidden cause we seek?
Even if we all agree on this point, how can a mortal person explain it? Analyzing it seems impossible. So, can we, by pointing out examples where this concept of whiteness—though temporarily stripped of most, if not all, direct associations meant to make it seem frightening—still manages to have the same strange grip on us, even if altered; can we hope to stumble upon some clue that might lead us to the hidden reason we're looking for?
Let us try. But in a matter like this, subtlety appeals to subtlety, and without imagination no man can follow another into these halls. And though, doubtless, some at least of the imaginative impressions about to be presented may have been shared by most men, yet few perhaps were entirely conscious of them at the time, and therefore may not be able to recall them now.
Let's give it a shot. But in situations like this, subtlety connects with subtlety, and without imagination, no one can truly follow someone else into these spaces. And while it's likely that some of the imaginative thoughts about to be shared have been felt by most people, few might have been fully aware of them at the time, and so they may not be able to remember them now.
Why to the man of untutored ideality, who happens to be but loosely acquainted with the peculiar character of the day, does the bare mention of Whitsuntide marshal in the fancy such long, dreary, speechless processions of slow-pacing pilgrims, down-cast and hooded with new-fallen snow? Or, to the unread, unsophisticated Protestant of the Middle American States, why does the passing mention of a White Friar or a White Nun, evoke such an eyeless statue in the soul?
Why does mentioning Whitsuntide, to someone with unpolished imagination who barely knows the unique nature of the day, instantly conjure up images of long, silent, dreary processions of slow-moving pilgrims, hunched over and cloaked in freshly fallen snow? Or, for the uneducated, simple Protestant from the central United States, why does hearing about a White Friar or a White Nun bring to mind a blank, lifeless statue in their mind?
Or what is there apart from the traditions of dungeoned warriors and kings (which will not wholly account for it) that makes the White Tower of London tell so much more strongly on the imagination of an untravelled American, than those other storied structures, its neighbors—the Byward Tower, or even the Bloody? And those sublimer towers, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, whence, in peculiar moods, comes that gigantic ghostliness over the soul at the bare mention of that name, while the thought of Virginia’s Blue Ridge is full of a soft, dewy, distant dreaminess? Or why, irrespective of all latitudes and longitudes, does the name of the White Sea exert such a spectralness over the fancy, while that of the Yellow Sea lulls us with mortal thoughts of long lacquered mild afternoons on the waves, followed by the gaudiest and yet sleepiest of sunsets? Or, to choose a wholly unsubstantial instance, purely addressed to the fancy, why, in reading the old fairy tales of Central Europe, does “the tall pale man” of the Hartz forests, whose changeless pallor unrustlingly glides through the green of the groves—why is this phantom more terrible than all the whooping imps of the Blocksburg?
What is it, beyond the stories of imprisoned warriors and kings (which don’t fully explain it), that makes the White Tower of London ignite the imagination of an untraveled American so much more powerfully than its neighboring structures—the Byward Tower or even the Bloody Tower? And what about those grander towers, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, which, in certain moods, bring a haunting vastness to the soul at just the mention of their name, while thoughts of Virginia’s Blue Ridge evoke a soft, misty, faraway dreaminess? Or why, no matter the location or context, does the name of the White Sea cast a ghostly spell over the mind, while the name of the Yellow Sea conjures up mortal visions of tranquil, lacquered afternoons on its waves, followed by the most vibrant and yet most drowsy of sunsets? Or, to choose a purely imaginary example, why, when reading the old fairy tales of Central Europe, does “the tall pale man” of the Hartz forests—whose unchanging pallor glides silently through the green woods—seem so much more terrifying than all the shrieking goblins of the Blocksburg?
Nor is it, altogether, the remembrance of her cathedral-toppling earthquakes; nor the stampedoes of her frantic seas; nor the tearlessness of arid skies that never rain; nor the sight of her wide field of leaning spires, wrenched cope-stones, and crosses all adroop (like canted yards of anchored fleets); and her suburban avenues of house-walls lying over upon each other, as a tossed pack of cards;—it is not these things alone which make tearless Lima, the strangest, saddest city thou can’st see. For Lima has taken the white veil; and there is a higher horror in this whiteness of her woe. Old as Pizarro, this whiteness keeps her ruins for ever new; admits not the cheerful greenness of complete decay; spreads over her broken ramparts the rigid pallor of an apoplexy that fixes its own distortions.
It's not just the memory of her cathedral-toppling earthquakes; or the stampedes of her chaotic seas; or the merciless dryness of skies that never bring rain; or the sight of her vast fields of leaning spires, shattered stones, and drooping crosses (like the tilted masts of anchored ships); or her suburban streets lined with crumbling house walls, piled up like a scattered deck of cards. These things alone don’t make tearless Lima the strangest, saddest city you could ever see. No, for Lima has taken on the white veil, and there’s a deeper horror in the pale whiteness of her sorrow. As old as Pizarro, this whiteness preserves her ruins in a state of perpetual newness; it refuses to let the lively green of total decay take hold, and instead cloaks her broken walls with the stiff pallor of a frozen paralysis, locking her distortions in place forever.
I know that, to the common apprehension, this phenomenon of whiteness is not confessed to be the prime agent in exaggerating the terror of objects otherwise terrible; nor to the unimaginative mind is there aught of terror in those appearances whose awfulness to another mind almost solely consists in this one phenomenon, especially when exhibited under any form at all approaching to muteness or universality. What I mean by these two statements may perhaps be respectively elucidated by the following examples.
I understand that, to most people, this idea of whiteness isn’t recognized as the main factor that intensifies the fear of things that are already frightening; and for those with less vivid imaginations, there’s nothing inherently scary in things whose fearfulness, to a different mind, largely depends on this one quality—especially when it’s displayed in a way that feels silent or universal. Let me explain what I mean by these two points with the following examples.
First: The mariner, when drawing nigh the coasts of foreign lands, if by night he hear the roar of breakers, starts to vigilance, and feels just enough of trepidation to sharpen all his faculties; but under precisely similar circumstances, let him be called from his hammock to view his ship sailing through a midnight sea of milky whiteness—as if from encircling headlands shoals of combed white bears were swimming round him, then he feels a silent, superstitious dread; the shrouded phantom of the whitened waters is horrible to him as a real ghost; in vain the lead assures him he is still off soundings; heart and helm they both go down; he never rests till blue water is under him again. Yet where is the mariner who will tell thee, “Sir, it was not so much the fear of striking hidden rocks, as the fear of that hideous whiteness that so stirred me?”
First: When a sailor approaches the coasts of unfamiliar lands at night and hears the crash of waves, he becomes alert, feeling just enough unease to heighten his senses. But in the exact same situation, if he’s called from his hammock to see his ship gliding through a midnight sea of milky whiteness—like shoals of white bears swimming around from distant headlands—then an eerie, superstitious dread grips him. The ghostly whiteness of the water feels as terrifying as a real specter. Even if the depth sounder tells him he’s in deep water, his heart sinks, just like the ship’s helm; he finds no peace until he’s back in open, blue water. And yet, where’s the sailor who will confess, “Sir, it wasn’t so much fear of hitting hidden rocks—it was the terror of that awful whiteness that unsettled me so deeply?”
Second: To the native Indian of Peru, the continual sight of the snow-howdahed Andes conveys naught of dread, except, perhaps, in the mere fancying of the eternal frosted desolateness reigning at such vast altitudes, and the natural conceit of what a fearfulness it would be to lose oneself in such inhuman solitudes. Much the same is it with the backwoodsman of the West, who with comparative indifference views an unbounded prairie sheeted with driven snow, no shadow of tree or twig to break the fixed trance of whiteness. Not so the sailor, beholding the scenery of the Antarctic seas; where at times, by some infernal trick of legerdemain in the powers of frost and air, he, shivering and half shipwrecked, instead of rainbows speaking hope and solace to his misery, views what seems a boundless churchyard grinning upon him with its lean ice monuments and splintered crosses.
Second: To the native Peruvian, the constant sight of the snow-covered Andes doesn’t inspire fear, except maybe in imagining the endless frozen desolation ruling at such high altitudes and the natural thought of how terrifying it would be to get lost in those uninhabitable wildernesses. It’s much the same for the frontiersman of the West, who looks at an endless snowy prairie with relative indifference, where no tree or twig disturbs the unbroken expanse of white. But it’s different for the sailor, witnessing the landscape of the Antarctic seas; where, at times, through some nightmarish illusion of frost and air, he, shivering and half wrecked, instead of seeing rainbows offering hope and comfort in his suffering, stares at what looks like an endless graveyard, grinning at him with its jagged ice monuments and shattered crosses.
But thou sayest, methinks that white-lead chapter about whiteness is but a white flag hung out from a craven soul; thou surrenderest to a hypo, Ishmael.
But you say, I think that chapter about whiteness is just a white flag waved by a cowardly soul; you're giving in to a mood, Ishmael.
Tell me, why this strong young colt, foaled in some peaceful valley of Vermont, far removed from all beasts of prey—why is it that upon the sunniest day, if you but shake a fresh buffalo robe behind him, so that he cannot even see it, but only smells its wild animal muskiness—why will he start, snort, and with bursting eyes paw the ground in phrensies of affright? There is no remembrance in him of any gorings of wild creatures in his green northern home, so that the strange muskiness he smells cannot recall to him anything associated with the experience of former perils; for what knows he, this New England colt, of the black bisons of distant Oregon?
Tell me, why does this strong young colt, born in some peaceful valley in Vermont, far away from any predators—why is it that on the sunniest day, if you shake a fresh buffalo robe behind him, even though he can't see it and can only smell its wild animal scent—why does he jump, snort, and with wide, terrified eyes paw the ground in a frenzy of fear? He has no memory of being attacked by wild animals in his calm northern home, so the strange smell he detects can't remind him of any past dangers. After all, what does this New England colt know about the black bison of far-off Oregon?
No: but here thou beholdest even in a dumb brute, the instinct of the knowledge of the demonism in the world. Though thousands of miles from Oregon, still when he smells that savage musk, the rending, goring bison herds are as present as to the deserted wild foal of the prairies, which this instant they may be trampling into dust.
No: but here you see, even in a silent animal, the instinct to recognize the evil in the world. Even though it's thousands of miles from Oregon, when it smells that wild musk, the violent, charging bison herds feel as real as they do to the abandoned wild foal on the prairies, which at this very moment might be trampled into dust.
Thus, then, the muffled rollings of a milky sea; the bleak rustlings of the festooned frosts of mountains; the desolate shiftings of the windrowed snows of prairies; all these, to Ishmael, are as the shaking of that buffalo robe to the frightened colt!
So, the muffled rolling of a milky sea, the harsh rustling of frosted mountain slopes, and the lonely shifting of snow drifts across the prairies—all of these, to Ishmael, are like shaking a buffalo robe in front of a scared young horse!
Though neither knows where lie the nameless things of which the mystic sign gives forth such hints; yet with me, as with the colt, somewhere those things must exist. Though in many of its aspects this visible world seems formed in love, the invisible spheres were formed in fright.
Even though neither of us knows where the nameless things hinted at by the mystic sign actually are, like the colt, I believe those things must exist somewhere. While many parts of this visible world appear to be shaped by love, the unseen realms seem to have been shaped by fear.
But not yet have we solved the incantation of this whiteness, and learned why it appeals with such power to the soul; and more strange and far more portentous—why, as we have seen, it is at once the most meaning symbol of spiritual things, nay, the very veil of the Christian’s Deity; and yet should be as it is, the intensifying agent in things the most appalling to mankind.
But we still haven't unlocked the mystery of this whiteness or figured out why it speaks so powerfully to the soul. What's even stranger and far more ominous is why, as we've observed, it is both the most meaningful symbol of spiritual matters—indeed, the very veil of the Christian's God—and yet also serves as the most terrifying element in the most horrifying things known to humanity.
Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a colour as the visible absence of colour; and at the same time the concrete of all colours; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows—a colourless, all-colour of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues—every stately or lovely emblazoning—the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge—pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear coloured and colouring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?
Is it because its vagueness hints at the cold emptiness and vastness of the universe, stabbing us from behind with the fear of nothingness as we look at the white depths of the Milky Way? Or is it because whiteness, by its nature, isn’t really a color, but the visible absence of color—and yet, somehow, the sum of all colors? Is that why it feels so stark and silent, so full of meaning, when we look at a wide, snowy landscape—a blankness of all-colors, an atheistic void that makes us recoil? And then, when we consider another theory from natural philosophers, that every earthly hue—every majestic or lovely decoration, the soft colors of a sunset, the glowing forests, the golden shimmer of butterfly wings, and even the rosy blush of young girls—all of it is just a trick, not part of the substances themselves but something applied from the outside; so that even nature, which we often idolize, is like a deceitful seductress whose beauty masks decay underneath; and when we go further still and think about how the same light, the source of all these colors, remains in itself white and colorless, and that if it acted upon matter directly, with no filter, it would bleach everything it touched—even tulips and roses—with its blank hue—considering all this, the entire stricken universe lies before us as if diseased; and like stubborn travelers in snowy Lapland who refuse to wear tinted glasses, the hopeless unbeliever stares until he blinds himself gazing at the overwhelming white shroud that covers everything around him. And the Albino whale was the symbol of all this. So, do you wonder now at the burning obsession of the chase?
CHAPTER 43. Hark!
“HIST! Did you hear that noise, Cabaco?”
"Hey! Did you hear that noise, Cabaco?"
It was the middle-watch: a fair moonlight; the seamen were standing in a cordon, extending from one of the fresh-water butts in the waist, to the scuttle-butt near the taffrail. In this manner, they passed the buckets to fill the scuttle-butt. Standing, for the most part, on the hallowed precincts of the quarter-deck, they were careful not to speak or rustle their feet. From hand to hand, the buckets went in the deepest silence, only broken by the occasional flap of a sail, and the steady hum of the unceasingly advancing keel.
It was the middle of the night watch: a clear, moonlit night. The sailors were lined up in a row, stretching from one of the freshwater barrels in the middle of the ship to the scuttlebutt near the stern. They passed the buckets down the line to fill the scuttlebutt. Mostly standing on the sacred grounds of the quarterdeck, they were careful not to speak or make any noise with their feet. The buckets were handed along in complete silence, broken only by the occasional flap of a sail and the steady hum of the ship's keel cutting through the water.
It was in the midst of this repose, that Archy, one of the cordon, whose post was near the after-hatches, whispered to his neighbor, a Cholo, the words above.
In the middle of this calm, Archy, one of the guards stationed near the back hatches, quietly said those words to his neighbor, a Cholo.
“Hist! did you hear that noise, Cabaco?”
"Psst! Did you hear that noise, Cabaco?"
“Take the bucket, will ye, Archy? what noise d’ye mean?”
"Grab the bucket, will you, Archy? What's all that noise you're making?"
“There it is again—under the hatches—don’t you hear it—a cough—it sounded like a cough.”
"There it is again—under the deck—don't you hear it? A cough—it sounded like a cough."
“Cough be damned! Pass along that return bucket.”
"Forget the cough! Hand over that bucket to return."
“There again—there it is!—it sounds like two or three sleepers turning over, now!”
"There it is again! It sounds like a couple of people turning over in their sleep now!"
“Caramba! have done, shipmate, will ye? It’s the three soaked biscuits ye eat for supper turning over inside of ye—nothing else. Look to the bucket!”
"Come on, stop it, shipmate, will you? It’s just the three soggy biscuits you ate for supper stirring around in your stomach—nothing more. Focus on the bucket!"
“Say what ye will, shipmate; I’ve sharp ears.”
"Say what you want, mate; I’ve got sharp ears."
“Aye, you are the chap, ain’t ye, that heard the hum of the old Quakeress’s knitting-needles fifty miles at sea from Nantucket; you’re the chap.”
"Yeah, you’re the guy, aren’t you, who heard the hum of the old Quaker woman’s knitting needles fifty miles out at sea from Nantucket; you’re the guy."
“Grin away; we’ll see what turns up. Hark ye, Cabaco, there is somebody down in the after-hold that has not yet been seen on deck; and I suspect our old Mogul knows something of it too. I heard Stubb tell Flask, one morning watch, that there was something of that sort in the wind.”
"Go ahead and grin; we’ll see what happens. Listen, Cabaco, there’s someone down in the after-hold who hasn’t been seen on deck yet, and I think our old Mogul knows something about it too. I heard Stubb telling Flask during the morning watch that there was something like that going on."
“Tish! the bucket!”
“Trash! the bucket!”
CHAPTER 44. The Chart.
Had you followed Captain Ahab down into his cabin after the squall that took place on the night succeeding that wild ratification of his purpose with his crew, you would have seen him go to a locker in the transom, and bringing out a large wrinkled roll of yellowish sea charts, spread them before him on his screwed-down table. Then seating himself before it, you would have seen him intently study the various lines and shadings which there met his eye; and with slow but steady pencil trace additional courses over spaces that before were blank. At intervals, he would refer to piles of old log-books beside him, wherein were set down the seasons and places in which, on various former voyages of various ships, sperm whales had been captured or seen.
If you had followed Captain Ahab down to his cabin after the storm on the night following that wild confirmation of his plan with the crew, you would have seen him open a locker in the back of the room and pull out a big, wrinkled roll of yellowish sea charts, then lay them out on his bolted-down table. Sitting down in front of them, you'd have watched him closely examine the lines and shading on the charts, slowly and carefully tracing new routes with his pencil over previously empty spaces. Occasionally, he’d glance over at a pile of old logbooks next to him, where records from earlier voyages of different ships detailed the times and places sperm whales had been caught or spotted.
While thus employed, the heavy pewter lamp suspended in chains over his head, continually rocked with the motion of the ship, and for ever threw shifting gleams and shadows of lines upon his wrinkled brow, till it almost seemed that while he himself was marking out lines and courses on the wrinkled charts, some invisible pencil was also tracing lines and courses upon the deeply marked chart of his forehead.
While he worked, the heavy pewter lamp hanging by chains above his head constantly swayed with the ship’s movements, casting shifting glimmers and shadows across his furrowed brow. It almost felt as though, while he was drawing lines and routes on the creased charts, some unseen hand was sketching its own lines and routes on the deeply wrinkled map of his forehead.
But it was not this night in particular that, in the solitude of his cabin, Ahab thus pondered over his charts. Almost every night they were brought out; almost every night some pencil marks were effaced, and others were substituted. For with the charts of all four oceans before him, Ahab was threading a maze of currents and eddies, with a view to the more certain accomplishment of that monomaniac thought of his soul.
But it wasn’t just this night that Ahab, alone in his cabin, sat and studied his charts. Almost every night, they were spread out; almost every night, some pencil marks were erased and new ones added. With charts of all four oceans in front of him, Ahab was navigating a labyrinth of currents and whirlpools, all with the goal of achieving the obsessive mission that consumed his soul.
Now, to any one not fully acquainted with the ways of the leviathans, it might seem an absurdly hopeless task thus to seek out one solitary creature in the unhooped oceans of this planet. But not so did it seem to Ahab, who knew the sets of all tides and currents; and thereby calculating the driftings of the sperm whale’s food; and, also, calling to mind the regular, ascertained seasons for hunting him in particular latitudes; could arrive at reasonable surmises, almost approaching to certainties, concerning the timeliest day to be upon this or that ground in search of his prey.
To anyone unfamiliar with the habits of whales, it might seem like a ridiculously impossible task to track down a single creature in the vast, unmarked oceans of the world. But not to Ahab. He knew the patterns of all the tides and currents and could calculate where the sperm whale’s food would drift. On top of that, he remembered the specific seasons when whales were typically found in certain latitudes. With all this knowledge, he could make well-informed guesses—almost as good as certainties—about the best time and place to search for his target.
So assured, indeed, is the fact concerning the periodicalness of the sperm whale’s resorting to given waters, that many hunters believe that, could he be closely observed and studied throughout the world; were the logs for one voyage of the entire whale fleet carefully collated, then the migrations of the sperm whale would be found to correspond in invariability to those of the herring-shoals or the flights of swallows. On this hint, attempts have been made to construct elaborate migratory charts of the sperm whale.*
It’s such a well-established fact that sperm whales return to specific waters periodically that many hunters think if the whales were closely tracked and studied worldwide — and if the logs from every voyage of the entire whaling fleet were carefully put together — their migrations would likely be as predictable as those of herring schools or swallow migrations. Based on this idea, people have tried to create detailed migratory charts for the sperm whale.*
*Since the above was written, the statement is happily borne
out by an official circular, issued by Lieutenant Maury, of
the National Observatory, Washington, April 16th, 1851. By
that circular, it appears that precisely such a chart is in
course of completion; and portions of it are presented in
the circular. “This chart divides the ocean into districts
of five degrees of latitude by five degrees of longitude;
perpendicularly through each of which districts are twelve
columns for the twelve months; and horizontally through each
of which districts are three lines; one to show the number
of days that have been spent in each month in every
district, and the two others to show the number of days in
which whales, sperm or right, have been seen.”
*Since the above was written, the statement is thankfully confirmed by an official notice, issued by Lieutenant Maury of the National Observatory, Washington, on April 16th, 1851. This notice states that exactly such a chart is being completed, and parts of it are included in the notice. “This chart divides the ocean into sections of five degrees of latitude by five degrees of longitude; vertically through each of these sections are twelve columns for the twelve months; and horizontally through each of these sections are three lines; one to show the number of days spent in each month in every section, and the other two to show the number of days whales, either sperm or right, have been spotted.”
Besides, when making a passage from one feeding-ground to another, the sperm whales, guided by some infallible instinct—say, rather, secret intelligence from the Deity—mostly swim in veins, as they are called; continuing their way along a given ocean-line with such undeviating exactitude, that no ship ever sailed her course, by any chart, with one tithe of such marvellous precision. Though, in these cases, the direction taken by any one whale be straight as a surveyor’s parallel, and though the line of advance be strictly confined to its own unavoidable, straight wake, yet the arbitrary vein in which at these times he is said to swim, generally embraces some few miles in width (more or less, as the vein is presumed to expand or contract); but never exceeds the visual sweep from the whale-ship’s mast-heads, when circumspectly gliding along this magic zone. The sum is, that at particular seasons within that breadth and along that path, migrating whales may with great confidence be looked for.
Besides, when moving from one feeding ground to another, sperm whales, guided by some kind of instinct—or perhaps a secret connection to the divine—usually travel in what are called veins. They follow a specific path across the ocean with such perfect accuracy that no ship has ever sailed its route, using any chart, with even a fraction of that precision. In these cases, while any individual whale may swim in a straight line like a surveyor's guide and stick to its unavoidable, direct path, the so-called vein they travel in usually spans a few miles wide (more or less, depending on how much the vein widens or narrows). However, it never goes beyond the range of sight from a whale-ship's mastheads when carefully navigating this mysterious zone. The bottom line is, during certain seasons, whales migrating within this width and along this route can be reliably found.
And hence not only at substantiated times, upon well known separate feeding-grounds, could Ahab hope to encounter his prey; but in crossing the widest expanses of water between those grounds he could, by his art, so place and time himself on his way, as even then not to be wholly without prospect of a meeting.
So, not only during specific times on well-known feeding grounds could Ahab expect to find his prey, but as he crossed the vast stretches of water between those spots, he could use his skill to position and time himself in such a way that he still had a chance of an encounter.
There was a circumstance which at first sight seemed to entangle his delirious but still methodical scheme. But not so in the reality, perhaps. Though the gregarious sperm whales have their regular seasons for particular grounds, yet in general you cannot conclude that the herds which haunted such and such a latitude or longitude this year, say, will turn out to be identically the same with those that were found there the preceding season; though there are peculiar and unquestionable instances where the contrary of this has proved true. In general, the same remark, only within a less wide limit, applies to the solitaries and hermits among the matured, aged sperm whales. So that though Moby Dick had in a former year been seen, for example, on what is called the Seychelle ground in the Indian ocean, or Volcano Bay on the Japanese Coast; yet it did not follow, that were the Pequod to visit either of those spots at any subsequent corresponding season, she would infallibly encounter him there. So, too, with some other feeding grounds, where he had at times revealed himself. But all these seemed only his casual stopping-places and ocean-inns, so to speak, not his places of prolonged abode. And where Ahab’s chances of accomplishing his object have hitherto been spoken of, allusion has only been made to whatever way-side, antecedent, extra prospects were his, ere a particular set time or place were attained, when all possibilities would become probabilities, and, as Ahab fondly thought, every possibility the next thing to a certainty. That particular set time and place were conjoined in the one technical phrase—the Season-on-the-Line. For there and then, for several consecutive years, Moby Dick had been periodically descried, lingering in those waters for awhile, as the sun, in its annual round, loiters for a predicted interval in any one sign of the Zodiac. There it was, too, that most of the deadly encounters with the white whale had taken place; there the waves were storied with his deeds; there also was that tragic spot where the monomaniac old man had found the awful motive to his vengeance. But in the cautious comprehensiveness and unloitering vigilance with which Ahab threw his brooding soul into this unfaltering hunt, he would not permit himself to rest all his hopes upon the one crowning fact above mentioned, however flattering it might be to those hopes; nor in the sleeplessness of his vow could he so tranquillize his unquiet heart as to postpone all intervening quest.
At first glance, there was something that seemed to complicate his wild but still calculated plan. But maybe not in reality. While the social sperm whales have specific seasons for certain areas, you usually can’t assume that the groups seen in a particular latitude or longitude one year would be the exact same ones found there the next. However, there have been clear exceptions where this wasn't the case. Generally, the same observation can be made about the solitary, older sperm whales, though it applies on a smaller scale. So, even if Moby Dick had been spotted in a previous year at, say, the Seychelle grounds in the Indian Ocean or Volcano Bay off the Japanese coast, it didn’t necessarily mean that if the *Pequod* visited those areas at the same time in another year, they would definitely find him there. The same held true for other feeding grounds where he had appeared occasionally. These locations seemed more like temporary stops or ocean “inns,” so to speak, rather than places where he stayed for long periods. When discussing Ahab’s chances of reaching his goal, the references so far have only mentioned his broader, earlier opportunities—those that came before a specific time and place where, in his mind, all possibilities would turn into probabilities, and, as Ahab hoped, every possibility would edge closer to certainty. That particular time and place were combined into one specialized term: the *Season-on-the-Line.* It was there, in those waters, that Moby Dick had appeared regularly over several consecutive years, lingering like the sun pauses briefly in a specific sign of the zodiac during its yearly path. It was also there that most of the dangerous encounters with the white whale had happened; there, the ocean waves were filled with stories of his exploits. And it was there, too, that the old, obsessive man had found the terrible reason for his relentless vengeance. Yet, with careful preparation and tireless determination, Ahab refused to put all his hopes on that one promising fact, no matter how enticing it seemed. Nor could he, in the restless grip of his vow, calm his anxious heart enough to delay every other pursuit along the way.
Now, the Pequod had sailed from Nantucket at the very beginning of the Season-on-the-Line. No possible endeavor then could enable her commander to make the great passage southwards, double Cape Horn, and then running down sixty degrees of latitude arrive in the equatorial Pacific in time to cruise there. Therefore, he must wait for the next ensuing season. Yet the premature hour of the Pequod’s sailing had, perhaps, been correctly selected by Ahab, with a view to this very complexion of things. Because, an interval of three hundred and sixty-five days and nights was before him; an interval which, instead of impatiently enduring ashore, he would spend in a miscellaneous hunt; if by chance the White Whale, spending his vacation in seas far remote from his periodical feeding-grounds, should turn up his wrinkled brow off the Persian Gulf, or in the Bengal Bay, or China Seas, or in any other waters haunted by his race. So that Monsoons, Pampas, Nor’-Westers, Harmattans, Trades; any wind but the Levanter and Simoon, might blow Moby Dick into the devious zig-zag world-circle of the Pequod’s circumnavigating wake.
The Pequod had set sail from Nantucket right at the start of the Season-on-the-Line. There was no way for its captain to head south, round Cape Horn, and then travel down sixty degrees of latitude to reach the equatorial Pacific in time to hunt there. So, he had to wait for the next season. However, Ahab likely chose the early departure for a reason, considering the situation. He had a full year—three hundred and sixty-five days and nights—ahead of him, which he would spend on a varied hunt rather than waiting impatiently on land. On the chance that the White Whale, wandering far from his usual feeding grounds, might appear somewhere like the Persian Gulf, the Bay of Bengal, the China Seas, or any other waters frequented by his species, Ahab would put that time to use. This way, any wind—Monsoons, Pampas, Nor’-Westers, Harmattans, or Trades—except for the Levanter and Simoon, might blow Moby Dick into the twisting, zig-zagging path of the Pequod’s circumnavigating journey.
But granting all this; yet, regarded discreetly and coolly, seems it not but a mad idea, this; that in the broad boundless ocean, one solitary whale, even if encountered, should be thought capable of individual recognition from his hunter, even as a white-bearded Mufti in the thronged thoroughfares of Constantinople? Yes. For the peculiar snow-white brow of Moby Dick, and his snow-white hump, could not but be unmistakable. And have I not tallied the whale, Ahab would mutter to himself, as after poring over his charts till long after midnight he would throw himself back in reveries—tallied him, and shall he escape? His broad fins are bored, and scalloped out like a lost sheep’s ear! And here, his mad mind would run on in a breathless race; till a weariness and faintness of pondering came over him; and in the open air of the deck he would seek to recover his strength. Ah, God! what trances of torments does that man endure who is consumed with one unachieved revengeful desire. He sleeps with clenched hands; and wakes with his own bloody nails in his palms.
But even admitting all this, when you look at it calmly and rationally, doesn’t it seem like a crazy idea? That in the vast, endless ocean, one lone whale—if found—could actually be identified by its hunter, like picking out a white-bearded elder in the crowded streets of Istanbul? Yes, it does. But Moby Dick’s distinct snow-white brow and white hump make him impossible to mistake. And haven’t I marked that whale? Ahab would mutter to himself, as he pored over his charts late into the night. Marked him—and will he escape? His wide fins are scarred and notched, like a lost sheep’s ear! Then his frenzied thoughts would spiral, racing faster and faster, until exhaustion and the weight of his obsession overcame him. He would step out onto the open deck to regain his strength. Ah, God! What agonies a man suffers when he is driven by an unfulfilled thirst for revenge. He sleeps with fists clenched and wakes to find his own nails digging into his bloody palms.
Often, when forced from his hammock by exhausting and intolerably vivid dreams of the night, which, resuming his own intense thoughts through the day, carried them on amid a clashing of phrensies, and whirled them round and round and round in his blazing brain, till the very throbbing of his life-spot became insufferable anguish; and when, as was sometimes the case, these spiritual throes in him heaved his being up from its base, and a chasm seemed opening in him, from which forked flames and lightnings shot up, and accursed fiends beckoned him to leap down among them; when this hell in himself yawned beneath him, a wild cry would be heard through the ship; and with glaring eyes Ahab would burst from his state room, as though escaping from a bed that was on fire. Yet these, perhaps, instead of being the unsuppressable symptoms of some latent weakness, or fright at his own resolve, were but the plainest tokens of its intensity. For, at such times, crazy Ahab, the scheming, unappeasedly steadfast hunter of the white whale; this Ahab that had gone to his hammock, was not the agent that so caused him to burst from it in horror again. The latter was the eternal, living principle or soul in him; and in sleep, being for the time dissociated from the characterizing mind, which at other times employed it for its outer vehicle or agent, it spontaneously sought escape from the scorching contiguity of the frantic thing, of which, for the time, it was no longer an integral. But as the mind does not exist unless leagued with the soul, therefore it must have been that, in Ahab’s case, yielding up all his thoughts and fancies to his one supreme purpose; that purpose, by its own sheer inveteracy of will, forced itself against gods and devils into a kind of self-assumed, independent being of its own. Nay, could grimly live and burn, while the common vitality to which it was conjoined, fled horror-stricken from the unbidden and unfathered birth. Therefore, the tormented spirit that glared out of bodily eyes, when what seemed Ahab rushed from his room, was for the time but a vacated thing, a formless somnambulistic being, a ray of living light, to be sure, but without an object to colour, and therefore a blankness in itself. God help thee, old man, thy thoughts have created a creature in thee; and he whose intense thinking thus makes him a Prometheus; a vulture feeds upon that heart for ever; that vulture the very creature he creates.
Often, when Ahab was forced out of his hammock by exhausting and vividly intense dreams—dreams that took on the relentless thoughts he'd been dwelling on during the day and turned them into chaotic frenzies inside his burning brain—his very heartbeat would throb with unbearable pain. Sometimes, these inner torments seemed to shake him to his core, as if an abyss was opening inside him, spewing fire and lightning, with demons beckoning him to leap into the chasm. When this inner hell opened up beneath him, a wild scream would echo through the ship. Ahab would burst from his cabin with blazing eyes, as though fleeing a bed engulfed in flames. Yet perhaps this wasn't a sign of hidden weakness or fear of his own resolve. Instead, it might have been the clearest evidence of the sheer intensity of his purpose. In moments like these, mad Ahab—the relentless, unyielding hunter of the white whale—wasn't entirely in control of himself. The Ahab who had gone to his hammock wasn't the same force causing him to leap up in terror again. Instead, it was as though the eternal soul inside him, briefly disconnected from his conscious mind during sleep, was trying to escape the scorching torment of his obsessions, no longer fully merged with the feverish and maddened part of him. But since the mind cannot truly exist on its own without the soul, in Ahab's case, his unrelenting thoughts and singular obsession had forged an independent force within him. By sheer will alone, that purpose existed, defying gods and devils alike, becoming its own living, burning entity. It could persist on its own, even while his regular vitality recoiled in horror from this unintentional, self-created monster. So when Ahab emerged, wild-eyed and screaming, the spirit reflected in his gaze wasn't truly himself—it was an empty, sleepwalking version of him. A disembodied glowing light without form or purpose, blank in its essence. God help you, old man. Your obsessive thoughts have created a being within yourself. Like Prometheus, whose endless torment comes from his own defiance, a vulture now feeds on your heart forever—the vulture you yourself have brought to life.
CHAPTER 45. The Affidavit.
So far as what there may be of a narrative in this book; and, indeed, as indirectly touching one or two very interesting and curious particulars in the habits of sperm whales, the foregoing chapter, in its earlier part, is as important a one as will be found in this volume; but the leading matter of it requires to be still further and more familiarly enlarged upon, in order to be adequately understood, and moreover to take away any incredulity which a profound ignorance of the entire subject may induce in some minds, as to the natural verity of the main points of this affair.
As far as the narrative in this book goes—and, in fact, as it indirectly relates to a couple of fascinating and peculiar aspects of sperm whale behavior—the earlier part of the previous chapter is one of the most important sections in the whole volume. However, the main topic needs to be explained further and in a clearer way to be fully understood and to dispel any disbelief that might arise from a deep lack of knowledge about the subject, concerning the truth of the central points in this matter.
I care not to perform this part of my task methodically; but shall be content to produce the desired impression by separate citations of items, practically or reliably known to me as a whaleman; and from these citations, I take it—the conclusion aimed at will naturally follow of itself.
I don’t feel the need to approach this part of my task in a methodical way; instead, I’ll be satisfied to create the desired effect by presenting separate examples of facts that I personally know from my experience as a whaleman. From these examples, I believe the conclusion I’m aiming for will naturally present itself.
First: I have personally known three instances where a whale, after receiving a harpoon, has effected a complete escape; and, after an interval (in one instance of three years), has been again struck by the same hand, and slain; when the two irons, both marked by the same private cypher, have been taken from the body. In the instance where three years intervened between the flinging of the two harpoons; and I think it may have been something more than that; the man who darted them happening, in the interval, to go in a trading ship on a voyage to Africa, went ashore there, joined a discovery party, and penetrated far into the interior, where he travelled for a period of nearly two years, often endangered by serpents, savages, tigers, poisonous miasmas, with all the other common perils incident to wandering in the heart of unknown regions. Meanwhile, the whale he had struck must also have been on its travels; no doubt it had thrice circumnavigated the globe, brushing with its flanks all the coasts of Africa; but to no purpose. This man and this whale again came together, and the one vanquished the other. I say I, myself, have known three instances similar to this; that is in two of them I saw the whales struck; and, upon the second attack, saw the two irons with the respective marks cut in them, afterwards taken from the dead fish. In the three-year instance, it so fell out that I was in the boat both times, first and last, and the last time distinctly recognised a peculiar sort of huge mole under the whale’s eye, which I had observed there three years previous. I say three years, but I am pretty sure it was more than that. Here are three instances, then, which I personally know the truth of; but I have heard of many other instances from persons whose veracity in the matter there is no good ground to impeach.
First: I’ve personally known of three cases where a whale, after being struck with a harpoon, managed to escape completely; then, after some time (in one case as long as three years), it was harpooned again by the same person and killed. When the whale was brought in, both harpoons, marked with the same private symbol, were found in its body. In the case with the three-year gap—and I think it may have been even longer—the man who threw the harpoons took a break in the interim, traveled on a trading ship to Africa, went ashore, joined a discovery expedition, and journeyed deep into the interior. He spent almost two years there, facing danger from snakes, wild animals, hostile locals, poisonous air, and all the other usual dangers of exploring uncharted lands. Meanwhile, the whale he had struck must have been traveling too; it probably circled the globe three times, brushing by all the coasts of Africa, yet all in vain. Somehow, this man and this whale met again, and in their second encounter, one defeated the other. I’m saying I’ve personally experienced three similar instances; in two of them, I saw the whales get harpooned and, during the second encounter, saw the marked harpoons retrieved from their bodies after they were killed. In the case with the three-year gap, I happened to be in the boat both times—first and last—and distinctly remember recognizing a large mole under the whale’s eye, the same one I had noticed three years earlier. I say three years, but I’m fairly sure it was longer. So, here are three incidents I know for a fact to be true. Moreover, I’ve heard of plenty of similar cases from credible people whose honesty on the matter I have no reason to doubt.
Secondly: It is well known in the Sperm Whale Fishery, however ignorant the world ashore may be of it, that there have been several memorable historical instances where a particular whale in the ocean has been at distant times and places popularly cognisable. Why such a whale became thus marked was not altogether and originally owing to his bodily peculiarities as distinguished from other whales; for however peculiar in that respect any chance whale may be, they soon put an end to his peculiarities by killing him, and boiling him down into a peculiarly valuable oil. No: the reason was this: that from the fatal experiences of the fishery there hung a terrible prestige of perilousness about such a whale as there did about Rinaldo Rinaldini, insomuch that most fishermen were content to recognise him by merely touching their tarpaulins when he would be discovered lounging by them on the sea, without seeking to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance. Like some poor devils ashore that happen to know an irascible great man, they make distant unobtrusive salutations to him in the street, lest if they pursued the acquaintance further, they might receive a summary thump for their presumption.
Secondly: It's well known in the sperm whale industry, though people on land might not have a clue, that there have been several famous cases where a specific whale in the ocean could be recognized at different times and places. The reason such a whale stood out wasn’t just because of its physical traits compared to other whales; after all, no matter how unique a whale might be, they usually lose that uniqueness pretty quickly when they're killed and turned into highly valuable oil. No, the real reason was this: from the deadly experiences of whalers, a certain terrifying reputation surrounded such a whale, much like the fearsome reputation of Rinaldo Rinaldini. So much so, most fishermen were happy just to acknowledge the whale by respectfully touching their hats when they spotted him cruising in the distance, without trying to get better acquainted. It’s like people on land who happen to know a hot-tempered big shot—better to give a quiet nod from afar than to risk getting smacked for trying to get too close.
But not only did each of these famous whales enjoy great individual celebrity—Nay, you may call it an ocean-wide renown; not only was he famous in life and now is immortal in forecastle stories after death, but he was admitted into all the rights, privileges, and distinctions of a name; had as much a name indeed as Cambyses or Cæsar. Was it not so, O Timor Tom! thou famed leviathan, scarred like an iceberg, who so long did’st lurk in the Oriental straits of that name, whose spout was oft seen from the palmy beach of Ombay? Was it not so, O New Zealand Jack! thou terror of all cruisers that crossed their wakes in the vicinity of the Tattoo Land? Was it not so, O Morquan! King of Japan, whose lofty jet they say at times assumed the semblance of a snow-white cross against the sky? Was it not so, O Don Miguel! thou Chilian whale, marked like an old tortoise with mystic hieroglyphics upon the back! In plain prose, here are four whales as well known to the students of Cetacean History as Marius or Sylla to the classic scholar.
Each of these famous whales didn’t just have their own unique fame—no, you could call it worldwide renown. Not only were they legendary while alive and now immortalized in sailors’ tales after their deaths, but they were also given all the respect, rights, and recognition of having a name—just as much as Cambyses or Caesar. Isn’t that true, Timor Tom? You legendary whale, scarred like an iceberg, who hid for so long in the Oriental straits that share your name, with your spout often spotted from the palm-filled shores of Ombay. Isn’t it true, New Zealand Jack? You terrorized every ship that crossed your path near the Tattooed Land. Isn’t it true, Morquan? The King of Japan, whose towering spout was said to sometimes resemble a snow-white cross against the sky. Isn’t it true, Don Miguel? You Chilean whale, marked like an old tortoise with mysterious symbols carved into your back. To put it simply, these four whales are just as well-known to experts in whale history as Marius and Sulla are to students of classical history.
But this is not all. New Zealand Tom and Don Miguel, after at various times creating great havoc among the boats of different vessels, were finally gone in quest of, systematically hunted out, chased and killed by valiant whaling captains, who heaved up their anchors with that express object as much in view, as in setting out through the Narragansett Woods, Captain Butler of old had it in his mind to capture that notorious murderous savage Annawon, the headmost warrior of the Indian King Philip.
But that’s not all. New Zealand Tom and Don Miguel, after causing a lot of trouble for the boats of various ships at different times, were finally tracked down, hunted, chased, and killed by brave whaling captains who set sail with that specific goal in mind—much like how, long ago, Captain Butler ventured into the Narragansett Woods determined to capture the infamous and deadly warrior Annawon, the top fighter of the Native American chief King Philip.
I do not know where I can find a better place than just here, to make mention of one or two other things, which to me seem important, as in printed form establishing in all respects the reasonableness of the whole story of the White Whale, more especially the catastrophe. For this is one of those disheartening instances where truth requires full as much bolstering as error. So ignorant are most landsmen of some of the plainest and most palpable wonders of the world, that without some hints touching the plain facts, historical and otherwise, of the fishery, they might scout at Moby Dick as a monstrous fable, or still worse and more detestable, a hideous and intolerable allegory.
I don't think I could find a better spot than right here to mention one or two other things that seem important to me, especially in proving the reasonableness of the whole story about the White Whale—particularly the disaster. This is one of those discouraging cases where the truth needs just as much support as falsehood. Most people who live on land are so unaware of some of the simplest and most obvious wonders of the world that, without some insight into the basic facts—both historical and otherwise—of the whaling industry, they might dismiss Moby Dick as an outrageous myth or, even worse, a grotesque and intolerable allegory.
First: Though most men have some vague flitting ideas of the general perils of the grand fishery, yet they have nothing like a fixed, vivid conception of those perils, and the frequency with which they recur. One reason perhaps is, that not one in fifty of the actual disasters and deaths by casualties in the fishery, ever finds a public record at home, however transient and immediately forgotten that record. Do you suppose that that poor fellow there, who this moment perhaps caught by the whale-line off the coast of New Guinea, is being carried down to the bottom of the sea by the sounding leviathan—do you suppose that that poor fellow’s name will appear in the newspaper obituary you will read to-morrow at your breakfast? No: because the mails are very irregular between here and New Guinea. In fact, did you ever hear what might be called regular news direct or indirect from New Guinea? Yet I tell you that upon one particular voyage which I made to the Pacific, among many others we spoke thirty different ships, every one of which had had a death by a whale, some of them more than one, and three that had each lost a boat’s crew. For God’s sake, be economical with your lamps and candles! not a gallon you burn, but at least one drop of man’s blood was spilled for it.
First: Though most people have some vague, fleeting ideas about the general dangers of the great whaling industry, they don’t have a clear, vivid understanding of those dangers or how often they happen. One reason for this might be that barely one in fifty of the actual accidents and deaths in the whaling trade ever gets reported publicly back home, even if such reports are brief and quickly forgotten. Do you think that poor guy over there, who at this very moment might be snagged by a whale-line off the coast of New Guinea and is being dragged to the ocean floor by the diving whale—do you think his name will show up in the obituary section of the newspaper you’ll read tomorrow morning at breakfast? No: because the mail service is very unreliable between here and New Guinea. Honestly, have you ever heard anything like consistent news—direct or indirect—from New Guinea? Yet I’m telling you that on one specific trip I made to the Pacific, we encountered thirty different ships, and every single one of them had lost at least one crew member to a whale; some lost more than one. Three of those ships had lost an entire boat’s crew. For heaven’s sake, conserve your lamp oil and candles! Every gallon you burn cost at least one drop of human blood.
Secondly: People ashore have indeed some indefinite idea that a whale is an enormous creature of enormous power; but I have ever found that when narrating to them some specific example of this two-fold enormousness, they have significantly complimented me upon my facetiousness; when, I declare upon my soul, I had no more idea of being facetious than Moses, when he wrote the history of the plagues of Egypt.
Secondly: People on land have a vague idea that a whale is a gigantic and powerful creature, but whenever I share a specific example of just how massive and powerful it is, they usually respond with a knowing smile, as if I’m joking. I swear on my life, I’m no more trying to be funny than Moses was when he wrote about the plagues of Egypt.
But fortunately the special point I here seek can be established upon testimony entirely independent of my own. That point is this: The Sperm Whale is in some cases sufficiently powerful, knowing, and judiciously malicious, as with direct aforethought to stave in, utterly destroy, and sink a large ship; and what is more, the Sperm Whale has done it.
But luckily, the specific point I want to make here can be proven with evidence completely separate from my own. The point is this: In some cases, the Sperm Whale is strong enough, smart enough, and deliberately malicious enough to intentionally ram, completely destroy, and sink a large ship—and what's more, the Sperm Whale has done it.
First: In the year 1820 the ship Essex, Captain Pollard, of Nantucket, was cruising in the Pacific Ocean. One day she saw spouts, lowered her boats, and gave chase to a shoal of sperm whales. Ere long, several of the whales were wounded; when, suddenly, a very large whale escaping from the boats, issued from the shoal, and bore directly down upon the ship. Dashing his forehead against her hull, he so stove her in, that in less than “ten minutes” she settled down and fell over. Not a surviving plank of her has been seen since. After the severest exposure, part of the crew reached the land in their boats. Being returned home at last, Captain Pollard once more sailed for the Pacific in command of another ship, but the gods shipwrecked him again upon unknown rocks and breakers; for the second time his ship was utterly lost, and forthwith forswearing the sea, he has never tempted it since. At this day Captain Pollard is a resident of Nantucket. I have seen Owen Chace, who was chief mate of the Essex at the time of the tragedy; I have read his plain and faithful narrative; I have conversed with his son; and all this within a few miles of the scene of the catastrophe.*
In 1820, the ship Essex, commanded by Captain Pollard from Nantucket, was sailing in the Pacific Ocean. One day, they spotted whale spouts, lowered their boats, and pursued a pod of sperm whales. Before long, several whales were injured. Suddenly, a massive whale broke away from the group, turned toward the ship, and charged straight at it. Slamming its head into the hull, the whale damaged the ship so badly that within ten minutes, it sank and capsized. Not a single piece of the ship has been seen since. After enduring extreme hardships, part of the crew managed to reach land in their small boats. When Captain Pollard eventually returned home, he took command of another ship and set sail for the Pacific again, but fate struck once more—his ship was wrecked on unknown rocks and reefs. With his second ship completely destroyed, he vowed never to go to sea again. Today, Captain Pollard lives in Nantucket. I have met Owen Chace, who was the chief mate of the Essex at the time of the incident. I’ve read his honest and detailed account, talked with his son, and experienced all this just a few miles from where the disaster happened.*
*The following are extracts from Chace’s narrative: “Every fact seemed to warrant me in concluding that it was anything but chance which directed his operations; he made two several attacks upon the ship, at a short interval between them, both of which, according to their direction, were calculated to do us the most injury, by being made ahead, and thereby combining the speed of the two objects for the shock; to effect which, the exact manœuvres which he made were necessary. His aspect was most horrible, and such as indicated resentment and fury. He came directly from the shoal which we had just before entered, and in which we had struck three of his companions, as if fired with revenge for their sufferings.” Again: “At all events, the whole circumstances taken together, all happening before my own eyes, and producing, at the time, impressions in my mind of decided, calculating mischief, on the part of the whale (many of which impressions I cannot now recall), induce me to be satisfied that I am correct in my opinion.”
The following are excerpts from Chace’s account: “Every fact seemed to convince me that it wasn’t just chance guiding his actions. He launched two separate attacks on the ship, with only a short gap between them. Both attacks were made in such a way that they were clearly intended to cause us the most harm. He struck us head-on, combining the speed of both the ship and himself for maximum impact. To pull this off, the precise maneuvers he made were absolutely necessary. His appearance was terrifying, showing clear signs of anger and rage. He came straight from the shoal we had just passed through, where we had struck three of his companions, as if driven by vengeance for their injuries.” Again: “No matter how I look at it, all the events combined—everything I witnessed with my own eyes—left me with the clear impression at the time that the whale was acting with deliberate, calculated malice (though some of the impressions are difficult to recall now). All of this leads me to firmly believe that my conclusion is correct.”
Here are his reflections some time after quitting the ship, during a black night in an open boat, when almost despairing of reaching any hospitable shore. “The dark ocean and swelling waters were nothing; the fears of being swallowed up by some dreadful tempest, or dashed upon hidden rocks, with all the other ordinary subjects of fearful contemplation, seemed scarcely entitled to a moment’s thought; the dismal looking wreck, and the horrid aspect and revenge of the whale, wholly engrossed my reflections, until day again made its appearance.”
Here are his thoughts some time after leaving the ship, during a pitch-black night in an open boat, almost losing hope of reaching any friendly shore. "The dark ocean and rolling waves didn’t matter; the fear of being engulfed by some terrible storm or smashed against hidden rocks, along with all the usual things people fear, barely seemed worth a moment's concern. The grim sight of the wreck and the terrifying appearance and vengeance of the whale completely consumed my thoughts, until daylight finally returned."
In another place—p. 45,—he speaks of “the mysterious and mortal attack of the animal.”
In another part—p. 45,—he talks about “the strange and deadly attack of the creature.”
Secondly: The ship Union, also of Nantucket, was in the year 1807 totally lost off the Azores by a similar onset, but the authentic particulars of this catastrophe I have never chanced to encounter, though from the whale hunters I have now and then heard casual allusions to it.
Secondly: The ship Union, also from Nantucket, was completely lost near the Azores in 1807 due to a similar attack, but I’ve never come across the reliable details of this disaster, though I’ve occasionally heard passing mentions of it from whale hunters.
Thirdly: Some eighteen or twenty years ago Commodore J——, then commanding an American sloop-of-war of the first class, happened to be dining with a party of whaling captains, on board a Nantucket ship in the harbor of Oahu, Sandwich Islands. Conversation turning upon whales, the Commodore was pleased to be sceptical touching the amazing strength ascribed to them by the professional gentlemen present. He peremptorily denied for example, that any whale could so smite his stout sloop-of-war as to cause her to leak so much as a thimbleful. Very good; but there is more coming. Some weeks after, the Commodore set sail in this impregnable craft for Valparaiso. But he was stopped on the way by a portly sperm whale, that begged a few moments’ confidential business with him. That business consisted in fetching the Commodore’s craft such a thwack, that with all his pumps going he made straight for the nearest port to heave down and repair. I am not superstitious, but I consider the Commodore’s interview with that whale as providential. Was not Saul of Tarsus converted from unbelief by a similar fright? I tell you, the sperm whale will stand no nonsense.
Thirdly: Around eighteen or twenty years ago, Commodore J——, who was commanding an American warship, a sloop-of-war of the highest class at the time, was having dinner with a group of whaling captains aboard a Nantucket ship anchored in the harbor of Oahu, in the Sandwich Islands. The conversation turned to whales, and the Commodore found himself doubting the incredible strength that the professional whalemen claimed these creatures had. He flat-out rejected the idea, for instance, that any whale could hit his sturdy warship hard enough to cause it to leak even as much as a thimble of water. Well, fine—so far, so good. But the story doesn’t end there. A few weeks later, the Commodore set sail on this so-called indestructible ship, headed for Valparaiso. On the way, however, he was intercepted by a rather large sperm whale that seemed to have some urgent personal business to discuss with him. That "business" turned out to be delivering such a massive blow to the Commodore’s ship that, even with all the pumps running at full force, he had to make a beeline for the nearest port to get the ship hauled out and repaired. Now, I’m not a superstitious person, but I can’t help seeing the Commodore’s encounter with that whale as divinely caused. After all, wasn’t Saul of Tarsus scared out of unbelief in a similar way? Let me tell you, the sperm whale doesn’t mess around.
I will now refer you to Langsdorff’s Voyages for a little circumstance in point, peculiarly interesting to the writer hereof. Langsdorff, you must know by the way, was attached to the Russian Admiral Krusenstern’s famous Discovery Expedition in the beginning of the present century. Captain Langsdorff thus begins his seventeenth chapter:
I’ll now point you to Langsdorff’s *Voyages* for a small but significant event that is particularly interesting to me. By the way, Langsdorff was part of the Russian Admiral Krusenstern’s renowned Discovery Expedition at the start of this century. Captain Langsdorff starts his seventeenth chapter like this:
“By the thirteenth of May our ship was ready to sail, and the next day we were out in the open sea, on our way to Ochotsh. The weather was very clear and fine, but so intolerably cold that we were obliged to keep on our fur clothing. For some days we had very little wind; it was not till the nineteenth that a brisk gale from the northwest sprang up. An uncommon large whale, the body of which was larger than the ship itself, lay almost at the surface of the water, but was not perceived by any one on board till the moment when the ship, which was in full sail, was almost upon him, so that it was impossible to prevent its striking against him. We were thus placed in the most imminent danger, as this gigantic creature, setting up its back, raised the ship three feet at least out of the water. The masts reeled, and the sails fell altogether, while we who were below all sprang instantly upon the deck, concluding that we had struck upon some rock; instead of this we saw the monster sailing off with the utmost gravity and solemnity. Captain D’Wolf applied immediately to the pumps to examine whether or not the vessel had received any damage from the shock, but we found that very happily it had escaped entirely uninjured.”
By May 13th, our ship was ready to set sail, and the very next day we were out on the open sea, heading toward Ochotsk. The weather was clear and nice, but it was unbearably cold, so we had to keep wearing our fur clothes. For a few days, there was almost no wind; it wasn’t until the 19th that a strong wind from the northwest picked up. A massive whale, larger than the ship itself, was floating near the surface of the water. No one on board noticed it until the ship, sailing at full speed, was almost upon it, making a collision unavoidable. We were suddenly in extreme danger as this enormous creature arched its back, lifting the ship at least three feet out of the water. The masts shook, and the sails collapsed completely, while those of us below deck rushed to the surface, thinking we’d struck a rock. Instead, we saw the colossal animal calmly swimming away as if nothing had happened. Captain D’Wolf immediately checked the pumps to see if the ship had been damaged in the collision, but thankfully, we discovered it was completely unscathed.
Now, the Captain D’Wolf here alluded to as commanding the ship in question, is a New Englander, who, after a long life of unusual adventures as a sea-captain, this day resides in the village of Dorchester near Boston. I have the honor of being a nephew of his. I have particularly questioned him concerning this passage in Langsdorff. He substantiates every word. The ship, however, was by no means a large one: a Russian craft built on the Siberian coast, and purchased by my uncle after bartering away the vessel in which he sailed from home.
The Captain D’Wolf mentioned here as the commander of the ship in question is a New Englander who, after a long life of extraordinary adventures as a sea captain, now lives in the village of Dorchester near Boston. I’m proud to say he’s my uncle. I’ve specifically asked him about this account in Langsdorff, and he confirms every word of it. However, the ship wasn’t particularly large—it was a Russian vessel built on the Siberian coast, which my uncle acquired after trading away the ship he originally sailed from home.
In that up and down manly book of old-fashioned adventure, so full, too, of honest wonders—the voyage of Lionel Wafer, one of ancient Dampier’s old chums—I found a little matter set down so like that just quoted from Langsdorff, that I cannot forbear inserting it here for a corroborative example, if such be needed.
In that old-fashioned adventure book full of ups and downs and genuine wonders—the voyage of Lionel Wafer, one of Dampier’s old buddies—I came across something so similar to what I just quoted from Langsdorff that I can’t resist including it here as a supporting example, if one is even necessary.
Lionel, it seems, was on his way to “John Ferdinando,” as he calls the modern Juan Fernandes. “In our way thither,” he says, “about four o’clock in the morning, when we were about one hundred and fifty leagues from the Main of America, our ship felt a terrible shock, which put our men in such consternation that they could hardly tell where they were or what to think; but every one began to prepare for death. And, indeed, the shock was so sudden and violent, that we took it for granted the ship had struck against a rock; but when the amazement was a little over, we cast the lead, and sounded, but found no ground. * * * * * The suddenness of the shock made the guns leap in their carriages, and several of the men were shaken out of their hammocks. Captain Davis, who lay with his head on a gun, was thrown out of his cabin!” Lionel then goes on to impute the shock to an earthquake, and seems to substantiate the imputation by stating that a great earthquake, somewhere about that time, did actually do great mischief along the Spanish land. But I should not much wonder if, in the darkness of that early hour of the morning, the shock was after all caused by an unseen whale vertically bumping the hull from beneath.
Lionel, it seems, was on his way to what he calls "John Ferdinando," referring to the modern Juan Fernandes. “On our way there,” he says, “around four in the morning, when we were about 150 leagues from the coast of America, our ship experienced a massive jolt that left the crew in complete panic—they could barely understand where they were or what was happening. Everyone started preparing for the worst, thinking death was imminent. The shock was so sudden and violent that we were sure the ship had hit a rock. Once the initial terror subsided, we took soundings to check the depth, but found no bottom. * * * * * The force of the shock was so strong that the cannons jumped in their mounts, and some of the men were thrown out of their hammocks. Captain Davis, who had been resting with his head on a cannon, was thrown out of his cabin!” Lionel then attributes the shock to an earthquake and backs up this claim by mentioning that a major earthquake around that time caused significant destruction on the nearby Spanish coastline. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if, in the darkness of that early morning, the jolt was actually caused by a whale bumping the ship from below.
I might proceed with several more examples, one way or another known to me, of the great power and malice at times of the sperm whale. In more than one instance, he has been known, not only to chase the assailing boats back to their ships, but to pursue the ship itself, and long withstand all the lances hurled at him from its decks. The English ship Pusie Hall can tell a story on that head; and, as for his strength, let me say, that there have been examples where the lines attached to a running sperm whale have, in a calm, been transferred to the ship, and secured there; the whale towing her great hull through the water, as a horse walks off with a cart. Again, it is very often observed that, if the sperm whale, once struck, is allowed time to rally, he then acts, not so often with blind rage, as with wilful, deliberate designs of destruction to his pursuers; nor is it without conveying some eloquent indication of his character, that upon being attacked he will frequently open his mouth, and retain it in that dread expansion for several consecutive minutes. But I must be content with only one more and a concluding illustration; a remarkable and most significant one, by which you will not fail to see, that not only is the most marvellous event in this book corroborated by plain facts of the present day, but that these marvels (like all marvels) are mere repetitions of the ages; so that for the millionth time we say amen with Solomon—Verily there is nothing new under the sun.
I could give you many more examples, one way or another known to me, of the immense power and occasional malice of the sperm whale. On more than one occasion, it’s been recorded that a sperm whale has not only chased attacking boats back to their ships but even pursued the ship itself, resisting all the harpoons thrown at it from the deck. The English ship *Pusie Hall* has a story to tell about that. As for its strength, let me point out that there have been cases where the ropes attached to a fleeing sperm whale were tied to the ship itself, and in calm waters, the whale has pulled the massive hull through the water, much like a horse pulling a cart. Furthermore, it’s often observed that if a sperm whale, once struck, is given time to recover, it doesn’t usually act out of blind rage but instead with calculated, deliberate intentions to destroy its attackers. It’s also telling of its nature that when attacked, the whale will often open its mouth and keep it terrifyingly wide for several minutes at a time. But I’ll leave you with just one final and truly remarkable example, one that shows not only that the most extraordinary event in this book is supported by real facts from today but also how these extraordinary occurrences (like all others) are simply repetitions of history. For the millionth time, we can say along with Solomon: “Truly, there is nothing new under the sun.”
In the sixth Christian century lived Procopius, a Christian magistrate of Constantinople, in the days when Justinian was Emperor and Belisarius general. As many know, he wrote the history of his own times, a work every way of uncommon value. By the best authorities, he has always been considered a most trustworthy and unexaggerating historian, except in some one or two particulars, not at all affecting the matter presently to be mentioned.
In the sixth century AD, Procopius lived as a Christian magistrate in Constantinople, during the reign of Emperor Justinian and the leadership of General Belisarius. As many people know, he documented the history of his era, producing an exceptionally valuable work. According to the most reliable sources, he has always been regarded as a highly trustworthy and unbiased historian, except in one or two specific cases that don’t relate to the subject about to be discussed.
Now, in this history of his, Procopius mentions that, during the term of his prefecture at Constantinople, a great sea-monster was captured in the neighboring Propontis, or Sea of Marmora, after having destroyed vessels at intervals in those waters for a period of more than fifty years. A fact thus set down in substantial history cannot easily be gainsaid. Nor is there any reason it should be. Of what precise species this sea-monster was, is not mentioned. But as he destroyed ships, as well as for other reasons, he must have been a whale; and I am strongly inclined to think a sperm whale. And I will tell you why. For a long time I fancied that the sperm whale had been always unknown in the Mediterranean and the deep waters connecting with it. Even now I am certain that those seas are not, and perhaps never can be, in the present constitution of things, a place for his habitual gregarious resort. But further investigations have recently proved to me, that in modern times there have been isolated instances of the presence of the sperm whale in the Mediterranean. I am told, on good authority, that on the Barbary coast, a Commodore Davis of the British navy found the skeleton of a sperm whale. Now, as a vessel of war readily passes through the Dardanelles, hence a sperm whale could, by the same route, pass out of the Mediterranean into the Propontis.
In his account, Procopius notes that during his time as prefect in Constantinople, a massive sea creature was caught in the nearby Sea of Marmara after wreaking havoc on ships in the area for over fifty years. A fact recorded in credible history like this can’t easily be dismissed, nor is there any reason to doubt it. The specific species of this sea creature isn’t mentioned, but since it destroyed ships—and for other reasons—it must have been a whale, and I strongly suspect it was a sperm whale. Let me explain why. For a long time, I believed sperm whales were entirely unknown in the Mediterranean and the connected deep waters. Even now, I’m confident those seas are not, and probably never will be, a common gathering place for them under current conditions. However, recent research has shown that there have been occasional sightings of sperm whales in the Mediterranean in more modern times. I’ve heard from reliable sources that on the Barbary coast, a British Navy officer named Commodore Davis discovered the skeleton of a sperm whale. Now, since warships can easily pass through the Dardanelles, it’s entirely possible that a sperm whale could take the same route to move from the Mediterranean into the Sea of Marmara.
In the Propontis, as far as I can learn, none of that peculiar substance called brit is to be found, the aliment of the right whale. But I have every reason to believe that the food of the sperm whale—squid or cuttle-fish—lurks at the bottom of that sea, because large creatures, but by no means the largest of that sort, have been found at its surface. If, then, you properly put these statements together, and reason upon them a bit, you will clearly perceive that, according to all human reasoning, Procopius’s sea-monster, that for half a century stove the ships of a Roman Emperor, must in all probability have been a sperm whale.
In the Propontis, as far as I know, there’s none of that specific substance called brit, which is the main food of right whales. But I have every reason to think that the food of the sperm whale—squid or cuttlefish—can be found at the bottom of that sea because large creatures, though not the largest of their kind, have been seen on its surface. So, if you put these facts together and think about them a bit, you’ll clearly see that, based on all logical reasoning, Procopius’s sea monster, which for fifty years destroyed the ships of a Roman Emperor, was most likely a sperm whale.
CHAPTER 46. Surmises.
Though, consumed with the hot fire of his purpose, Ahab in all his thoughts and actions ever had in view the ultimate capture of Moby Dick; though he seemed ready to sacrifice all mortal interests to that one passion; nevertheless it may have been that he was by nature and long habituation far too wedded to a fiery whaleman’s ways, altogether to abandon the collateral prosecution of the voyage. Or at least if this were otherwise, there were not wanting other motives much more influential with him. It would be refining too much, perhaps, even considering his monomania, to hint that his vindictiveness towards the White Whale might have possibly extended itself in some degree to all sperm whales, and that the more monsters he slew by so much the more he multiplied the chances that each subsequently encountered whale would prove to be the hated one he hunted. But if such an hypothesis be indeed exceptionable, there were still additional considerations which, though not so strictly according with the wildness of his ruling passion, yet were by no means incapable of swaying him.
Even though Ahab was completely consumed by his burning obsession with capturing Moby Dick, and even though he seemed willing to sacrifice all earthly concerns for that one goal, it’s possible that his nature and years of experience as a fiery whaleman made it impossible for him to entirely give up the secondary goals of the voyage. Or, if that wasn’t the case, there were certainly other, even stronger motives influencing him. It might be overanalyzing things, even given his obsession, to suggest that his hatred for the White Whale extended, in some way, to all sperm whales—leading him to believe the more whales he killed, the greater his chances of eventually encountering the one he pursued. But even if that idea is too far-fetched, there were still other factors, less aligned with the wildness of his primary obsession, but nonetheless capable of influencing his actions.
To accomplish his object Ahab must use tools; and of all tools used in the shadow of the moon, men are most apt to get out of order. He knew, for example, that however magnetic his ascendency in some respects was over Starbuck, yet that ascendency did not cover the complete spiritual man any more than mere corporeal superiority involves intellectual mastership; for to the purely spiritual, the intellectual but stand in a sort of corporeal relation. Starbuck’s body and Starbuck’s coerced will were Ahab’s, so long as Ahab kept his magnet at Starbuck’s brain; still he knew that for all this the chief mate, in his soul, abhorred his captain’s quest, and could he, would joyfully disintegrate himself from it, or even frustrate it. It might be that a long interval would elapse ere the White Whale was seen. During that long interval Starbuck would ever be apt to fall into open relapses of rebellion against his captain’s leadership, unless some ordinary, prudential, circumstantial influences were brought to bear upon him. Not only that, but the subtle insanity of Ahab respecting Moby Dick was noways more significantly manifested than in his superlative sense and shrewdness in foreseeing that, for the present, the hunt should in some way be stripped of that strange imaginative impiousness which naturally invested it; that the full terror of the voyage must be kept withdrawn into the obscure background (for few men’s courage is proof against protracted meditation unrelieved by action); that when they stood their long night watches, his officers and men must have some nearer things to think of than Moby Dick. For however eagerly and impetuously the savage crew had hailed the announcement of his quest; yet all sailors of all sorts are more or less capricious and unreliable—they live in the varying outer weather, and they inhale its fickleness—and when retained for any object remote and blank in the pursuit, however promissory of life and passion in the end, it is above all things requisite that temporary interests and employments should intervene and hold them healthily suspended for the final dash.
To achieve his goal, Ahab had to use tools; and among all tools under the moon, men are the most prone to malfunction. He knew, for instance, that although he held a certain magnetic authority over Starbuck, that influence didn’t extend to Starbuck’s entire spirit any more than physical dominance implies intellectual control; for the intellectual relates to the spiritual much like the body relates to the mind. Starbuck’s body and his reluctantly coerced will were Ahab’s to command, as long as Ahab maintained his hold over Starbuck’s thoughts. Yet, he was fully aware that deep down, Starbuck despised his captain’s mission, and if given the chance, would gladly separate himself from it or even sabotage it. A long time might pass before they encountered the White Whale. During that stretch, Starbuck was likely to fall into open defiance of Ahab’s leadership unless some practical and circumstantial measures were taken to restrain him. Beyond that, Ahab’s peculiar madness regarding Moby Dick was never more evident than in his remarkable awareness and cunning in realizing that, for now, the hunt needed to be stripped of its strange, blasphemous aura that naturally surrounded it; the full terror of the voyage had to remain hidden in the background (because few men’s courage can withstand prolonged reflection without action). During their long night watches, his officers and crew needed more immediate concerns to occupy their minds than Moby Dick. For even though the wild crew had initially greeted the announcement of his mission with excitement and fervor, sailors by nature are often unpredictable and unreliable—they live in the ever-changing elements and absorb their instability. When tasked with pursuing something distant, abstract, and uncertain, no matter how thrilling or filled with life it promises to be in the end, it becomes absolutely essential to engage them with more immediate distractions and tasks to keep their spirits steady until the final push.
Nor was Ahab unmindful of another thing. In times of strong emotion mankind disdain all base considerations; but such times are evanescent. The permanent constitutional condition of the manufactured man, thought Ahab, is sordidness. Granting that the White Whale fully incites the hearts of this my savage crew, and playing round their savageness even breeds a certain generous knight-errantism in them, still, while for the love of it they give chase to Moby Dick, they must also have food for their more common, daily appetites. For even the high lifted and chivalric Crusaders of old times were not content to traverse two thousand miles of land to fight for their holy sepulchre, without committing burglaries, picking pockets, and gaining other pious perquisites by the way. Had they been strictly held to their one final and romantic object—that final and romantic object, too many would have turned from in disgust. I will not strip these men, thought Ahab, of all hopes of cash—aye, cash. They may scorn cash now; but let some months go by, and no perspective promise of it to them, and then this same quiescent cash all at once mutinying in them, this same cash would soon cashier Ahab.
Ahab wasn’t oblivious to another point. In moments of intense emotion, people tend to ignore trivial matters—but those moments don't last long. The enduring, inherent nature of humanity, Ahab thought, is rooted in selfishness. Even if the White Whale stirs the hearts of my wild crew and awakens a sort of noble, adventurous spirit in them, they still need provisions to satisfy their everyday, basic needs. Even the heroic Crusaders of old weren’t content to march thousands of miles to fight for their sacred cause without looting, stealing, or claiming other opportunistic rewards along the way. If they were forced to focus only on their lofty and idealistic mission—one that many ultimately found revolting—most would have given up. I won’t deprive these men, Ahab thought, of the hope of money—yes, money. They might act like they despise it now, but let a few months pass with no prospect of it, and that same suppressed desire for cash would turn against me. That same desire for cash would soon overthrow Ahab.
Nor was there wanting still another precautionary motive more related to Ahab personally. Having impulsively, it is probable, and perhaps somewhat prematurely revealed the prime but private purpose of the Pequod’s voyage, Ahab was now entirely conscious that, in so doing, he had indirectly laid himself open to the unanswerable charge of usurpation; and with perfect impunity, both moral and legal, his crew if so disposed, and to that end competent, could refuse all further obedience to him, and even violently wrest from him the command. From even the barely hinted imputation of usurpation, and the possible consequences of such a suppressed impression gaining ground, Ahab must of course have been most anxious to protect himself. That protection could only consist in his own predominating brain and heart and hand, backed by a heedful, closely calculating attention to every minute atmospheric influence which it was possible for his crew to be subjected to.
There was yet another reason, tied more personally to Ahab, for his caution. Having likely acted on impulse, and perhaps a bit prematurely, when he revealed the real but private purpose of the Pequod’s voyage, Ahab now fully realized that in doing so, he had opened himself up to the undeniable accusation of overstepping his authority. Morally and legally, his crew, if they wished and were up to the task, could outright refuse to follow his orders any further and could even forcibly take command from him. Even the slightest suggestion of him overstepping could spread among the crew, and Ahab, naturally, must have been deeply concerned about preventing this. The only way to protect himself was through the dominance of his intellect, will, and physical control, supported by a careful and calculated awareness of every minor factor that could influence his crew’s mood or perspective.
For all these reasons then, and others perhaps too analytic to be verbally developed here, Ahab plainly saw that he must still in a good degree continue true to the natural, nominal purpose of the Pequod’s voyage; observe all customary usages; and not only that, but force himself to evince all his well known passionate interest in the general pursuit of his profession.
For all these reasons, and possibly others too complex to explain in words here, Ahab clearly realized that he must still, to a significant extent, stick to the natural and stated purpose of the Pequod’s journey; follow all usual practices; and not only that, but make himself show his well-known intense focus on the general work of his profession.
Be all this as it may, his voice was now often heard hailing the three mast-heads and admonishing them to keep a bright look-out, and not omit reporting even a porpoise. This vigilance was not long without reward.
Whatever the case, his voice could now often be heard calling out to the three mastheads, reminding them to stay alert and report even the sight of a porpoise. This careful watchfulness soon paid off.
CHAPTER 47. The Mat-Maker.
It was a cloudy, sultry afternoon; the seamen were lazily lounging about the decks, or vacantly gazing over into the lead-coloured waters. Queequeg and I were mildly employed weaving what is called a sword-mat, for an additional lashing to our boat. So still and subdued and yet somehow preluding was all the scene, and such an incantation of reverie lurked in the air, that each silent sailor seemed resolved into his own invisible self.
It was a cloudy, humid afternoon; the sailors were lazily hanging around the decks or blankly staring into the dull gray water. Queequeg and I were calmly weaving what’s known as a sword-mat, to use as extra lashing for our boat. Everything about the scene was so quiet and subdued, yet it somehow felt like it was building up to something. There was such a spell of daydreaming in the air that every silent sailor seemed lost in his own private thoughts.
I was the attendant or page of Queequeg, while busy at the mat. As I kept passing and repassing the filling or woof of marline between the long yarns of the warp, using my own hand for the shuttle, and as Queequeg, standing sideways, ever and anon slid his heavy oaken sword between the threads, and idly looking off upon the water, carelessly and unthinkingly drove home every yarn: I say so strange a dreaminess did there then reign all over the ship and all over the sea, only broken by the intermitting dull sound of the sword, that it seemed as if this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically weaving and weaving away at the Fates. There lay the fixed threads of the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging vibration, and that vibration merely enough to admit of the crosswise interblending of other threads with its own. This warp seemed necessity; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle and weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads. Meantime, Queequeg’s impulsive, indifferent sword, sometimes hitting the woof slantingly, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be; and by this difference in the concluding blow producing a corresponding contrast in the final aspect of the completed fabric; this savage’s sword, thought I, which thus finally shapes and fashions both warp and woof; this easy, indifferent sword must be chance—aye, chance, free will, and necessity—nowise incompatible—all interweavingly working together. The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its ultimate course—its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending to that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads; and chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of necessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though thus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the last featuring blow at events.
I was Queequeg's assistant or helper while he worked on the mat. As I kept passing and re-passing the filling thread, or marline, between the long fibers of the warp, using my hand as a shuttle, Queequeg, standing sideways, occasionally slid his heavy wooden sword between the threads. He gazed off at the water, absentmindedly driving every yarn into place without much thought. The whole scene felt strangely dreamy—this atmosphere covered the ship and the sea, only interrupted by the dull sound of the sword hitting the threads. It seemed as if we were working on the Loom of Time itself, and I was the shuttle, mechanically weaving the fabric of fate. The fixed threads of the warp felt like they represented some inevitable necessity, vibrating in a steady, unchanging rhythm, while I used my hand to guide the shuttle and weave my own choices—my own destiny—into this unyielding framework. Meanwhile, Queequeg’s casual and unpredictable sword sometimes struck the threads at an angle—sometimes unevenly, forcefully, or gently. The differences in his blows created corresponding changes in the final look of the woven fabric. I thought, his unfocused, indifferent strokes with the sword seemed to symbolize chance—yes, chance, free will, and necessity—all working together, interwoven. The straight warp, representing necessity, stayed locked on its course, its every vibration simply guiding the crossing threads. Free will, though still independent to guide the shuttle, worked within the given limits of the warp. And chance—while seemingly confined within the boundaries of both necessity and free will, and influenced by them—still occasionally ruled over everything, delivering the final decisive blow that shaped the outcomes.
Thus we were weaving and weaving away when I started at a sound so strange, long drawn, and musically wild and unearthly, that the ball of free will dropped from my hand, and I stood gazing up at the clouds whence that voice dropped like a wing. High aloft in the cross-trees was that mad Gay-Header, Tashtego. His body was reaching eagerly forward, his hand stretched out like a wand, and at brief sudden intervals he continued his cries. To be sure the same sound was that very moment perhaps being heard all over the seas, from hundreds of whalemen’s look-outs perched as high in the air; but from few of those lungs could that accustomed old cry have derived such a marvellous cadence as from Tashtego the Indian’s.
So there we were, working away, when I jumped at a sound so strange—long, drawn-out, and hauntingly musical, otherworldly—that I lost hold of my free will like it was a ball dropping from my hand. I stood there, staring up at the clouds where that voice came down like the flap of a wing. Up high in the rigging was that wild Gay-Header, Tashtego. His body leaned forward eagerly, his hand reaching out like a wand, and at quick, sudden intervals, he continued his cries. Sure, the same sound might have been echoing across the seas at that very moment, from hundreds of lookouts perched in the air aboard countless whaling ships—but it’s doubtful that cry carried the same incredible resonance as it did coming from Tashtego, the Indian.
As he stood hovering over you half suspended in air, so wildly and eagerly peering towards the horizon, you would have thought him some prophet or seer beholding the shadows of Fate, and by those wild cries announcing their coming.
As he stood leaning over you, half suspended in the air, so intensely and eagerly staring at the horizon, you might have thought he was some kind of prophet or seer, seeing the shadows of Fate and announcing their arrival with those wild cries.
“There she blows! there! there! there! she blows! she blows!”
"There she is! Look! Look! There she is! There she is!"
“Where-away?”
"Where to?"
“On the lee-beam, about two miles off! a school of them!”
"About two miles off on the left side! A group of them!"
Instantly all was commotion.
Suddenly, there was chaos.
The Sperm Whale blows as a clock ticks, with the same undeviating and reliable uniformity. And thereby whalemen distinguish this fish from other tribes of his genus.
The sperm whale exhales as steadily and reliably as a clock ticks. This consistency is how whalers identify this species compared to other types in its family.
“There go flukes!” was now the cry from Tashtego; and the whales disappeared.
"There go the tails!" Tashtego shouted, and the whales vanished.
“Quick, steward!” cried Ahab. “Time! time!”
"Quick, steward!" Ahab shouted. "Hurry! Hurry!"
Dough-Boy hurried below, glanced at the watch, and reported the exact minute to Ahab.
Dough-Boy rushed downstairs, checked the watch, and told Ahab the exact time.
The ship was now kept away from the wind, and she went gently rolling before it. Tashtego reporting that the whales had gone down heading to leeward, we confidently looked to see them again directly in advance of our bows. For that singular craft at times evinced by the Sperm Whale when, sounding with his head in one direction, he nevertheless, while concealed beneath the surface, mills round, and swiftly swims off in the opposite quarter—this deceitfulness of his could not now be in action; for there was no reason to suppose that the fish seen by Tashtego had been in any way alarmed, or indeed knew at all of our vicinity. One of the men selected for shipkeepers—that is, those not appointed to the boats, by this time relieved the Indian at the main-mast head. The sailors at the fore and mizzen had come down; the line tubs were fixed in their places; the cranes were thrust out; the mainyard was backed, and the three boats swung over the sea like three samphire baskets over high cliffs. Outside of the bulwarks their eager crews with one hand clung to the rail, while one foot was expectantly poised on the gunwale. So look the long line of man-of-war’s men about to throw themselves on board an enemy’s ship.
The ship was now turned away from the wind, gliding smoothly and rolling forward with it. Tashtego reported that the whales had dived and were heading downwind, so we confidently expected to spot them directly ahead of the bow. This was because of the odd behavior sometimes shown by Sperm Whales, where they dive in one direction but, hidden beneath the surface, circle around and speed off in the opposite direction. That trickery wasn’t likely at play here, as there was no indication the whales seen by Tashtego were alarmed or even aware of our presence. One of the crew assigned to stay on the ship—those not sent out with the boats—had by now taken over from the Indian up at the mainmast lookout. The sailors stationed at the foremast and mizzenmast had come down. The line tubs were properly secured; the cranes extended; the mainyard was hauled back, and the three boats hung above the water, swaying like samphire baskets on high cliffs. Outside the ship’s rails, the eager crews clung with one hand to the rail, one foot balanced and ready on the edge of the boat. They looked like a line of sailors from a warship preparing to board an enemy vessel.
But at this critical instant a sudden exclamation was heard that took every eye from the whale. With a start all glared at dark Ahab, who was surrounded by five dusky phantoms that seemed fresh formed out of air.
But at that crucial moment, a sudden shout was heard that pulled everyone's attention away from the whale. In shock, all eyes turned to the dark figure of Ahab, who was surrounded by five shadowy figures that seemed to have just appeared out of thin air.
CHAPTER 48. The First Lowering.
The phantoms, for so they then seemed, were flitting on the other side of the deck, and, with a noiseless celerity, were casting loose the tackles and bands of the boat which swung there. This boat had always been deemed one of the spare boats, though technically called the captain’s, on account of its hanging from the starboard quarter. The figure that now stood by its bows was tall and swart, with one white tooth evilly protruding from its steel-like lips. A rumpled Chinese jacket of black cotton funereally invested him, with wide black trowsers of the same dark stuff. But strangely crowning this ebonness was a glistening white plaited turban, the living hair braided and coiled round and round upon his head. Less swart in aspect, the companions of this figure were of that vivid, tiger-yellow complexion peculiar to some of the aboriginal natives of the Manillas;—a race notorious for a certain diabolism of subtilty, and by some honest white mariners supposed to be the paid spies and secret confidential agents on the water of the devil, their lord, whose counting-room they suppose to be elsewhere.
The figures—or phantoms, as they seemed at the time—were moving quickly and silently on the other side of the deck, working to untie the tackles and straps of the boat hanging there. This boat had always been considered a spare, although it was technically referred to as the captain’s boat because it hung from the starboard quarter. Standing by its bow was a tall, dark-skinned figure, with a single white tooth ominously jutting out from his steel-like lips. He wore a wrinkled black cotton Chinese-style jacket, paired with loose black trousers made of the same somber fabric. Strangely contrasting with his dark ensemble was a shiny white, braided turban, his own hair intricately coiled and wound around his head. Compared to him, his companions were lighter in complexion, with a striking tiger-yellow skin tone characteristic of certain native people of the Manillas—a group infamous for their crafty, almost malevolent reputation. Some straightforward white sailors even believed them to be secret spies or agents of the devil, supposedly carrying out their master’s work on the water, with hell as the devil’s central office.
While yet the wondering ship’s company were gazing upon these strangers, Ahab cried out to the white-turbaned old man at their head, “All ready there, Fedallah?”
While the amazed crew was still staring at these strangers, Ahab called out to the old man in the white turban leading them, “Are you all set, Fedallah?”
“Ready,” was the half-hissed reply.
“Ready,” was the whispered reply.
“Lower away then; d’ye hear?” shouting across the deck. “Lower away there, I say.”
"Lower it down, do you hear me?" yelling across the deck. "Lower it down, I'm telling you."
Such was the thunder of his voice, that spite of their amazement the men sprang over the rail; the sheaves whirled round in the blocks; with a wallow, the three boats dropped into the sea; while, with a dexterous, off-handed daring, unknown in any other vocation, the sailors, goat-like, leaped down the rolling ship’s side into the tossed boats below.
The thunder of his voice was so powerful that, despite their shock, the men jumped over the rail; the sheaves spun around in the blocks; with a lurch, the three boats splashed into the sea; and with skillful, casual boldness, unmatched in any other line of work, the sailors, like goats, leapt down the side of the rolling ship into the churning boats below.
Hardly had they pulled out from under the ship’s lee, when a fourth keel, coming from the windward side, pulled round under the stern, and showed the five strangers rowing Ahab, who, standing erect in the stern, loudly hailed Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, to spread themselves widely, so as to cover a large expanse of water. But with all their eyes again riveted upon the swart Fedallah and his crew, the inmates of the other boats obeyed not the command.
They had barely moved out from under the ship's shelter when a fourth boat, coming from the windward side, swung around behind them and revealed five strangers rowing Ahab. Standing tall in the stern, Ahab shouted to Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask, telling them to spread out widely to cover more water. But with all their eyes locked once again on the dark-skinned Fedallah and his crew, the men in the other boats didn’t follow the order.
“Captain Ahab?—” said Starbuck.
"Captain Ahab?" said Starbuck.
“Spread yourselves,” cried Ahab; “give way, all four boats. Thou, Flask, pull out more to leeward!”
"Spread out!" yelled Ahab. "Row, all four boats. Flask, steer farther to leeward!"
“Aye, aye, sir,” cheerily cried little King-Post, sweeping round his great steering oar. “Lay back!” addressing his crew. “There!—there!—there again! There she blows right ahead, boys!—lay back!”
"Yes, sir!" shouted little King-Post enthusiastically, swinging his large steering oar around. "Pull back!" he told his crew. "There! There! There it is again! She's spouting straight ahead, boys—pull back!"
“Never heed yonder yellow boys, Archy.”
"Don't pay any attention to those guys over there, Archy."
“Oh, I don’t mind ’em, sir,” said Archy; “I knew it all before now. Didn’t I hear ’em in the hold? And didn’t I tell Cabaco here of it? What say ye, Cabaco? They are stowaways, Mr. Flask.”
“Oh, I’m not bothered by them, sir,” said Archy. “I already knew about it. Didn’t I hear them in the hold? And didn’t I tell Cabaco here about it? What do you say, Cabaco? They’re stowaways, Mr. Flask.”
“Pull, pull, my fine hearts-alive; pull, my children; pull, my little ones,” drawlingly and soothingly sighed Stubb to his crew, some of whom still showed signs of uneasiness. “Why don’t you break your backbones, my boys? What is it you stare at? Those chaps in yonder boat? Tut! They are only five more hands come to help us—never mind from where—the more the merrier. Pull, then, do pull; never mind the brimstone—devils are good fellows enough. So, so; there you are now; that’s the stroke for a thousand pounds; that’s the stroke to sweep the stakes! Hurrah for the gold cup of sperm oil, my heroes! Three cheers, men—all hearts alive! Easy, easy; don’t be in a hurry—don’t be in a hurry. Why don’t you snap your oars, you rascals? Bite something, you dogs! So, so, so, then:—softly, softly! That’s it—that’s it! long and strong. Give way there, give way! The devil fetch ye, ye ragamuffin rapscallions; ye are all asleep. Stop snoring, ye sleepers, and pull. Pull, will ye? pull, can’t ye? pull, won’t ye? Why in the name of gudgeons and ginger-cakes don’t ye pull?—pull and break something! pull, and start your eyes out! Here!” whipping out the sharp knife from his girdle; “every mother’s son of ye draw his knife, and pull with the blade between his teeth. That’s it—that’s it. Now ye do something; that looks like it, my steel-bits. Start her—start her, my silver-spoons! Start her, marling-spikes!”
"Pull, pull, my brave ones, pull, my crew, pull, my little champions," Stubb said, drawn out and calm, to his team, some of whom still looked a bit uneasy. "Why don’t you break your backs, boys? What are you staring at? Those guys over there in that boat? Pfft! They’re just five more hands here to help us—doesn’t matter where they came from—the more, the better. So pull, just pull; don’t worry about the brimstone—devils are decent enough company. There you go, now that’s the stroke for a thousand bucks; that’s the stroke to win it all! Cheers to the gold prize of sperm oil, my friends! Three cheers, men—everyone alive and kicking! Take it easy now, no rushing—no rushing. Why don’t you snap those oars already, you rascals? Bite down on something, you dogs! There, there, easy does it! That’s the way—long and strong. Push it, keep pushing! Damn it, you scoundrels, you’re all dozing off! Wake up and pull! Pull, will you? Pull, can’t you? Pull, won’t you? Why on earth won’t you pull?—pull and break something if you have to! Pull until your eyes pop out! Here!" He whipped out a sharp knife from his belt. "Every single one of you, grab your knife and pull with it clenched between your teeth. That’s it—that’s more like it, my steel-clenched warriors. Move it—move it, my silver-spoons! Let’s go, marlinspikes!"
Stubb’s exordium to his crew is given here at large, because he had rather a peculiar way of talking to them in general, and especially in inculcating the religion of rowing. But you must not suppose from this specimen of his sermonizings that he ever flew into downright passions with his congregation. Not at all; and therein consisted his chief peculiarity. He would say the most terrific things to his crew, in a tone so strangely compounded of fun and fury, and the fury seemed so calculated merely as a spice to the fun, that no oarsman could hear such queer invocations without pulling for dear life, and yet pulling for the mere joke of the thing. Besides he all the time looked so easy and indolent himself, so loungingly managed his steering-oar, and so broadly gaped—open-mouthed at times—that the mere sight of such a yawning commander, by sheer force of contrast, acted like a charm upon the crew. Then again, Stubb was one of those odd sort of humorists, whose jollity is sometimes so curiously ambiguous, as to put all inferiors on their guard in the matter of obeying them.
Stubb’s speech to his crew is given here in full because he had a rather unique way of talking to them, especially when teaching the art of rowing as if it were a kind of religion. But don’t think from this example of his preaching that he ever lost his temper with his crew. Not in the least; that was his main quirk. He would say the most terrifying things to his crew in a tone that was such a mix of humor and anger—where the anger seemed to just spice up the humor—that no rower could hear such odd commands without rowing for their life, yet still feeling like it was all a joke. On top of that, he always appeared so relaxed and lazy himself, so casually handled his steering oar, and sometimes yawned so widely that just watching such a laid-back captain, by sheer contrast, seemed to motivate the crew. Then again, Stubb was one of those strange types of jokers whose cheerfulness was sometimes so oddly unclear that it kept everyone under him extra cautious about doing exactly as they were told.
In obedience to a sign from Ahab, Starbuck was now pulling obliquely across Stubb’s bow; and when for a minute or so the two boats were pretty near to each other, Stubb hailed the mate.
Following a signal from Ahab, Starbuck was now rowing at an angle across Stubb’s bow; and when the two boats were close to each other for a minute or so, Stubb called out to the mate.
“Mr. Starbuck! larboard boat there, ahoy! a word with ye, sir, if ye please!”
"Mr. Starbuck! Hey, port side boat over there! Can I have a word with you, sir, please?"
“Halloa!” returned Starbuck, turning round not a single inch as he spoke; still earnestly but whisperingly urging his crew; his face set like a flint from Stubb’s.
"Hey!" replied Starbuck, not turning even an inch as he spoke; still intently but quietly directing his crew, his face hardened like stone, away from Stubb's.
“What think ye of those yellow boys, sir!”
"What do you think of those gold coins, sir?"
“Smuggled on board, somehow, before the ship sailed. (Strong, strong, boys!)” in a whisper to his crew, then speaking out loud again: “A sad business, Mr. Stubb! (seethe her, seethe her, my lads!) but never mind, Mr. Stubb, all for the best. Let all your crew pull strong, come what will. (Spring, my men, spring!) There’s hogsheads of sperm ahead, Mr. Stubb, and that’s what ye came for. (Pull, my boys!) Sperm, sperm’s the play! This at least is duty; duty and profit hand in hand.”
"Snuck onboard somehow before the ship set sail. (Pull hard, pull hard, boys!)" he whispered to his crew, then spoke louder again: "It's a sad situation, Mr. Stubb! (Steady her, steady her, lads!) But never mind, Mr. Stubb, everything happens for a reason. Make sure your crew pulls strong, no matter what. (Push it, men, push it!) There are barrels of sperm oil ahead, Mr. Stubb, and that's what you're here for. (Row, boys!) Sperm oil, that's the prize! This is what it's all about—duty and profit working together."
“Aye, aye, I thought as much,” soliloquized Stubb, when the boats diverged, “as soon as I clapt eye on ’em, I thought so. Aye, and that’s what he went into the after hold for, so often, as Dough-Boy long suspected. They were hidden down there. The White Whale’s at the bottom of it. Well, well, so be it! Can’t be helped! All right! Give way, men! It ain’t the White Whale to-day! Give way!”
"Yeah, yeah, I figured as much," Stubb muttered to himself when the boats split up. "As soon as I laid eyes on them, I had a feeling. Yep, that’s why he kept going into the storage area in the back so often, just like Dough-Boy suspected. They were stashed down there. The White Whale’s behind all this. Well, fine, so be it! Nothing we can do! All right! Row, men! It’s not the White Whale today! Keep rowing!"
Now the advent of these outlandish strangers at such a critical instant as the lowering of the boats from the deck, this had not unreasonably awakened a sort of superstitious amazement in some of the ship’s company; but Archy’s fancied discovery having some time previous got abroad among them, though indeed not credited then, this had in some small measure prepared them for the event. It took off the extreme edge of their wonder; and so what with all this and Stubb’s confident way of accounting for their appearance, they were for the time freed from superstitious surmisings; though the affair still left abundant room for all manner of wild conjectures as to dark Ahab’s precise agency in the matter from the beginning. For me, I silently recalled the mysterious shadows I had seen creeping on board the Pequod during the dim Nantucket dawn, as well as the enigmatical hintings of the unaccountable Elijah.
The arrival of these strange foreigners at such a crucial moment—right when the boats were being lowered from the deck—understandably stirred a kind of superstitious amazement among some of the crew. However, Archy’s earlier imagined discovery, which had been whispered about among them for a while (even if it wasn’t believed at the time), had somewhat prepared them for this. It dulled the sharp edge of their wonder, and with Stubb’s confident explanation for their appearance, they temporarily let go of their superstitions. Still, the incident left plenty of room for all kinds of wild theories about Ahab’s secret involvement in the situation from the start. As for me, I silently remembered the eerie shadows I had seen sneaking aboard the Pequod during the dim Nantucket dawn, along with the cryptic hints from the strange Elijah.
Meantime, Ahab, out of hearing of his officers, having sided the furthest to windward, was still ranging ahead of the other boats; a circumstance bespeaking how potent a crew was pulling him. Those tiger yellow creatures of his seemed all steel and whalebone; like five trip-hammers they rose and fell with regular strokes of strength, which periodically started the boat along the water like a horizontal burst boiler out of a Mississippi steamer. As for Fedallah, who was seen pulling the harpooneer oar, he had thrown aside his black jacket, and displayed his naked chest with the whole part of his body above the gunwale, clearly cut against the alternating depressions of the watery horizon; while at the other end of the boat Ahab, with one arm, like a fencer’s, thrown half backward into the air, as if to counterbalance any tendency to trip; Ahab was seen steadily managing his steering oar as in a thousand boat lowerings ere the White Whale had torn him. All at once the outstretched arm gave a peculiar motion and then remained fixed, while the boat’s five oars were seen simultaneously peaked. Boat and crew sat motionless on the sea. Instantly the three spread boats in the rear paused on their way. The whales had irregularly settled bodily down into the blue, thus giving no distantly discernible token of the movement, though from his closer vicinity Ahab had observed it.
Meanwhile, Ahab, out of earshot of his officers, had taken the lead farthest to windward, still pushing ahead of the other boats—a sign of just how powerful the crew rowing for him was. Those tiger-yellow men of his seemed made of pure steel and whalebone; like five trip-hammers, they rose and fell with synchronized strength, propelling the boat forward through the water like a horizontal steam explosion from a Mississippi riverboat. As for Fedallah, he was rowing the harpooner’s oar, his black jacket cast aside to reveal his bare chest. His entire upper body above the boat’s edge stood out sharply against the shifting dips of the watery horizon. At the opposite end of the boat, Ahab was seen with one arm extended, like a fencer’s, slightly thrown back into the air as if to keep his balance. He skillfully handled the steering oar, just as he had done in countless launches before the White Whale had maimed him. Suddenly, his outstretched arm made a distinct motion before freezing in place, as the boat’s five oars were all lifted simultaneously. The boat and its crew sat still on the water. Immediately, the three trailing boats in the distance paused as well. The whales had sunk irregularly into the deep blue, leaving no visible sign of their descent, though Ahab, being closer, had noticed it.
“Every man look out along his oars!” cried Starbuck. “Thou, Queequeg, stand up!”
“Everyone, look along your oars!” shouted Starbuck. “You, Queequeg, stand up!”
Nimbly springing up on the triangular raised box in the bow, the savage stood erect there, and with intensely eager eyes gazed off towards the spot where the chase had last been descried. Likewise upon the extreme stern of the boat where it was also triangularly platformed level with the gunwale, Starbuck himself was seen coolly and adroitly balancing himself to the jerking tossings of his chip of a craft, and silently eyeing the vast blue eye of the sea.
Swiftly jumping onto the triangular raised platform at the front of the boat, the savage stood upright there, intensely focused as he eagerly scanned the spot where the prey was last seen. Similarly, at the far back of the boat, where it also had a triangular platform level with the edge, Starbuck stood calmly and skillfully balancing himself against the jerking movements of his tiny craft, silently watching the vast, deep blue expanse of the sea.
Not very far distant Flask’s boat was also lying breathlessly still; its commander recklessly standing upon the top of the loggerhead, a stout sort of post rooted in the keel, and rising some two feet above the level of the stern platform. It is used for catching turns with the whale line. Its top is not more spacious than the palm of a man’s hand, and standing upon such a base as that, Flask seemed perched at the mast-head of some ship which had sunk to all but her trucks. But little King-Post was small and short, and at the same time little King-Post was full of a large and tall ambition, so that this loggerhead stand-point of his did by no means satisfy King-Post.
Not far away, Flask's boat was also lying completely still, with its commander boldly standing on top of the loggerhead—a sturdy post anchored to the keel and rising about two feet above the surface of the stern platform. It’s used for securing turns with the whale line. The top of the post is no bigger than the palm of a man’s hand, and standing on such a tiny base, Flask looked like he was perched on the masthead of some ship that had sunk almost entirely underwater, except for its highest points. But little King-Post was both small and short, and at the same time, he was full of big ambitions, so this narrow loggerhead platform did not come close to satisfying King-Post.
“I can’t see three seas off; tip us up an oar there, and let me on to that.”
"I can’t see three seas away; pass me an oar there, and let me onto that."
Upon this, Daggoo, with either hand upon the gunwale to steady his way, swiftly slid aft, and then erecting himself volunteered his lofty shoulders for a pedestal.
At that, Daggoo, with a hand on each side of the boat to keep his balance, quickly moved to the back, stood up straight, and offered his broad shoulders as a platform.
“Good a mast-head as any, sir. Will you mount?”
"That's as good a masthead as any, sir. Want to climb up?"
“That I will, and thank ye very much, my fine fellow; only I wish you fifty feet taller.”
"I sure will, and thank you so much, my good man; though I wish you were fifty feet taller."
Whereupon planting his feet firmly against two opposite planks of the boat, the gigantic negro, stooping a little, presented his flat palm to Flask’s foot, and then putting Flask’s hand on his hearse-plumed head and bidding him spring as he himself should toss, with one dexterous fling landed the little man high and dry on his shoulders. And here was Flask now standing, Daggoo with one lifted arm furnishing him with a breastband to lean against and steady himself by.
Planting his feet firmly on two opposite planks of the boat, the massive Black man leaned forward slightly and held out his flat palm for Flask to step on. Then, placing Flask’s hand on his plume-like hair and telling him to jump when he tossed him up, he skillfully lifted the smaller man and set him securely on his shoulders. There stood Flask now, with Daggoo’s raised arm providing a steady railing for him to lean against.
At any time it is a strange sight to the tyro to see with what wondrous habitude of unconscious skill the whaleman will maintain an erect posture in his boat, even when pitched about by the most riotously perverse and cross-running seas. Still more strange to see him giddily perched upon the loggerhead itself, under such circumstances. But the sight of little Flask mounted upon gigantic Daggoo was yet more curious; for sustaining himself with a cool, indifferent, easy, unthought of, barbaric majesty, the noble negro to every roll of the sea harmoniously rolled his fine form. On his broad back, flaxen-haired Flask seemed a snow-flake. The bearer looked nobler than the rider. Though truly vivacious, tumultuous, ostentatious little Flask would now and then stamp with impatience; but not one added heave did he thereby give to the negro’s lordly chest. So have I seen Passion and Vanity stamping the living magnanimous earth, but the earth did not alter her tides and her seasons for that.
At any moment, it’s a strange sight for a beginner to watch how effortlessly and instinctively a whaleman can stand upright in his boat, even when it’s being tossed around by the wildest, most chaotic waves. It’s even stranger to see him balancing precariously on the very edge of the boat in such conditions. But seeing little Flask riding on the massive Daggoo was even more fascinating; for with calm, effortless, and almost instinctive dignity, the noble Black man moved in perfect rhythm with every roll of the sea. On his broad back, the fair-haired Flask looked like a snowflake. The one carrying looked far more majestic than the one being carried. Though Flask, full of energy, impatience, and showy confidence, would sometimes stomp with irritation, it didn’t cause the slightest extra movement in Daggoo’s proud chest. Just as I’ve seen Passion and Vanity stomp upon the steadfast earth, but the earth doesn’t change her tides or her seasons because of it.
Meanwhile Stubb, the third mate, betrayed no such far-gazing solicitudes. The whales might have made one of their regular soundings, not a temporary dive from mere fright; and if that were the case, Stubb, as his wont in such cases, it seems, was resolved to solace the languishing interval with his pipe. He withdrew it from his hatband, where he always wore it aslant like a feather. He loaded it, and rammed home the loading with his thumb-end; but hardly had he ignited his match across the rough sandpaper of his hand, when Tashtego, his harpooneer, whose eyes had been setting to windward like two fixed stars, suddenly dropped like light from his erect attitude to his seat, crying out in a quick phrensy of hurry, “Down, down all, and give way!—there they are!”
Meanwhile, Stubb, the third mate, showed no signs of being overly concerned or deep in thought. The whales might have been making one of their routine dives, not just a quick plunge out of fear. If that were the case, Stubb, as was usual for him in such situations, decided to pass the waiting time with his pipe. He took it out of his hatband, where he always wore it slanted like a feather. He packed it, pressing the tobacco down with the tip of his thumb. But he had barely struck his match against the rough skin of his hand to light it when Tashtego, his harpooneer, who had been staring fixedly to windward like two unblinking stars, suddenly dropped from his upright stance to his seat in one swift motion, shouting in a frenzied rush, “Down, down, everyone, and row!—there they are!”
To a landsman, no whale, nor any sign of a herring, would have been visible at that moment; nothing but a troubled bit of greenish white water, and thin scattered puffs of vapor hovering over it, and suffusingly blowing off to leeward, like the confused scud from white rolling billows. The air around suddenly vibrated and tingled, as it were, like the air over intensely heated plates of iron. Beneath this atmospheric waving and curling, and partially beneath a thin layer of water, also, the whales were swimming. Seen in advance of all the other indications, the puffs of vapor they spouted, seemed their forerunning couriers and detached flying outriders.
To someone unfamiliar with the sea, no whale or even a hint of a herring would have been visible at that moment—just a patch of churning greenish-white water and thin, scattered wisps of vapor hovering above it, drifting off to the leeward side like the chaotic spray from white rolling waves. The air around suddenly seemed to hum and shimmer, almost like the heat waves rising off intensely hot iron. Beneath this wavy, shimmering atmosphere—and partly beneath a thin layer of water—the whales were swimming. Seen before any other sign, the spurts of vapor they exhaled looked like their advance messengers or fast-moving scouts.
All four boats were now in keen pursuit of that one spot of troubled water and air. But it bade fair to outstrip them; it flew on and on, as a mass of interblending bubbles borne down a rapid stream from the hills.
All four boats were now eagerly chasing that single spot of churning water and air. But it seemed likely to outpace them; it sped forward endlessly, like a mix of merging bubbles carried down a fast-moving stream from the hills.
“Pull, pull, my good boys,” said Starbuck, in the lowest possible but intensest concentrated whisper to his men; while the sharp fixed glance from his eyes darted straight ahead of the bow, almost seemed as two visible needles in two unerring binnacle compasses. He did not say much to his crew, though, nor did his crew say anything to him. Only the silence of the boat was at intervals startlingly pierced by one of his peculiar whispers, now harsh with command, now soft with entreaty.
"Row, row, my good boys," Starbuck whispered to his men, his voice low but filled with intense focus. His sharp, steady gaze fixed ahead of the bow, almost like two visible needles in perfect, unwavering compasses. He didn’t talk much to his crew, and they didn’t talk to him either. The silence on the boat was only broken occasionally by one of his distinct whispers—sometimes harsh with authority, other times gentle and pleading.
How different the loud little King-Post. “Sing out and say something, my hearties. Roar and pull, my thunderbolts! Beach me, beach me on their black backs, boys; only do that for me, and I’ll sign over to you my Martha’s Vineyard plantation, boys; including wife and children, boys. Lay me on—lay me on! O Lord, Lord! but I shall go stark, staring mad! See! see that white water!” And so shouting, he pulled his hat from his head, and stamped up and down on it; then picking it up, flirted it far off upon the sea; and finally fell to rearing and plunging in the boat’s stern like a crazed colt from the prairie.
How different was the loud and fiery King-Post. “Come on, shout and say something, my friends. Roar and pull, my thunderbolts! Get me to their black backs, boys; just do that for me, and I’ll give you my Martha’s Vineyard estate, boys—wife and kids included! Let’s go—let’s go! Oh Lord, Lord! I’m gonna lose my mind! Look! Look at that white water!” Shouting like this, he yanked his hat off, stomped on it furiously, then hurled it far into the sea—and finally started thrashing around in the back of the boat like a wild, untamed horse from the prairie.
“Look at that chap now,” philosophically drawled Stubb, who, with his unlighted short pipe, mechanically retained between his teeth, at a short distance, followed after—“He’s got fits, that Flask has. Fits? yes, give him fits—that’s the very word—pitch fits into ’em. Merrily, merrily, hearts-alive. Pudding for supper, you know;—merry’s the word. Pull, babes—pull, sucklings—pull, all. But what the devil are you hurrying about? Softly, softly, and steadily, my men. Only pull, and keep pulling; nothing more. Crack all your backbones, and bite your knives in two—that’s all. Take it easy—why don’t ye take it easy, I say, and burst all your livers and lungs!”
"Look at that guy now," Stubb lazily said, his unlit short pipe clamped mechanically between his teeth as he followed at a short distance. "He's having fits, that Flask. Fits? Yeah, that's it—give him fits, that's the word—throw fits at them. Cheerfully now, cheerfully, keep your spirits up. Pudding for supper, you know—cheerful is the way to go. Pull, kids—pull, little ones—pull, everyone. But why the hell are you rushing? Easy now, easy and steady, guys. Just pull, keep pulling—that's all. Snap all your spines and break your knives in half—that's it. Take it easy—why don't you take it easy, I say, and blow out your lungs and livers!"
But what it was that inscrutable Ahab said to that tiger-yellow crew of his—these were words best omitted here; for you live under the blessed light of the evangelical land. Only the infidel sharks in the audacious seas may give ear to such words, when, with tornado brow, and eyes of red murder, and foam-glued lips, Ahab leaped after his prey.
But whatever it was that the unfathomable Ahab said to his fierce, tiger-yellow crew—those words are best left out here; because you live in the blessed light of a devout and virtuous land. Only the godless sharks in the daring seas could hear such words, when Ahab, with a stormy expression, bloodthirsty eyes, and lips frothing with rage, chased after his target.
Meanwhile, all the boats tore on. The repeated specific allusions of Flask to “that whale,” as he called the fictitious monster which he declared to be incessantly tantalizing his boat’s bow with its tail—these allusions of his were at times so vivid and life-like, that they would cause some one or two of his men to snatch a fearful look over the shoulder. But this was against all rule; for the oarsmen must put out their eyes, and ram a skewer through their necks; usage pronouncing that they must have no organs but ears, and no limbs but arms, in these critical moments.
Meanwhile, all the boats raced forward. Flask kept talking about "that whale," the imaginary monster he claimed was constantly teasing the front of his boat with its tail. His vivid and lifelike descriptions sometimes made one or two of his crew glance nervously over their shoulders. But this was strictly against the rules; the rowers were expected to block out their vision and act as if their necks were skewered. According to tradition, they were supposed to rely only on their ears and use only their arms during such critical moments.
It was a sight full of quick wonder and awe! The vast swells of the omnipotent sea; the surging, hollow roar they made, as they rolled along the eight gunwales, like gigantic bowls in a boundless bowling-green; the brief suspended agony of the boat, as it would tip for an instant on the knife-like edge of the sharper waves, that almost seemed threatening to cut it in two; the sudden profound dip into the watery glens and hollows; the keen spurrings and goadings to gain the top of the opposite hill; the headlong, sled-like slide down its other side;—all these, with the cries of the headsmen and harpooneers, and the shuddering gasps of the oarsmen, with the wondrous sight of the ivory Pequod bearing down upon her boats with outstretched sails, like a wild hen after her screaming brood;—all this was thrilling.
It was a scene full of intense wonder and awe! The massive waves of the all-powerful sea, the booming, hollow roar they made as they crashed against the eight gunwales, like gigantic bowling balls on an endless green; the tense, fleeting moment when the boat would hang on the knife-sharp edge of a towering wave, almost as if it might split in two; the sudden deep plunge into the watery valleys; the sharp pushes and drives to climb to the crest of the next wave; the reckless, sled-like descent down the other side—all of this, combined with the shouts of the headsmen and harpooners, the gasps and tremors of the rowers, and the incredible sight of the ivory Pequod rushing toward her boats with sails stretched wide, like a wild hen chasing after her screaming chicks—all of it was absolutely electrifying.
Not the raw recruit, marching from the bosom of his wife into the fever heat of his first battle; not the dead man’s ghost encountering the first unknown phantom in the other world;—neither of these can feel stranger and stronger emotions than that man does, who for the first time finds himself pulling into the charmed, churned circle of the hunted sperm whale.
Not the fresh recruit, leaving his wife behind to face the intense heat of his first battle; not even the ghost of a dead man encountering the first unfamiliar spirit in the afterlife—neither of them can feel emotions as strange and powerful as the man who, for the first time, finds himself rowing into the turbulent, enchanted circle of a hunted sperm whale.
The dancing white water made by the chase was now becoming more and more visible, owing to the increasing darkness of the dun cloud-shadows flung upon the sea. The jets of vapor no longer blended, but tilted everywhere to right and left; the whales seemed separating their wakes. The boats were pulled more apart; Starbuck giving chase to three whales running dead to leeward. Our sail was now set, and, with the still rising wind, we rushed along; the boat going with such madness through the water, that the lee oars could scarcely be worked rapidly enough to escape being torn from the row-locks.
The frothy white water churned up by the chase was becoming more and more visible as the shadows of dull gray clouds cast darker shades over the sea. The spouts of mist no longer merged but angled off chaotically to the right and left; the whales seemed to be splitting up as they diverged. The boats drifted farther apart, with Starbuck chasing three whales heading straight downwind. We had the sail up now, and with the wind continuing to pick up, we sped forward; the boat tore through the water so wildly that the lee oars were barely rowed fast enough to keep from being ripped out of the oarlocks.
Soon we were running through a suffusing wide veil of mist; neither ship nor boat to be seen.
Soon, we were running through a thick, all-encompassing layer of mist; no ship or boat in sight.
“Give way, men,” whispered Starbuck, drawing still further aft the sheet of his sail; “there is time to kill a fish yet before the squall comes. There’s white water again!—close to! Spring!”
"Hold on, guys," whispered Starbuck, pulling the sail further back. "We still have time to catch a fish before the storm hits. There's white water again—right nearby! Go!"
Soon after, two cries in quick succession on each side of us denoted that the other boats had got fast; but hardly were they overheard, when with a lightning-like hurtling whisper Starbuck said: “Stand up!” and Queequeg, harpoon in hand, sprang to his feet.
Shortly after, two shouts in quick succession on either side of us showed that the other boats had struck their targets; but we had barely caught the sound when, with a quick, urgent whisper, Starbuck said, “Get up!” and Queequeg, harpoon in hand, leapt to his feet.
Though not one of the oarsmen was then facing the life and death peril so close to them ahead, yet with their eyes on the intense countenance of the mate in the stern of the boat, they knew that the imminent instant had come; they heard, too, an enormous wallowing sound as of fifty elephants stirring in their litter. Meanwhile the boat was still booming through the mist, the waves curling and hissing around us like the erected crests of enraged serpents.
Even though none of the rowers were directly facing the life-and-death danger looming just ahead, they could see from the intense expression of the mate at the back of the boat that the critical moment had arrived. They also heard a massive, thrashing noise, like fifty elephants moving through their bedding. Meanwhile, the boat kept surging forward through the mist, the waves curling and hissing around us like the raised heads of furious snakes.
“That’s his hump. There, there, give it to him!” whispered Starbuck.
"That's his hump. There, there, give it to him!" Starbuck whispered.
A short rushing sound leaped out of the boat; it was the darted iron of Queequeg. Then all in one welded commotion came an invisible push from astern, while forward the boat seemed striking on a ledge; the sail collapsed and exploded; a gush of scalding vapor shot up near by; something rolled and tumbled like an earthquake beneath us. The whole crew were half suffocated as they were tossed helter-skelter into the white curdling cream of the squall. Squall, whale, and harpoon had all blended together; and the whale, merely grazed by the iron, escaped.
A sharp whooshing sound shot out from the boat—it was Queequeg’s harpoon. Then, in one chaotic motion, an unseen force pushed from behind, while the front of the boat felt like it hit a ledge; the sail crumpled and burst apart; a blast of scorching steam shot up nearby; something below us rumbled and rolled like an earthquake. The whole crew, choking for air, were thrown in all directions into the churning white foam of the storm. The squall, the whale, and the harpoon all became one blur; the whale, barely touched by the harpoon, got away.
Though completely swamped, the boat was nearly unharmed. Swimming round it we picked up the floating oars, and lashing them across the gunwale, tumbled back to our places. There we sat up to our knees in the sea, the water covering every rib and plank, so that to our downward gazing eyes the suspended craft seemed a coral boat grown up to us from the bottom of the ocean.
Though completely flooded, the boat was almost undamaged. Swimming around it, we gathered the floating oars and tied them across the side of the boat before climbing back to our places. There we sat, water up to our knees, with every rib and plank submerged, making the boat look like a coral vessel rising toward us from the ocean floor as we stared down.
The wind increased to a howl; the waves dashed their bucklers together; the whole squall roared, forked, and crackled around us like a white fire upon the prairie, in which, unconsumed, we were burning; immortal in these jaws of death! In vain we hailed the other boats; as well roar to the live coals down the chimney of a flaming furnace as hail those boats in that storm. Meanwhile the driving scud, rack, and mist, grew darker with the shadows of night; no sign of the ship could be seen. The rising sea forbade all attempts to bale out the boat. The oars were useless as propellers, performing now the office of life-preservers. So, cutting the lashing of the waterproof match keg, after many failures Starbuck contrived to ignite the lamp in the lantern; then stretching it on a waif pole, handed it to Queequeg as the standard-bearer of this forlorn hope. There, then, he sat, holding up that imbecile candle in the heart of that almighty forlornness. There, then, he sat, the sign and symbol of a man without faith, hopelessly holding up hope in the midst of despair.
The wind grew into a wild howl; the waves crashed together like clashing shields. The whole storm roared, flashed, and cracked around us like a blazing prairie fire, leaving us unburned but trapped in its fury—as if we were immortal in the jaws of death! We called out to the other boats, but it was as useless as yelling into the flames of a roaring furnace. The driving sheets of rain and mist grew darker as night fell, and there was no sign of the ship. The churning sea made it impossible to bail water from the boat, and the oars were no longer useful for rowing; they now served as makeshift life preservers. After cutting the lashings on the waterproof match keg and several failed attempts, Starbuck finally managed to light the lantern. He attached it to a pole and handed it to Queequeg, who became the standard-bearer of our desperate situation. There he sat, holding up that weak little light in the middle of the overwhelming chaos. There he sat, a symbol of a man without faith, hopelessly clinging to hope in the depths of despair.
Wet, drenched through, and shivering cold, despairing of ship or boat, we lifted up our eyes as the dawn came on. The mist still spread over the sea, the empty lantern lay crushed in the bottom of the boat. Suddenly Queequeg started to his feet, hollowing his hand to his ear. We all heard a faint creaking, as of ropes and yards hitherto muffled by the storm. The sound came nearer and nearer; the thick mists were dimly parted by a huge, vague form. Affrighted, we all sprang into the sea as the ship at last loomed into view, bearing right down upon us within a distance of not much more than its length.
Soaked, completely drenched, and shivering with cold, losing hope of finding a ship or boat, we looked up as dawn began to break. The mist still hung heavily over the sea, and the broken lantern lay crushed at the bottom of the boat. Suddenly, Queequeg jumped to his feet, cupping his hand to his ear. We all heard a faint creaking sound, like ropes and masts, previously drowned out by the storm. The sound grew louder and louder; the thick mist began to part, revealing a huge, shadowy form. Terrified, we all leapt into the sea as the ship finally emerged, heading straight toward us, barely more than its own length away.
Floating on the waves we saw the abandoned boat, as for one instant it tossed and gaped beneath the ship’s bows like a chip at the base of a cataract; and then the vast hull rolled over it, and it was seen no more till it came up weltering astern. Again we swam for it, were dashed against it by the seas, and were at last taken up and safely landed on board. Ere the squall came close to, the other boats had cut loose from their fish and returned to the ship in good time. The ship had given us up, but was still cruising, if haply it might light upon some token of our perishing,—an oar or a lance pole.
Floating on the waves, we spotted the abandoned boat. For a moment, it bobbed and swayed under the ship’s bow like a splinter caught in a waterfall. Then the immense hull rolled over it, and it disappeared until it reappeared, thrashing in the water behind us. Once more, we swam toward it, thrown against it by the waves, and eventually, we were rescued and brought safely on board. Before the squall fully hit, the other boats had let go of their catch and returned to the ship just in time. The ship had given up hope for us but was still searching, hoping to find some sign of our survival—an oar or a lance pole.
CHAPTER 49. The Hyena.
There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody’s expense but his own. However, nothing dispirits, and nothing seems worth while disputing. He bolts down all events, all creeds, and beliefs, and persuasions, all hard things visible and invisible, never mind how knobby; as an ostrich of potent digestion gobbles down bullets and gun flints. And as for small difficulties and worryings, prospects of sudden disaster, peril of life and limb; all these, and death itself, seem to him only sly, good-natured hits, and jolly punches in the side bestowed by the unseen and unaccountable old joker. That odd sort of wayward mood I am speaking of, comes over a man only in some time of extreme tribulation; it comes in the very midst of his earnestness, so that what just before might have seemed to him a thing most momentous, now seems but a part of the general joke. There is nothing like the perils of whaling to breed this free and easy sort of genial, desperado philosophy; and with it I now regarded this whole voyage of the Pequod, and the great White Whale its object.
There are certain strange times in this odd, mixed-up thing we call life when a man sees the entire universe as one big practical joke. He barely understands the humor in it and strongly suspects that the joke is on him. Yet, despite this, nothing gets him down, and nothing feels worth arguing about. He swallows down all events, beliefs, philosophies, and hardships—no matter how tough they are—just like an ostrich with a strong stomach swallowing bullets and stones. As for minor troubles, worries, sudden dangers, or threats to life and limb—even death itself—he can only see them as playful, good-natured jabs or casual punches in the ribs from some unseen, mysterious joker. This peculiar, defiant attitude only overtakes someone during times of extreme hardship; it happens right in the middle of their seriousness, making what moments ago seemed deeply important feel like just another part of the big joke. There’s nothing quite like the dangers of whaling to create this easygoing, fearless philosophy. And that’s exactly how I now viewed the whole voyage of the Pequod and the great White Whale we were after.
“Queequeg,” said I, when they had dragged me, the last man, to the deck, and I was still shaking myself in my jacket to fling off the water; “Queequeg, my fine friend, does this sort of thing often happen?” Without much emotion, though soaked through just like me, he gave me to understand that such things did often happen.
"Queequeg," I said, as they pulled me, the last one, onto the deck, and I was still shaking out my jacket to get rid of the water, "Queequeg, my good friend, does this kind of thing happen often?" Without much concern, even though he was just as soaked as I was, he let me know that, yes, it did happen often.
“Mr. Stubb,” said I, turning to that worthy, who, buttoned up in his oil-jacket, was now calmly smoking his pipe in the rain; “Mr. Stubb, I think I have heard you say that of all whalemen you ever met, our chief mate, Mr. Starbuck, is by far the most careful and prudent. I suppose then, that going plump on a flying whale with your sail set in a foggy squall is the height of a whaleman’s discretion?”
"Mr. Stubb," I said, turning to him as he stood there, zipped up in his raincoat and calmly smoking his pipe in the rain, "Mr. Stubb, I think I've heard you say that, out of all the whalemen you've ever met, our chief mate, Mr. Starbuck, is by far the most cautious and sensible. So, would you say that charging straight at a speeding whale with your sail up in a foggy squall is the pinnacle of a whaleman's good judgment?"
“Certain. I’ve lowered for whales from a leaking ship in a gale off Cape Horn.”
"Of course. I've hunted whales from a sinking ship during a storm off Cape Horn."
“Mr. Flask,” said I, turning to little King-Post, who was standing close by; “you are experienced in these things, and I am not. Will you tell me whether it is an unalterable law in this fishery, Mr. Flask, for an oarsman to break his own back pulling himself back-foremost into death’s jaws?”
"Mr. Flask," I said, turning to little King-Post, who was standing nearby, "you’ve got experience with this, and I don’t. Can you tell me if it’s some unchanging rule in this line of work, Mr. Flask, for a rower to break his own back pulling himself backward straight into the jaws of death?"
“Can’t you twist that smaller?” said Flask. “Yes, that’s the law. I should like to see a boat’s crew backing water up to a whale face foremost. Ha, ha! the whale would give them squint for squint, mind that!”
"Can't you make that smaller?" said Flask. "Yeah, that's the rule. I'd love to see a boat crew rowing backward toward a whale face-first. Ha, ha! The whale would stare them down, eye to eye, remember that!"
Here then, from three impartial witnesses, I had a deliberate statement of the entire case. Considering, therefore, that squalls and capsizings in the water and consequent bivouacks on the deep, were matters of common occurrence in this kind of life; considering that at the superlatively critical instant of going on to the whale I must resign my life into the hands of him who steered the boat—oftentimes a fellow who at that very moment is in his impetuousness upon the point of scuttling the craft with his own frantic stampings; considering that the particular disaster to our own particular boat was chiefly to be imputed to Starbuck’s driving on to his whale almost in the teeth of a squall, and considering that Starbuck, notwithstanding, was famous for his great heedfulness in the fishery; considering that I belonged to this uncommonly prudent Starbuck’s boat; and finally considering in what a devil’s chase I was implicated, touching the White Whale: taking all things together, I say, I thought I might as well go below and make a rough draft of my will. “Queequeg,” said I, “come along, you shall be my lawyer, executor, and legatee.”
Here then, from three unbiased witnesses, I got a clear account of the whole situation. So, thinking about the fact that sudden storms and capsizings at sea, along with being stranded on the open water, were pretty common in this line of work; thinking about how at the most critical moment of approaching a whale, I’d have to trust my life to the guy steering the boat—often someone who, in his reckless energy, might be about to sink the boat with his own wild stomping; thinking about how the disaster with our boat was mainly Starbuck’s fault for chasing his whale almost straight into a storm, and how, even so, Starbuck was known for being extremely careful in whaling; thinking about how I was part of this unusually cautious Starbuck’s crew; and lastly, thinking about the dangerous mess I was caught up in with the White Whale: putting it all together, I figured I might as well go below and draft my will. “Queequeg,” I said, “come with me. You’re going to be my lawyer, executor, and heir.”
It may seem strange that of all men sailors should be tinkering at their last wills and testaments, but there are no people in the world more fond of that diversion. This was the fourth time in my nautical life that I had done the same thing. After the ceremony was concluded upon the present occasion, I felt all the easier; a stone was rolled away from my heart. Besides, all the days I should now live would be as good as the days that Lazarus lived after his resurrection; a supplementary clean gain of so many months or weeks as the case might be. I survived myself; my death and burial were locked up in my chest. I looked round me tranquilly and contentedly, like a quiet ghost with a clean conscience sitting inside the bars of a snug family vault.
It might seem odd that sailors, of all people, would enjoy messing around with their wills, but no one in the world loves that pastime more than they do. This was the fourth time in my life at sea that I’d done it myself. Once the whole process was finished this time, I felt a lot better—like a weight had been lifted off my chest. Plus, every day I lived from now on would feel like bonus time, kind of like the days Lazarus got after coming back to life—a clean, extra stretch of months or weeks, however long it turned out to be. It was like I had outlived myself; my death and burial were safely tucked away in my chest. I looked around calmly and peacefully, like a content ghost with a clear conscience, chilling inside the cozy confines of a family tomb.
Now then, thought I, unconsciously rolling up the sleeves of my frock, here goes for a cool, collected dive at death and destruction, and the devil fetch the hindmost.
Alright then, I thought, unconsciously rolling up the sleeves of my coat, here’s to a calm and steady plunge into danger and destruction—let the devil take whoever’s left behind.
CHAPTER 50. Ahab’s Boat and Crew. Fedallah.
“Who would have thought it, Flask!” cried Stubb; “if I had but one leg you would not catch me in a boat, unless maybe to stop the plug-hole with my timber toe. Oh! he’s a wonderful old man!”
"Who would’ve thought it, Flask!" shouted Stubb. "If I only had one leg, you wouldn’t catch me in a boat—unless maybe to plug up a leak with my wooden foot. Oh, he’s an amazing old man!"
“I don’t think it so strange, after all, on that account,” said Flask. “If his leg were off at the hip, now, it would be a different thing. That would disable him; but he has one knee, and good part of the other left, you know.”
"I don’t think it’s so strange, really, for that reason," said Flask. "If his leg were gone right up to the hip, then that would be a different story. That would really stop him; but he’s still got one knee and a good part of the other left, you know."
“I don’t know that, my little man; I never yet saw him kneel.”
"I don't know, little guy; I've never seen him kneel before."
Among whale-wise people it has often been argued whether, considering the paramount importance of his life to the success of the voyage, it is right for a whaling captain to jeopardize that life in the active perils of the chase. So Tamerlane’s soldiers often argued with tears in their eyes, whether that invaluable life of his ought to be carried into the thickest of the fight.
Among people knowledgeable about whales, there's often been a debate about whether it's right for a whaling captain to risk his life in the dangerous pursuit, given how essential his survival is to the success of the voyage. Similarly, Tamerlane's soldiers often argued, with tears in their eyes, whether his irreplaceable life should be put at risk in the heat of battle.
But with Ahab the question assumed a modified aspect. Considering that with two legs man is but a hobbling wight in all times of danger; considering that the pursuit of whales is always under great and extraordinary difficulties; that every individual moment, indeed, then comprises a peril; under these circumstances is it wise for any maimed man to enter a whale-boat in the hunt? As a general thing, the joint-owners of the Pequod must have plainly thought not.
But with Ahab, the question took on a different angle. Considering that even with two legs, a person is pretty unsteady in dangerous situations; considering that hunting whales always comes with extreme challenges and risks; that every single moment out there is full of danger; under these conditions, is it really smart for any injured person to get into a whaleboat to join the hunt? Generally speaking, the co-owners of the Pequod must have clearly thought it wasn’t.
Ahab well knew that although his friends at home would think little of his entering a boat in certain comparatively harmless vicissitudes of the chase, for the sake of being near the scene of action and giving his orders in person, yet for Captain Ahab to have a boat actually apportioned to him as a regular headsman in the hunt—above all for Captain Ahab to be supplied with five extra men, as that same boat’s crew, he well knew that such generous conceits never entered the heads of the owners of the Pequod. Therefore he had not solicited a boat’s crew from them, nor had he in any way hinted his desires on that head. Nevertheless he had taken private measures of his own touching all that matter. Until Cabaco’s published discovery, the sailors had little foreseen it, though to be sure when, after being a little while out of port, all hands had concluded the customary business of fitting the whaleboats for service; when some time after this Ahab was now and then found bestirring himself in the matter of making thole-pins with his own hands for what was thought to be one of the spare boats, and even solicitously cutting the small wooden skewers, which when the line is running out are pinned over the groove in the bow: when all this was observed in him, and particularly his solicitude in having an extra coat of sheathing in the bottom of the boat, as if to make it better withstand the pointed pressure of his ivory limb; and also the anxiety he evinced in exactly shaping the thigh board, or clumsy cleat, as it is sometimes called, the horizontal piece in the boat’s bow for bracing the knee against in darting or stabbing at the whale; when it was observed how often he stood up in that boat with his solitary knee fixed in the semi-circular depression in the cleat, and with the carpenter’s chisel gouged out a little here and straightened it a little there; all these things, I say, had awakened much interest and curiosity at the time. But almost everybody supposed that this particular preparative heedfulness in Ahab must only be with a view to the ultimate chase of Moby Dick; for he had already revealed his intention to hunt that mortal monster in person. But such a supposition did by no means involve the remotest suspicion as to any boat’s crew being assigned to that boat.
Ahab knew perfectly well that while his friends back home might not think much of him jumping into a boat during certain relatively safe moments of the chase—just to stay close to the action and give orders directly—for Captain Ahab to have a boat officially assigned to him as a regular harpooner in the hunt, and especially for him to be given five extra men as his boat crew, was an idea that would never have crossed the minds of the Pequod’s owners. So, he hadn’t asked them for a crew, nor had he hinted at wanting one. Still, he had taken his own private steps to handle the matter. Until Cabaco’s public revelation, none of the sailors had really predicted it. Though, to be fair, after leaving port and finishing the usual business of preparing the whaleboats for action, it hadn’t gone unnoticed that Ahab occasionally busied himself making thole-pins by hand—supposedly for one of the spare boats—or carefully crafting the small wooden skewers used to pin over the bow’s groove when the line is running out. His particular attention to giving the boat’s bottom an extra layer of sheathing, as if to make it better withstand the pressure of his ivory leg, stood out too. So did his fuss over shaping the thigh board (or clumsy cleat, as it’s sometimes called), the horizontal piece at the boat’s bow used for bracing the knee while lunging or stabbing at a whale. People noticed how often he would stand in that boat, his lone knee fixed in the semi-circular notch of the cleat, carving into it here and adjusting it there with the carpenter’s chisel. All of this, understandably, stirred curiosity and interest at the time. Still, almost everyone assumed that Ahab’s unusual attention to these preparations was intended solely for his eventual pursuit of Moby Dick, since he had already declared his desire to hunt the deadly whale himself. But this assumption didn’t lead anyone to even suspect that a full boat crew might also be assigned to that boat.
Now, with the subordinate phantoms, what wonder remained soon waned away; for in a whaler wonders soon wane. Besides, now and then such unaccountable odds and ends of strange nations come up from the unknown nooks and ash-holes of the earth to man these floating outlaws of whalers; and the ships themselves often pick up such queer castaway creatures found tossing about the open sea on planks, bits of wreck, oars, whaleboats, canoes, blown-off Japanese junks, and what not; that Beelzebub himself might climb up the side and step down into the cabin to chat with the captain, and it would not create any unsubduable excitement in the forecastle.
These strange figures quickly lost their mystery, as curiosity doesn’t last long on a whaling ship. Besides, it’s not unusual for all sorts of unusual and inexplicable people from obscure corners of the world to wind up on these outlaw vessels. The ships themselves often rescue strange castaways drifting on planks, pieces of wreckage, oars, whaleboats, canoes, blown-off Japanese junks, and who knows what else. Even if the devil himself climbed aboard and went to chat with the captain in the cabin, it probably wouldn’t cause much of a stir among the crew.
But be all this as it may, certain it is that while the subordinate phantoms soon found their place among the crew, though still as it were somehow distinct from them, yet that hair-turbaned Fedallah remained a muffled mystery to the last. Whence he came in a mannerly world like this, by what sort of unaccountable tie he soon evinced himself to be linked with Ahab’s peculiar fortunes; nay, so far as to have some sort of a half-hinted influence; Heaven knows, but it might have been even authority over him; all this none knew. But one cannot sustain an indifferent air concerning Fedallah. He was such a creature as civilized, domestic people in the temperate zone only see in their dreams, and that but dimly; but the like of whom now and then glide among the unchanging Asiatic communities, especially the Oriental isles to the east of the continent—those insulated, immemorial, unalterable countries, which even in these modern days still preserve much of the ghostly aboriginalness of earth’s primal generations, when the memory of the first man was a distinct recollection, and all men his descendants, unknowing whence he came, eyed each other as real phantoms, and asked of the sun and the moon why they were created and to what end; when though, according to Genesis, the angels indeed consorted with the daughters of men, the devils also, add the uncanonical Rabbins, indulged in mundane amours.
Be that as it may, it’s clear that while the lesser phantoms quickly blended in with the crew, though still somehow distinct from them, the turbaned Fedallah remained an enigma to the end. No one knew where he came from in a world like this, or by what inexplicable bond he seemed tied to Ahab’s strange destiny—perhaps even to the extent of exerting some vague influence or authority over him. Heaven only knows. But it was impossible to remain indifferent to Fedallah. He was the kind of figure that people in the civilized, comfortable parts of the world only see faintly in dreams; yet beings like him are occasionally seen slipping through the timeless Asian communities, particularly in the islands east of the continent—those isolated, ancient, unchanging lands that still, even in modern times, hold onto much of the eerie, primeval essence of earth’s first ages, when the memory of the first man still lingered, and people—unsure of where they came from—saw each other as mysterious specters, questioning the sun and moon about why they existed and for what purpose. In those days, according to Genesis, angels mingled with the daughters of men, and, as the uncanonical Rabbis say, devils too indulged in earthly affairs.
CHAPTER 51. The Spirit-Spout.
Days, weeks passed, and under easy sail, the ivory Pequod had slowly swept across four several cruising-grounds; that off the Azores; off the Cape de Verdes; on the Plate (so called), being off the mouth of the Rio de la Plata; and the Carrol Ground, an unstaked, watery locality, southerly from St. Helena.
Days and weeks went by, and under smooth sailing, the ivory-hulled Pequod slowly traveled across four different hunting grounds: near the Azores, near the Cape Verde Islands, near the Plate (named for being close to the mouth of the Rio de la Plata), and the Carrol Ground, an uncharted stretch of water south of St. Helena.
It was while gliding through these latter waters that one serene and moonlight night, when all the waves rolled by like scrolls of silver; and, by their soft, suffusing seethings, made what seemed a silvery silence, not a solitude; on such a silent night a silvery jet was seen far in advance of the white bubbles at the bow. Lit up by the moon, it looked celestial; seemed some plumed and glittering god uprising from the sea. Fedallah first descried this jet. For of these moonlight nights, it was his wont to mount to the main-mast head, and stand a look-out there, with the same precision as if it had been day. And yet, though herds of whales were seen by night, not one whaleman in a hundred would venture a lowering for them. You may think with what emotions, then, the seamen beheld this old Oriental perched aloft at such unusual hours; his turban and the moon, companions in one sky. But when, after spending his uniform interval there for several successive nights without uttering a single sound; when, after all this silence, his unearthly voice was heard announcing that silvery, moon-lit jet, every reclining mariner started to his feet as if some winged spirit had lighted in the rigging, and hailed the mortal crew. “There she blows!” Had the trump of judgment blown, they could not have quivered more; yet still they felt no terror; rather pleasure. For though it was a most unwonted hour, yet so impressive was the cry, and so deliriously exciting, that almost every soul on board instinctively desired a lowering.
While sailing through these waters one peaceful, moonlit night, when the waves shimmered like silver scrolls and their soft, swirling sounds created a serene, silvery quiet—not loneliness—a faint silvery spout appeared far ahead of the white bubbles at the ship's bow. Illuminated by the moon, it looked almost otherworldly, like some shining, feathered god rising from the sea. Fedallah was the first to spot it. On nights like these, it was his habit to climb to the top of the mainmast and stand watch there, as precisely as if it were daylight. But even though pods of whales were sometimes seen at night, less than one whaler in a hundred dared to lower boats for them after dark. Imagine, then, how the crew felt watching this mysterious, turbaned man perched high above them at such strange hours, with his headdress and the moon sharing the same sky. Night after night, he stood silently in his post, saying nothing. But when he finally broke that long silence with his eerie voice, announcing the moonlit spout, every sailor jumped to his feet as if some winged spirit had descended onto the rigging to call out to them. “There she blows!” If it had been the trumpet of Judgment Day, they couldn’t have been more shaken; yet they weren’t afraid. Instead, they were thrilled. Though the hour was highly unusual, the cry was so intense, so wildly exhilarating, that almost everyone on board instinctively wanted to lower the boats.
Walking the deck with quick, side-lunging strides, Ahab commanded the t’gallant sails and royals to be set, and every stunsail spread. The best man in the ship must take the helm. Then, with every mast-head manned, the piled-up craft rolled down before the wind. The strange, upheaving, lifting tendency of the taffrail breeze filling the hollows of so many sails, made the buoyant, hovering deck to feel like air beneath the feet; while still she rushed along, as if two antagonistic influences were struggling in her—one to mount direct to heaven, the other to drive yawingly to some horizontal goal. And had you watched Ahab’s face that night, you would have thought that in him also two different things were warring. While his one live leg made lively echoes along the deck, every stroke of his dead limb sounded like a coffin-tap. On life and death this old man walked. But though the ship so swiftly sped, and though from every eye, like arrows, the eager glances shot, yet the silvery jet was no more seen that night. Every sailor swore he saw it once, but not a second time.
Pacing the deck with quick, determined strides, Ahab ordered the topgallant sails and royals to be set, and every studding sail unfurled. The best sailor on the ship had to take the helm. Then, with lookouts stationed on every masthead, the ship surged forward with the wind behind it. The strange, lifting motion of the wind hitting the sails, filling the hollows of so many layers of canvas, made the deck feel light and almost floating underfoot. Yet the ship raced ahead, as if two opposing forces were battling within it—one trying to soar straight into the sky, the other pushing toward some flat, distant horizon. And if you had looked at Ahab’s face that night, you’d have thought two different forces were at war within him as well. His one good leg rang out lively echoes across the deck with each step, while every thud of his peg leg sounded like a coffin being nailed shut. He was a man straddling life and death. But even though the ship sped on so swiftly, and the sailors’ eager eyes darted like arrows, that silvery spout remained unseen for the rest of the night. Every sailor swore he’d spotted it once, but never a second time.
This midnight-spout had almost grown a forgotten thing, when, some days after, lo! at the same silent hour, it was again announced: again it was descried by all; but upon making sail to overtake it, once more it disappeared as if it had never been. And so it served us night after night, till no one heeded it but to wonder at it. Mysteriously jetted into the clear moonlight, or starlight, as the case might be; disappearing again for one whole day, or two days, or three; and somehow seeming at every distinct repetition to be advancing still further and further in our van, this solitary jet seemed for ever alluring us on.
This midnight spout had almost been forgotten when, a few days later, at the same quiet hour—there it was again! Once more it was spotted by everyone, but when we set sail to catch up to it, it vanished again as if it had never been there. And so it went, night after night, until no one paid it any attention except to marvel at it. Mysteriously shooting into the clear moonlight or starlight, depending on the night, it would vanish for a whole day, or two, or even three. Somehow, with each appearance, it seemed to keep moving farther and farther ahead of us. This lone spout seemed to forever lure us onward.
Nor with the immemorial superstition of their race, and in accordance with the preternaturalness, as it seemed, which in many things invested the Pequod, were there wanting some of the seamen who swore that whenever and wherever descried; at however remote times, or in however far apart latitudes and longitudes, that unnearable spout was cast by one self-same whale; and that whale, Moby Dick. For a time, there reigned, too, a sense of peculiar dread at this flitting apparition, as if it were treacherously beckoning us on and on, in order that the monster might turn round upon us, and rend us at last in the remotest and most savage seas.
Nor was there any shortage of sailors, driven by the age-old superstitions of their kind and the seemingly supernatural aura surrounding the Pequod, who swore that no matter where or when they spotted it—no matter how distant the time or how far apart the coordinates—that elusive spout always belonged to the same whale: Moby Dick. For a while, this fleeting vision stirred a strange sense of dread, as if it were luring us onward with some devious intent, only to have the monster suddenly turn on us and tear us apart in the farthest, wildest oceans.
These temporary apprehensions, so vague but so awful, derived a wondrous potency from the contrasting serenity of the weather, in which, beneath all its blue blandness, some thought there lurked a devilish charm, as for days and days we voyaged along, through seas so wearily, lonesomely mild, that all space, in repugnance to our vengeful errand, seemed vacating itself of life before our urn-like prow.
These fleeting fears, so unclear yet so terrifying, gained an extraordinary power from the stark contrast with the calm weather. Beneath all its gentle blue skies, some believed there was a sinister allure. For days and days, we sailed through seas so endlessly, hauntingly calm that it felt like all of existence, in defiance of our vengeful mission, was emptying itself of life ahead of our urn-shaped bow.
But, at last, when turning to the eastward, the Cape winds began howling around us, and we rose and fell upon the long, troubled seas that are there; when the ivory-tusked Pequod sharply bowed to the blast, and gored the dark waves in her madness, till, like showers of silver chips, the foam-flakes flew over her bulwarks; then all this desolate vacuity of life went away, but gave place to sights more dismal than before.
Finally, when we turned to the east and the fierce Cape winds started howling around us, we rose and fell on the long, restless waves of that region. The ivory-tusked Pequod bent sharply against the gale, charging through the dark waves in her wild frenzy, sending showers of silvery foam flying over her sides. This empty desolation of life faded away, only to be replaced by even gloomier sights than before.
Close to our bows, strange forms in the water darted hither and thither before us; while thick in our rear flew the inscrutable sea-ravens. And every morning, perched on our stays, rows of these birds were seen; and spite of our hootings, for a long time obstinately clung to the hemp, as though they deemed our ship some drifting, uninhabited craft; a thing appointed to desolation, and therefore fit roosting-place for their homeless selves. And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred.
Strange shapes darted back and forth in the water near our bow, while behind us, mysterious sea-ravens flew thickly. Every morning, rows of these birds perched on our rigging, and despite our efforts to shoo them away, they stubbornly clung to the ropes for a long time, as if they thought our ship was an abandoned, ghostly vessel—a place of desolation perfectly suited for their homeless existence. The black sea surged and surged, restlessly rising and falling, as if its enormous tides were a guilty conscience, and the vast soul of the world was writhing in anguish and regret for all the sin and suffering it had fostered over time.
Cape of Good Hope, do they call ye? Rather Cape Tormentoso, as called of yore; for long allured by the perfidious silences that before had attended us, we found ourselves launched into this tormented sea, where guilty beings transformed into those fowls and these fish, seemed condemned to swim on everlastingly without any haven in store, or beat that black air without any horizon. But calm, snow-white, and unvarying; still directing its fountain of feathers to the sky; still beckoning us on from before, the solitary jet would at times be descried.
Cape of Good Hope, is that what they call you? More like Cape Torment, as they called you in the past; for long enticed by the deceptive stillness that had accompanied us before, we ended up thrust into this tormented sea, where guilty souls transformed into these birds and fish seemed doomed to swim endlessly without a safe harbor in sight or to beat their wings through that dark air without any horizon. Yet calm, pure white, and unchanging; still shooting its plume of feathers toward the sky; still leading us onward from ahead, the solitary spout would sometimes appear.
During all this blackness of the elements, Ahab, though assuming for the time the almost continual command of the drenched and dangerous deck, manifested the gloomiest reserve; and more seldom than ever addressed his mates. In tempestuous times like these, after everything above and aloft has been secured, nothing more can be done but passively to await the issue of the gale. Then Captain and crew become practical fatalists. So, with his ivory leg inserted into its accustomed hole, and with one hand firmly grasping a shroud, Ahab for hours and hours would stand gazing dead to windward, while an occasional squall of sleet or snow would all but congeal his very eyelashes together. Meantime, the crew driven from the forward part of the ship by the perilous seas that burstingly broke over its bows, stood in a line along the bulwarks in the waist; and the better to guard against the leaping waves, each man had slipped himself into a sort of bowline secured to the rail, in which he swung as in a loosened belt. Few or no words were spoken; and the silent ship, as if manned by painted sailors in wax, day after day tore on through all the swift madness and gladness of the demoniac waves. By night the same muteness of humanity before the shrieks of the ocean prevailed; still in silence the men swung in the bowlines; still wordless Ahab stood up to the blast. Even when wearied nature seemed demanding repose he would not seek that repose in his hammock. Never could Starbuck forget the old man’s aspect, when one night going down into the cabin to mark how the barometer stood, he saw him with closed eyes sitting straight in his floor-screwed chair; the rain and half-melted sleet of the storm from which he had some time before emerged, still slowly dripping from the unremoved hat and coat. On the table beside him lay unrolled one of those charts of tides and currents which have previously been spoken of. His lantern swung from his tightly clenched hand. Though the body was erect, the head was thrown back so that the closed eyes were pointed towards the needle of the tell-tale that swung from a beam in the ceiling.*
During all the chaos from the storm, Ahab, while taking almost constant command of the soaked and dangerous deck, kept to himself with a grim silence, speaking to his crew even less than usual. In storms like this, once everything overhead has been secured, there’s nothing left to do but wait for the gale to play out. In these moments, Captain and crew become something like fatalists. So, with his ivory leg fitted into its designated spot and one hand gripping a shroud tightly, Ahab would stand for hours, staring straight into the wind, while occasional bursts of sleet or snow nearly froze his eyelashes shut. Meanwhile, the crew, forced away from the front of the ship by the dangerous waves crashing over the bow, lined up along the rails in the safer midsection. To better brace against the surging sea, each man fastened himself into a makeshift sling tied to the rail, swaying like he was strapped into a loose seatbelt. There was barely any conversation; the ship felt like it was crewed by wax figures as it raced day after day through the wild fury and eerie beauty of the manic waves. Even at night, the silence of the men continued in contrast to the screaming winds; they still swayed quietly in their slings, and Ahab still stood silently against the storm. Even when exhaustion seemed to be calling him to rest, he refused his hammock. Starbuck would never forget the old man’s appearance one night when he went below to check the barometer. He found Ahab sitting upright in his chair, bolted to the floor, with his eyes closed. His drenched hat and coat, still dripping with rain and half-melted sleet from a storm he’d returned from hours ago, were still on. On the table next to him lay one of the unrolled tide and current charts mentioned earlier. In his tightly gripped hand, he still held his lantern, which swung as he sat there. Though his body sat upright, his head was tilted back, his closed eyes aimed at the small compass needle dangling from the ceiling.
*The cabin-compass is called the tell-tale, because without going to the compass at the helm, the Captain, while below, can inform himself of the course of the ship.
The cabin compass is called the tell-tale because, without having to go to the helm's compass, the Captain can check the ship's course while staying below deck.
Terrible old man! thought Starbuck with a shudder, sleeping in this gale, still thou steadfastly eyest thy purpose.
Terrible old man! thought Starbuck with a shudder. Sleeping through this storm, yet you still stay focused on your goal.
CHAPTER 52. The Albatross.
South-eastward from the Cape, off the distant Crozetts, a good cruising ground for Right Whalemen, a sail loomed ahead, the Goney (Albatross) by name. As she slowly drew nigh, from my lofty perch at the fore-mast-head, I had a good view of that sight so remarkable to a tyro in the far ocean fisheries—a whaler at sea, and long absent from home.
Southeast of the Cape, near the distant Crozet Islands, there’s a great spot for Right Whale hunters. A ship appeared on the horizon—it was the Goney (Albatross). As it slowly came closer, from my high position on the foremast, I got a clear view of something truly striking to someone new to the far-off ocean fishing grounds—a whaling ship at sea, having been away from home for a long time.
As if the waves had been fullers, this craft was bleached like the skeleton of a stranded walrus. All down her sides, this spectral appearance was traced with long channels of reddened rust, while all her spars and her rigging were like the thick branches of trees furred over with hoar-frost. Only her lower sails were set. A wild sight it was to see her long-bearded look-outs at those three mast-heads. They seemed clad in the skins of beasts, so torn and bepatched the raiment that had survived nearly four years of cruising. Standing in iron hoops nailed to the mast, they swayed and swung over a fathomless sea; and though, when the ship slowly glided close under our stern, we six men in the air came so nigh to each other that we might almost have leaped from the mast-heads of one ship to those of the other; yet, those forlorn-looking fishermen, mildly eyeing us as they passed, said not one word to our own look-outs, while the quarter-deck hail was being heard from below.
As if the waves had been cleaners, this ship was bleached white, like the skeleton of a stranded walrus. Down its sides, you could see long streaks of reddish rust, while all its masts and rigging looked like thick tree branches covered in frost. Only its lower sails were raised. It was a wild sight to watch the long-bearded lookouts at the three mastheads. They looked like they were dressed in animal skins, their clothes so torn and patched from nearly four years at sea. Standing in iron hoops nailed to the mast, they swayed and swung over a seemingly bottomless ocean. Even though, when the ship slowly passed close behind ours, we six men up in the air came so close that we could have almost jumped from the mastheads of one ship to the other, those forlorn-looking fishermen only glanced at us calmly as they passed. They didn’t say a single word to our own lookouts, even while the shouts from the quarterdeck below could be heard.
“Ship ahoy! Have ye seen the White Whale?”
"Ship ahead! Have you seen the White Whale?"
But as the strange captain, leaning over the pallid bulwarks, was in the act of putting his trumpet to his mouth, it somehow fell from his hand into the sea; and the wind now rising amain, he in vain strove to make himself heard without it. Meantime his ship was still increasing the distance between. While in various silent ways the seamen of the Pequod were evincing their observance of this ominous incident at the first mere mention of the White Whale’s name to another ship, Ahab for a moment paused; it almost seemed as though he would have lowered a boat to board the stranger, had not the threatening wind forbade. But taking advantage of his windward position, he again seized his trumpet, and knowing by her aspect that the stranger vessel was a Nantucketer and shortly bound home, he loudly hailed—“Ahoy there! This is the Pequod, bound round the world! Tell them to address all future letters to the Pacific ocean! and this time three years, if I am not at home, tell them to address them to ——”
But as the strange captain leaned over the pale railings and was about to raise his speaking trumpet to his mouth, it somehow slipped from his hand and fell into the sea. With the wind suddenly picking up, he tried in vain to make himself heard without it. Meanwhile, his ship kept pulling further away. In their own quiet ways, the sailors of the Pequod showed how seriously they took this eerie event—the very first mention of the White Whale’s name to another ship. For a moment, Ahab hesitated; it almost looked like he might lower a boat to go after the stranger vessel, but the rising wind made that impossible. Taking advantage of his position upwind, he grabbed his trumpet again. Recognizing from its appearance that the other ship was from Nantucket and likely heading home soon, he shouted loudly, “Ahoy there! This is the Pequod, sailing around the world! Tell them to send all future letters to the Pacific Ocean! And if I’m not back home in three years, tell them to address them to ——.”
At that moment the two wakes were fairly crossed, and instantly, then, in accordance with their singular ways, shoals of small harmless fish, that for some days before had been placidly swimming by our side, darted away with what seemed shuddering fins, and ranged themselves fore and aft with the stranger’s flanks. Though in the course of his continual voyagings Ahab must often before have noticed a similar sight, yet, to any monomaniac man, the veriest trifles capriciously carry meanings.
At that moment, the two ships' wakes crossed, and immediately, as if following their strange habits, schools of small harmless fish that had been calmly swimming alongside us for days suddenly darted away with what looked like trembling fins, aligning themselves along the sides of the stranger's ship. Although Ahab must have seen something similar many times during his endless voyages, for a man consumed by a single obsession, even the smallest, most random events take on meaning.
“Swim away from me, do ye?” murmured Ahab, gazing over into the water. There seemed but little in the words, but the tone conveyed more of deep helpless sadness than the insane old man had ever before evinced. But turning to the steersman, who thus far had been holding the ship in the wind to diminish her headway, he cried out in his old lion voice,—“Up helm! Keep her off round the world!”
"Swim away from me, do you?" Ahab murmured, staring into the water. There wasn’t much to the words themselves, but the tone revealed a deep, helpless sadness, more than the usually crazed old man had ever shown before. Then, turning to the helmsman, who had been holding the ship steady against the wind to slow it down, he shouted in his commanding, powerful voice, "Turn the helm! Set her course around the world!"
Round the world! There is much in that sound to inspire proud feelings; but whereto does all that circumnavigation conduct? Only through numberless perils to the very point whence we started, where those that we left behind secure, were all the time before us.
Around the world! That phrase has a lot of pride in it; but where does all that traveling around the globe really take us? Just through countless dangers back to the exact spot where we began, where the ones we left behind, safe and sound, were ahead of us the entire time.
Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could for ever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in tormented chase of that demon phantom that, some time or other, swims before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they either lead us on in barren mazes or midway leave us whelmed.
If this world were a never-ending plain, and by sailing east we could endlessly reach new horizons and discover sights more beautiful and mysterious than any Cyclades or the Islands of King Solomon, then the journey would hold promise. But in the pursuit of those distant mysteries we imagine, or in the relentless chase of that haunting phantom that at some point haunts every human heart, as we chase these across our round world, they either lead us into endless, empty labyrinths or abandon us, overwhelmed, halfway through.
CHAPTER 53. The Gam.
The ostensible reason why Ahab did not go on board of the whaler we had spoken was this: the wind and sea betokened storms. But even had this not been the case, he would not after all, perhaps, have boarded her—judging by his subsequent conduct on similar occasions—if so it had been that, by the process of hailing, he had obtained a negative answer to the question he put. For, as it eventually turned out, he cared not to consort, even for five minutes, with any stranger captain, except he could contribute some of that information he so absorbingly sought. But all this might remain inadequately estimated, were not something said here of the peculiar usages of whaling-vessels when meeting each other in foreign seas, and especially on a common cruising-ground.
The apparent reason Ahab didn’t board the whaling ship we had encountered was this: the wind and sea hinted at storms. But even if that hadn’t been the case, he probably still wouldn’t have boarded her—based on how he acted in similar situations later—if he had already gotten a negative answer to the question he asked through hailing. As it turned out, he didn’t care to spend even five minutes with any captain unless they could give him some of the information he was so obsessed with finding. However, all of this might be misunderstood without explaining the specific customs of whaling ships when they meet each other in foreign waters, especially in a shared hunting area.
If two strangers crossing the Pine Barrens in New York State, or the equally desolate Salisbury Plain in England; if casually encountering each other in such inhospitable wilds, these twain, for the life of them, cannot well avoid a mutual salutation; and stopping for a moment to interchange the news; and, perhaps, sitting down for a while and resting in concert: then, how much more natural that upon the illimitable Pine Barrens and Salisbury Plains of the sea, two whaling vessels descrying each other at the ends of the earth—off lone Fanning’s Island, or the far away King’s Mills; how much more natural, I say, that under such circumstances these ships should not only interchange hails, but come into still closer, more friendly and sociable contact. And especially would this seem to be a matter of course, in the case of vessels owned in one seaport, and whose captains, officers, and not a few of the men are personally known to each other; and consequently, have all sorts of dear domestic things to talk about.
If two strangers were crossing the Pine Barrens in New York State, or the equally barren Salisbury Plain in England, and happened to meet by chance in such desolate places, they couldn’t help but exchange greetings, stop for a moment to share some news, and maybe even sit down together for a bit to rest. Then, how much more natural it is that on the vast, open expanse of the sea—like the endless Pine Barrens or Salisbury Plains—two whaling ships spotting each other in the remotest parts of the world, off lonely Fanning’s Island or the faraway King’s Mills, would not only exchange greetings but also come into closer, friendlier contact. This would especially seem inevitable if the ships came from the same seaport, and their captains, officers, and many of the crew personally knew one another—giving them plenty of family matters and personal stories to share.
For the long absent ship, the outward-bounder, perhaps, has letters on board; at any rate, she will be sure to let her have some papers of a date a year or two later than the last one on her blurred and thumb-worn files. And in return for that courtesy, the outward-bound ship would receive the latest whaling intelligence from the cruising-ground to which she may be destined, a thing of the utmost importance to her. And in degree, all this will hold true concerning whaling vessels crossing each other’s track on the cruising-ground itself, even though they are equally long absent from home. For one of them may have received a transfer of letters from some third, and now far remote vessel; and some of those letters may be for the people of the ship she now meets. Besides, they would exchange the whaling news, and have an agreeable chat. For not only would they meet with all the sympathies of sailors, but likewise with all the peculiar congenialities arising from a common pursuit and mutually shared privations and perils.
For the long-absent ship, the outbound vessel might have letters onboard; at the very least, she’ll definitely have newspapers that are a year or two more current than the ones in her worn, smudged files. In exchange for this courtesy, the outbound ship would get the latest whaling news from the hunting grounds she’s heading toward, something incredibly valuable to her. The same general idea applies to whaling ships crossing each other’s paths on the hunting grounds themselves, even if they’ve both been away from home for a long time. One of them might have picked up a batch of letters from some third, now distant vessel, and some of those letters could be for the crew of the ship she’s now encountering. On top of that, they’d swap whaling updates and have a friendly conversation. Not only would they feel the bond of shared experiences as sailors, but they’d also connect over their common profession and the mutual hardships and dangers they’ve faced.
Nor would difference of country make any very essential difference; that is, so long as both parties speak one language, as is the case with Americans and English. Though, to be sure, from the small number of English whalers, such meetings do not very often occur, and when they do occur there is too apt to be a sort of shyness between them; for your Englishman is rather reserved, and your Yankee, he does not fancy that sort of thing in anybody but himself. Besides, the English whalers sometimes affect a kind of metropolitan superiority over the American whalers; regarding the long, lean Nantucketer, with his nondescript provincialisms, as a sort of sea-peasant. But where this superiority in the English whalemen does really consist, it would be hard to say, seeing that the Yankees in one day, collectively, kill more whales than all the English, collectively, in ten years. But this is a harmless little foible in the English whale-hunters, which the Nantucketer does not take much to heart; probably, because he knows that he has a few foibles himself.
Differences in nationality wouldn’t make much of a difference, as long as both sides speak the same language, like Americans and the English do. That said, since there are so few English whalers, these meetings don’t happen very often, and when they do, there’s usually a bit of awkwardness. The English tend to be more reserved, and the Yankees aren’t exactly fans of that attitude—unless it’s coming from themselves. On top of that, English whalers sometimes adopt an air of urban superiority over American whalers, looking down on the long, lean Nantucketer with his peculiar provincial ways as some sort of sea-loving country bumpkin. But where exactly this supposed superiority lies is unclear, especially since Yankees collectively kill more whales in a single day than all the English whalers do in ten years. Still, this is just a harmless little quirk among the English whale hunters, and the Nantucketers don’t pay it much mind—probably because they know they’ve got a few quirks of their own.
So, then, we see that of all ships separately sailing the sea, the whalers have most reason to be sociable—and they are so. Whereas, some merchant ships crossing each other’s wake in the mid-Atlantic, will oftentimes pass on without so much as a single word of recognition, mutually cutting each other on the high seas, like a brace of dandies in Broadway; and all the time indulging, perhaps, in finical criticism upon each other’s rig. As for Men-of-War, when they chance to meet at sea, they first go through such a string of silly bowings and scrapings, such a ducking of ensigns, that there does not seem to be much right-down hearty good-will and brotherly love about it at all. As touching Slave-ships meeting, why, they are in such a prodigious hurry, they run away from each other as soon as possible. And as for Pirates, when they chance to cross each other’s cross-bones, the first hail is—“How many skulls?”—the same way that whalers hail—“How many barrels?” And that question once answered, pirates straightway steer apart, for they are infernal villains on both sides, and don’t like to see overmuch of each other’s villanous likenesses.
So, we see that of all the ships sailing the seas, whalers have the most reason to be sociable—and they are. Meanwhile, some merchant ships passing each other in the middle of the Atlantic often sail by without even exchanging a single word, completely ignoring each other out on the open ocean, like two snobbish fashionistas on Broadway, silently critiquing each other’s style. Men-of-war, on the other hand, when they meet at sea, go through endless formalities—bowing, saluting, lowering ensigns—making it feel like there’s not much genuine goodwill or brotherly camaraderie involved. When it comes to slave ships meeting, they’re usually in such a ridiculous rush that they flee from each other as quickly as possible. As for pirates, when they come across each other’s Jolly Rogers, their first shout is something like, “How many skulls?” – similar to the way whalers ask, “How many barrels?” Once the question is answered, pirates quickly sail away from each other, being wicked scoundrels on both sides who aren’t too keen on getting a closer look at their fellow villains.
But look at the godly, honest, unostentatious, hospitable, sociable, free-and-easy whaler! What does the whaler do when she meets another whaler in any sort of decent weather? She has a “Gam,” a thing so utterly unknown to all other ships that they never heard of the name even; and if by chance they should hear of it, they only grin at it, and repeat gamesome stuff about “spouters” and “blubber-boilers,” and such like pretty exclamations. Why it is that all Merchant-seamen, and also all Pirates and Man-of-War’s men, and Slave-ship sailors, cherish such a scornful feeling towards Whale-ships; this is a question it would be hard to answer. Because, in the case of pirates, say, I should like to know whether that profession of theirs has any peculiar glory about it. It sometimes ends in uncommon elevation, indeed; but only at the gallows. And besides, when a man is elevated in that odd fashion, he has no proper foundation for his superior altitude. Hence, I conclude, that in boasting himself to be high lifted above a whaleman, in that assertion the pirate has no solid basis to stand on.
Take a look at the virtuous, honest, humble, welcoming, sociable, laid-back whaler! What does a whaling ship do when it meets another whaling ship in decent weather? They have a “Gam” — something so completely unfamiliar to other ships that they’ve never even heard of the word; and if they do hear about it by chance, they just laugh and make jokes about “spouters” and “blubber-boilers” and other silly comments like that. Why is it that all merchant sailors, pirates, naval officers, and slave ship crews seem to look down on whalers with such contempt? That’s a tough question to answer. Take pirates, for example—what sort of honor do they think their line of work carries? Sure, their career path might sometimes lead to a rather unique “elevation,” but that only happens at the gallows. And even then, when a man finds himself raised in that particular way, there’s hardly a solid foundation under him to support that lofty position. So, when a pirate arrogantly believes himself superior to a whaler, that claim has absolutely nothing firm to back it up.
But what is a Gam? You might wear out your index-finger running up and down the columns of dictionaries, and never find the word. Dr. Johnson never attained to that erudition; Noah Webster’s ark does not hold it. Nevertheless, this same expressive word has now for many years been in constant use among some fifteen thousand true born Yankees. Certainly, it needs a definition, and should be incorporated into the Lexicon. With that view, let me learnedly define it.
But what exactly is a Gam? You could scroll endlessly through dictionary search results and never come across the word. Dr. Johnson never reached that level of knowledge, and Noah Webster’s dictionary doesn’t include it either. But even so, this expressive word has been commonly used for many years by around fifteen thousand true-born Yankees. It definitely deserves a definition and should be added to the dictionary. With that in mind, let me explain it for you.
GAM. NOUN—A social meeting of two (or more) Whaleships, generally on a cruising-ground; when, after exchanging hails, they exchange visits by boats’ crews: the two captains remaining, for the time, on board of one ship, and the two chief mates on the other.
GAM. NOUN—A social gathering of two (or more) whaling ships, usually while cruising. After calling out to each other, they exchange visits using the crew's boats: the two captains stay on one ship for a while, and the two chief mates on the other.
There is another little item about Gamming which must not be forgotten here. All professions have their own little peculiarities of detail; so has the whale fishery. In a pirate, man-of-war, or slave ship, when the captain is rowed anywhere in his boat, he always sits in the stern sheets on a comfortable, sometimes cushioned seat there, and often steers himself with a pretty little milliner’s tiller decorated with gay cords and ribbons. But the whale-boat has no seat astern, no sofa of that sort whatever, and no tiller at all. High times indeed, if whaling captains were wheeled about the water on castors like gouty old aldermen in patent chairs. And as for a tiller, the whale-boat never admits of any such effeminacy; and therefore as in gamming a complete boat’s crew must leave the ship, and hence as the boat steerer or harpooneer is of the number, that subordinate is the steersman upon the occasion, and the captain, having no place to sit in, is pulled off to his visit all standing like a pine tree. And often you will notice that being conscious of the eyes of the whole visible world resting on him from the sides of the two ships, this standing captain is all alive to the importance of sustaining his dignity by maintaining his legs. Nor is this any very easy matter; for in his rear is the immense projecting steering oar hitting him now and then in the small of his back, the after-oar reciprocating by rapping his knees in front. He is thus completely wedged before and behind, and can only expand himself sideways by settling down on his stretched legs; but a sudden, violent pitch of the boat will often go far to topple him, because length of foundation is nothing without corresponding breadth. Merely make a spread angle of two poles, and you cannot stand them up. Then, again, it would never do in plain sight of the world’s riveted eyes, it would never do, I say, for this straddling captain to be seen steadying himself the slightest particle by catching hold of anything with his hands; indeed, as token of his entire, buoyant self-command, he generally carries his hands in his trowsers’ pockets; but perhaps being generally very large, heavy hands, he carries them there for ballast. Nevertheless there have occurred instances, well authenticated ones too, where the captain has been known for an uncommonly critical moment or two, in a sudden squall say—to seize hold of the nearest oarsman’s hair, and hold on there like grim death.
There’s one more little detail about gamming that shouldn’t be overlooked. Every profession has its own quirks, and whaling is no different. On a pirate ship, man-of-war, or slave ship, when the captain is rowed somewhere in his boat, he always sits at the back on a comfortable, often cushioned seat, sometimes steering with a fancy little tiller decorated with colorful cords and ribbons. But a whaleboat doesn’t have any seat at the back, no cushy spot to lounge on, and no tiller whatsoever. Imagine the absurdity if whaling captains were rolled around the water like old aldermen in fancy chairs with wheels. And as for a tiller, that kind of luxury doesn’t belong in a whaleboat. So, during a gam, when a full boat crew leaves the ship—and since the boat-steerer or harpooner is required as part of the crew—that subordinate takes on the steering. Meanwhile, the captain, with no seat to sit on, is rowed to his visit standing tall, like a pine tree. You’ll often notice that, aware of all the eyes from both ship crews watching him, the standing captain is keen to hold his dignity by keeping steady on his feet. But that’s no easy job. Behind him, the massive steering oar occasionally smacks him in the back, while the oar in front bumps his knees. Wedged in between, he can only balance himself sideways by bracing on his stretched legs. But when the boat suddenly pitches violently, he’s at real risk of toppling over, because balance isn’t just about length; you need width too. It’s like trying to stand two poles at an angle—they’ll just fall over. And, of course, it wouldn’t look good in front of all those watching eyes if the captain were seen grabbing onto something for support. To show total poise and control, he usually keeps his hands casually stuffed into his pants pockets. Though, to be fair, whaling captains often have big, heavy hands, so maybe the pockets help with balance. Still, there are well-documented moments where, in a sudden critical situation—like a squall—the captain has been known to grab a nearby oarsman’s hair and hang on for dear life.
CHAPTER 54. The Town-Ho’s Story.
(As told at the Golden Inn.)
(Told at the Golden Inn.)
The Cape of Good Hope, and all the watery region round about there, is much like some noted four corners of a great highway, where you meet more travellers than in any other part.
The Cape of Good Hope, and all the surrounding waters, is a lot like a busy crossroads on a major highway, where you encounter more travelers than anywhere else.
It was not very long after speaking the Goney that another homeward-bound whaleman, the Town-Ho,* was encountered. She was manned almost wholly by Polynesians. In the short gam that ensued she gave us strong news of Moby Dick. To some the general interest in the White Whale was now wildly heightened by a circumstance of the Town-Ho’s story, which seemed obscurely to involve with the whale a certain wondrous, inverted visitation of one of those so called judgments of God which at times are said to overtake some men. This latter circumstance, with its own particular accompaniments, forming what may be called the secret part of the tragedy about to be narrated, never reached the ears of Captain Ahab or his mates. For that secret part of the story was unknown to the captain of the Town-Ho himself. It was the private property of three confederate white seamen of that ship, one of whom, it seems, communicated it to Tashtego with Romish injunctions of secrecy, but the following night Tashtego rambled in his sleep, and revealed so much of it in that way, that when he was wakened he could not well withhold the rest. Nevertheless, so potent an influence did this thing have on those seamen in the Pequod who came to the full knowledge of it, and by such a strange delicacy, to call it so, were they governed in this matter, that they kept the secret among themselves so that it never transpired abaft the Pequod’s main-mast. Interweaving in its proper place this darker thread with the story as publicly narrated on the ship, the whole of this strange affair I now proceed to put on lasting record.
Not long after we spoke to the Goney, we came across another homeward-bound whaling ship, the Town-Ho.* Her crew was almost entirely Polynesian. During the brief exchange we had with them, they shared some startling news about Moby Dick. For some, the obsession with the White Whale became even more intense because of a story from the Town-Ho. The tale suggested, in a mysterious way, that the whale might be linked to one of those so-called acts of divine judgment that are said to strike certain men. This mysterious part of the story, along with its unique details, forming what can only be called the hidden side of the coming tragedy, never made it to Captain Ahab or his officers. That secret part of the story wasn't even known to the captain of the Town-Ho. It was the private knowledge of three white sailors on board that ship, one of whom, apparently, shared it with Tashtego under a strict promise of secrecy. However, that same night, Tashtego talked in his sleep and let enough of it slip that when he woke up, he couldn't stop himself from revealing the rest. Even so, this revelation had such a strange effect on the Pequod’s crew members who learned the full story—and such an unspoken sense of discretion influenced their actions—that they kept the secret between themselves, ensuring it never reached anyone beyond the mainmast of the Pequod. As I now weave this darker thread into the publicly told account from the ship, I prepare to record the full details of this bizarre event here permanently.
*The ancient whale-cry upon first sighting a whale from the mast-head, still used by whalemen in hunting the famous Gallipagos terrapin.
The traditional whale call used by sailors when spotting a whale from the lookout is still used by whalers when hunting the well-known Galápagos tortoise.
For my humor’s sake, I shall preserve the style in which I once narrated it at Lima, to a lounging circle of my Spanish friends, one saint’s eve, smoking upon the thick-gilt tiled piazza of the Golden Inn. Of those fine cavaliers, the young Dons, Pedro and Sebastian, were on the closer terms with me; and hence the interluding questions they occasionally put, and which are duly answered at the time.
For my amusement, I’ll keep the style I used when I once told this story in Lima to a relaxed group of my Spanish friends on the evening of a saint’s day, while we were smoking on the ornate, golden-tiled patio of the Golden Inn. Among those distinguished gentlemen, the young Dons, Pedro and Sebastian, were the ones I was closest to; so, from time to time, they asked me questions, which I answered as we went along.
“Some two years prior to my first learning the events which I am about rehearsing to you, gentlemen, the Town-Ho, Sperm Whaler of Nantucket, was cruising in your Pacific here, not very many days’ sail eastward from the eaves of this good Golden Inn. She was somewhere to the northward of the Line. One morning upon handling the pumps, according to daily usage, it was observed that she made more water in her hold than common. They supposed a sword-fish had stabbed her, gentlemen. But the captain, having some unusual reason for believing that rare good luck awaited him in those latitudes; and therefore being very averse to quit them, and the leak not being then considered at all dangerous, though, indeed, they could not find it after searching the hold as low down as was possible in rather heavy weather, the ship still continued her cruisings, the mariners working at the pumps at wide and easy intervals; but no good luck came; more days went by, and not only was the leak yet undiscovered, but it sensibly increased. So much so, that now taking some alarm, the captain, making all sail, stood away for the nearest harbor among the islands, there to have his hull hove out and repaired.
"About two years before I first heard the events I’m about to share with you, gentlemen, the Town-Ho, a sperm whaling ship from Nantucket, was sailing in your Pacific Ocean, not many days’ journey east of this fine Golden Inn. She was somewhere north of the equator. One morning, while checking the pumps as part of their daily routine, the crew noticed the ship was taking on more water than usual. They figured a swordfish had punctured the hull, gentlemen. But the captain, convinced that extraordinary luck awaited him in those waters, was reluctant to leave. Since the leak didn’t seem dangerous at the time and couldn’t be located even after thoroughly searching the hold in rough weather, the ship continued cruising. The crew manned the pumps periodically without much urgency. However, no good fortune came, and as the days went on, the leak not only remained unfound but seemed to be getting worse. Alarmed by the situation, the captain decided to set full sail and head for the nearest harbor among the islands to have the hull inspected and repaired."
“Though no small passage was before her, yet, if the commonest chance favoured, he did not at all fear that his ship would founder by the way, because his pumps were of the best, and being periodically relieved at them, those six-and-thirty men of his could easily keep the ship free; never mind if the leak should double on her. In truth, well nigh the whole of this passage being attended by very prosperous breezes, the Town-Ho had all but certainly arrived in perfect safety at her port without the occurrence of the least fatality, had it not been for the brutal overbearing of Radney, the mate, a Vineyarder, and the bitterly provoked vengeance of Steelkilt, a Lakeman and desperado from Buffalo.
Though the path ahead of her wasn't exactly easy, he wasn't worried that his ship would sink along the way—especially since the pumps were top-notch. With regular shifts, the 36 men in his crew could keep the ship dry without much trouble, even if the leak worsened. In fact, with mostly favorable winds guiding them, the Town-Ho would have almost certainly made it safely to port without any major incidents—if it hadn’t been for the cruel arrogance of Radney, the mate from Vineyard, and the dangerously provoked revenge of Steelkilt, a tough and rebellious sailor from Buffalo.
“‘Lakeman!—Buffalo! Pray, what is a Lakeman, and where is Buffalo?’ said Don Sebastian, rising in his swinging mat of grass.
“Lakeman! Buffalo! Please, what’s a Lakeman, and where is Buffalo?” asked Don Sebastian, standing up from his swaying grass hammock.
“On the eastern shore of our Lake Erie, Don; but—I crave your courtesy—may be, you shall soon hear further of all that. Now, gentlemen, in square-sail brigs and three-masted ships, well-nigh as large and stout as any that ever sailed out of your old Callao to far Manilla; this Lakeman, in the land-locked heart of our America, had yet been nurtured by all those agrarian freebooting impressions popularly connected with the open ocean. For in their interflowing aggregate, those grand fresh-water seas of ours,—Erie, and Ontario, and Huron, and Superior, and Michigan,—possess an ocean-like expansiveness, with many of the ocean’s noblest traits; with many of its rimmed varieties of races and of climes. They contain round archipelagoes of romantic isles, even as the Polynesian waters do; in large part, are shored by two great contrasting nations, as the Atlantic is; they furnish long maritime approaches to our numerous territorial colonies from the East, dotted all round their banks; here and there are frowned upon by batteries, and by the goat-like craggy guns of lofty Mackinaw; they have heard the fleet thunderings of naval victories; at intervals, they yield their beaches to wild barbarians, whose red painted faces flash from out their peltry wigwams; for leagues and leagues are flanked by ancient and unentered forests, where the gaunt pines stand like serried lines of kings in Gothic genealogies; those same woods harboring wild Afric beasts of prey, and silken creatures whose exported furs give robes to Tartar Emperors; they mirror the paved capitals of Buffalo and Cleveland, as well as Winnebago villages; they float alike the full-rigged merchant ship, the armed cruiser of the State, the steamer, and the beech canoe; they are swept by Borean and dismasting blasts as direful as any that lash the salted wave; they know what shipwrecks are, for out of sight of land, however inland, they have drowned full many a midnight ship with all its shrieking crew. Thus, gentlemen, though an inlander, Steelkilt was wild-ocean born, and wild-ocean nurtured; as much of an audacious mariner as any. And for Radney, though in his infancy he may have laid him down on the lone Nantucket beach, to nurse at his maternal sea; though in after life he had long followed our austere Atlantic and your contemplative Pacific; yet was he quite as vengeful and full of social quarrel as the backwoods seaman, fresh from the latitudes of buck-horn handled Bowie-knives. Yet was this Nantucketer a man with some good-hearted traits; and this Lakeman, a mariner, who though a sort of devil indeed, might yet by inflexible firmness, only tempered by that common decency of human recognition which is the meanest slave’s right; thus treated, this Steelkilt had long been retained harmless and docile. At all events, he had proved so thus far; but Radney was doomed and made mad, and Steelkilt—but, gentlemen, you shall hear.
"On the eastern shore of Lake Erie, Don—but, if you’ll allow me, you might soon hear more about all that. Now, gentlemen, in square-sail brigs and three-masted ships, nearly as large and strong as any that ever sailed from your old Callao to distant Manila, this Lakeman, in the landlocked heart of our America, had still been shaped by the adventurous, seafaring spirit often tied to the open ocean. For in their combined vastness, these great freshwater seas of ours—Erie, Ontario, Huron, Superior, and Michigan—have an ocean-like expanse, sharing many of the sea’s finest characteristics; many of its diverse shores, cultures, and climates. These waters boast picturesque clusters of islands, just like Polynesia. They are bordered by two major, contrasting nations, much like the Atlantic. They provide maritime routes to our many territorial colonies in the East, scattered all along their shores. Here and there, fortifications rise with cannons perched on rocky cliffs like those on Mackinaw Island. They’ve echoed with the thunder of naval battles. Sometimes, their beaches are claimed by fierce natives, their painted faces flashing from fur-covered wigwams. For miles upon miles, they’re bordered by untouched, ancient forests, where towering pine trees stand like ranks of kings from Gothic family lines. These same forests shelter wild African predators and exotic animals; their furs used to create luxurious robes for Tartar emperors. The lakes reflect the paved cities of Buffalo and Cleveland as well as small Winnebago villages. They carry everything from fully-rigged merchant ships and armed state cruisers to steamers and simple canoes. These waters are swept by freezing, mast-snapping gales as fierce as any on the ocean, and they’ve seen their share of shipwrecks. Out of sight of land, even though inland, they’ve swallowed countless ships and their screaming crews at midnight. So, gentlemen, even though Steelkilt was from inland, he was raised with the spirit of the wild ocean and became as daring a sailor as any man could be. As for Radney, he may have been born on the secluded beaches of Nantucket and nursed by the salty sea air as a baby; and later, he spent years on the strict Atlantic and the reflective Pacific. Still, he was just as vengeful and quarrelsome as any backwoods sailor fresh from regions of Bowie knives and rough living. Yet this Nantucketer wasn’t without good qualities, and the Lakeman, though undeniably devilish, could be managed with firm, fair treatment and the basic recognition owed to every human being—even the lowest slave. Under such treatment, Steelkilt had remained tame and cooperative for some time. At least, he had been so far. But Radney was set on provoking him, and Steelkilt—but, gentlemen, you’ll hear the rest soon enough."
“It was not more than a day or two at the furthest after pointing her prow for her island haven, that the Town-Ho’s leak seemed again increasing, but only so as to require an hour or more at the pumps every day. You must know that in a settled and civilized ocean like our Atlantic, for example, some skippers think little of pumping their whole way across it; though of a still, sleepy night, should the officer of the deck happen to forget his duty in that respect, the probability would be that he and his shipmates would never again remember it, on account of all hands gently subsiding to the bottom. Nor in the solitary and savage seas far from you to the westward, gentlemen, is it altogether unusual for ships to keep clanging at their pump-handles in full chorus even for a voyage of considerable length; that is, if it lie along a tolerably accessible coast, or if any other reasonable retreat is afforded them. It is only when a leaky vessel is in some very out of the way part of those waters, some really landless latitude, that her captain begins to feel a little anxious.
"It was just a day or two after setting course for her island destination that the Town-Ho’s leak seemed to be getting worse again, though only enough to require about an hour or more of pumping each day. You should know that in a busy and well-traveled ocean like the Atlantic, for example, some captains don’t think much of pumping the entire way across. However, on a calm, quiet night, if the officer on duty happened to neglect this responsibility, the chances are that he and the crew would never get the chance to remember it—because they’d all silently sink to the ocean floor. Similarly, in the remote and rough seas far to the west, gentlemen, it’s not unheard of for ships to keep relentlessly working the pumps, sounding like a chorus, for entire voyages—provided they’re traveling along a fairly reachable coastline or have some reasonable place to retreat to. It’s only when a leaky ship finds itself in a truly isolated part of the ocean, far from any land, that her captain starts to genuinely worry."
“Much this way had it been with the Town-Ho; so when her leak was found gaining once more, there was in truth some small concern manifested by several of her company; especially by Radney the mate. He commanded the upper sails to be well hoisted, sheeted home anew, and every way expanded to the breeze. Now this Radney, I suppose, was as little of a coward, and as little inclined to any sort of nervous apprehensiveness touching his own person as any fearless, unthinking creature on land or on sea that you can conveniently imagine, gentlemen. Therefore when he betrayed this solicitude about the safety of the ship, some of the seamen declared that it was only on account of his being a part owner in her. So when they were working that evening at the pumps, there was on this head no small gamesomeness slily going on among them, as they stood with their feet continually overflowed by the rippling clear water; clear as any mountain spring, gentlemen—that bubbling from the pumps ran across the deck, and poured itself out in steady spouts at the lee scupper-holes.
It had been much the same with the Town-Ho; so when her leak started worsening again, a few of the crew were genuinely a bit worried, especially Radney, the mate. He ordered the upper sails to be fully raised, secured tightly, and spread out as much as possible to catch the wind. Now, this Radney, I imagine, wasn’t much of a coward and wasn’t the type to get overly nervous about his own safety, just like any bold, thoughtless person you could picture, whether on land or at sea, gentlemen. So, when he showed concern about the ship’s safety, some of the sailors said it was only because he partly owned her. That evening, while they were working the pumps, the crew quietly made fun of him over this, joking among themselves as they stood ankle-deep in constantly flowing, crystal-clear water—clear as any mountain spring, gentlemen—that bubbled from the pumps, ran across the deck, and spilled steadily out of the scupper holes on the lee side.
“Now, as you well know, it is not seldom the case in this conventional world of ours—watery or otherwise; that when a person placed in command over his fellow-men finds one of them to be very significantly his superior in general pride of manhood, straightway against that man he conceives an unconquerable dislike and bitterness; and if he have a chance he will pull down and pulverize that subaltern’s tower, and make a little heap of dust of it. Be this conceit of mine as it may, gentlemen, at all events Steelkilt was a tall and noble animal with a head like a Roman, and a flowing golden beard like the tasseled housings of your last viceroy’s snorting charger; and a brain, and a heart, and a soul in him, gentlemen, which had made Steelkilt Charlemagne, had he been born son to Charlemagne’s father. But Radney, the mate, was ugly as a mule; yet as hardy, as stubborn, as malicious. He did not love Steelkilt, and Steelkilt knew it.
"Now, as you all know, it’s not unusual in this conventional world of ours—whether on land or sea—that when someone in authority over others comes across one of them who is clearly superior in dignity and strength of character, they immediately develop an intense dislike and bitterness toward that person. And if given the chance, they’ll knock him down and destroy his confidence until there’s nothing but dust left. Whatever you make of this idea of mine, gentlemen, the fact remains that Steelkilt was a tall, noble figure with a head like a Roman statue and a flowing golden beard like the decorated trappings of your last viceroy’s proud horse. He had a brilliant mind, a strong heart, and a noble soul, gentlemen, which would have made him Charlemagne himself if he’d been born as Charlemagne’s son. But Radney, the mate, was as ugly as a mule; yet just as tough, stubborn, and spiteful. He didn’t like Steelkilt, and Steelkilt was well aware of it."
“Espying the mate drawing near as he was toiling at the pump with the rest, the Lakeman affected not to notice him, but unawed, went on with his gay banterings.
Seeing the mate coming closer while he was working at the pump with the others, the Lakeman pretended not to notice him and, undeterred, continued with his cheerful joking.
“‘Aye, aye, my merry lads, it’s a lively leak this; hold a cannikin, one of ye, and let’s have a taste. By the Lord, it’s worth bottling! I tell ye what, men, old Rad’s investment must go for it! he had best cut away his part of the hull and tow it home. The fact is, boys, that sword-fish only began the job; he’s come back again with a gang of ship-carpenters, saw-fish, and file-fish, and what not; and the whole posse of ’em are now hard at work cutting and slashing at the bottom; making improvements, I suppose. If old Rad were here now, I’d tell him to jump overboard and scatter ’em. They’re playing the devil with his estate, I can tell him. But he’s a simple old soul,—Rad, and a beauty too. Boys, they say the rest of his property is invested in looking-glasses. I wonder if he’d give a poor devil like me the model of his nose.’
"‘Alright, alright, my lively crew, this is quite a serious leak. Someone grab a mug and let’s have a taste. By God, it’s worth bottling! Listen up, men—old Rad’s investment is in trouble! He’d better cut off his part of the hull and tow it back home. The truth is, guys, that swordfish just started the mess; now he’s back with a crew of shipbuilders—sawfish, filefish, and who knows what else—and they’re all down there working hard, cutting and hacking away at the bottom of the ship. Guess they’re making some improvements. If old Rad were around, I’d tell him to dive in and scare them off. They’re ruining his property, no doubt about that. But Rad’s a simple, kind old guy—and quite a character, too. By the way, they say the rest of his fortune is tied up in mirrors. I wonder if he’d spare a poor guy like me a model of his nose.’"
“‘Damn your eyes! what’s that pump stopping for?’ roared Radney, pretending not to have heard the sailors’ talk. ‘Thunder away at it!’
"Damn your eyes! Why's that pump stopping?" yelled Radney, pretending he didn't hear the sailors talking. "Keep working at it!"
“‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Steelkilt, merry as a cricket. ‘Lively, boys, lively, now!’ And with that the pump clanged like fifty fire-engines; the men tossed their hats off to it, and ere long that peculiar gasping of the lungs was heard which denotes the fullest tension of life’s utmost energies.
"'Yes, sir," said Steelkilt, as cheerful as ever. "Come on, guys, let's keep it moving!" With that, the pump roared like fifty fire trucks; the men threw themselves into it with full force, and soon you could hear that distinct gasping sound that comes from pushing life's energy to its absolute limits.
“Quitting the pump at last, with the rest of his band, the Lakeman went forward all panting, and sat himself down on the windlass; his face fiery red, his eyes bloodshot, and wiping the profuse sweat from his brow. Now what cozening fiend it was, gentlemen, that possessed Radney to meddle with such a man in that corporeally exasperated state, I know not; but so it happened. Intolerably striding along the deck, the mate commanded him to get a broom and sweep down the planks, and also a shovel, and remove some offensive matters consequent upon allowing a pig to run at large.
Finally leaving the pump with the rest of his crew, the Lakeman walked forward, breathing heavily, and sat down on the windlass. His face was blazing red, his eyes bloodshot, and he was wiping the sweat pouring from his brow. Now, what sneaky devil, gentlemen, made Radney decide to mess with a man in such an obviously aggravated state, I have no idea—but it happened. Stomping angrily across the deck, the mate ordered him to grab a broom and sweep the planks, and then get a shovel to clean up some nasty mess left by a pig that had been running loose.
“Now, gentlemen, sweeping a ship’s deck at sea is a piece of household work which in all times but raging gales is regularly attended to every evening; it has been known to be done in the case of ships actually foundering at the time. Such, gentlemen, is the inflexibility of sea-usages and the instinctive love of neatness in seamen; some of whom would not willingly drown without first washing their faces. But in all vessels this broom business is the prescriptive province of the boys, if boys there be aboard. Besides, it was the stronger men in the Town-Ho that had been divided into gangs, taking turns at the pumps; and being the most athletic seaman of them all, Steelkilt had been regularly assigned captain of one of the gangs; consequently he should have been freed from any trivial business not connected with truly nautical duties, such being the case with his comrades. I mention all these particulars so that you may understand exactly how this affair stood between the two men.
“Now, gentlemen, sweeping a ship’s deck at sea is a routine chore that, except during raging storms, is always done every evening; there are even cases where it’s been done on ships that were sinking at the time. That’s how unshakable maritime traditions are and how much sailors instinctively value cleanliness—some of them wouldn’t want to drown without first washing their faces. But on all ships, this sweeping duty typically belongs to the boys, if there are any on board. Besides, the stronger men on the Town-Ho had already been split into groups, taking shifts at the pumps, and since Steelkilt was the strongest sailor among them, he had been made the leader of one of the teams. Because of that, he should’ve been excused from any minor tasks unrelated to actual seafaring duties, as was the case with his fellow crew members. I’m telling you all this so you can clearly understand the situation between these two men.”
“But there was more than this: the order about the shovel was almost as plainly meant to sting and insult Steelkilt, as though Radney had spat in his face. Any man who has gone sailor in a whale-ship will understand this; and all this and doubtless much more, the Lakeman fully comprehended when the mate uttered his command. But as he sat still for a moment, and as he steadfastly looked into the mate’s malignant eye and perceived the stacks of powder-casks heaped up in him and the slow-match silently burning along towards them; as he instinctively saw all this, that strange forbearance and unwillingness to stir up the deeper passionateness in any already ireful being—a repugnance most felt, when felt at all, by really valiant men even when aggrieved—this nameless phantom feeling, gentlemen, stole over Steelkilt.
But there was more to it: the order about the shovel was almost as clearly meant to provoke and insult Steelkilt as if Radney had spat in his face. Anyone who’s worked as a sailor on a whaling ship would understand this; and Steelkilt understood all that, and probably much more, when the mate gave his command. But as he sat there for a moment, looking straight into the mate’s spiteful eyes and sensing the explosive anger simmering beneath the surface—like a stack of powder kegs with a fuse quietly burning toward them—he instinctively grasped the situation. And in that moment, a strange restraint overcame him, a hesitation to ignite deeper rage in someone already consumed by anger—an aversion most strongly felt, if at all, by truly brave men, even when wronged. This unnameable, ghost-like feeling crept over Steelkilt.
“Therefore, in his ordinary tone, only a little broken by the bodily exhaustion he was temporarily in, he answered him saying that sweeping the deck was not his business, and he would not do it. And then, without at all alluding to the shovel, he pointed to three lads as the customary sweepers; who, not being billeted at the pumps, had done little or nothing all day. To this, Radney replied with an oath, in a most domineering and outrageous manner unconditionally reiterating his command; meanwhile advancing upon the still seated Lakeman, with an uplifted cooper’s club hammer which he had snatched from a cask near by.
"Using his usual tone, only slightly weakened by his temporary physical exhaustion, he responded calmly, saying that sweeping the deck wasn’t his job, and he wasn’t going to do it. Instead, without even mentioning the shovel, he pointed out three boys who were typically assigned to sweeping duties and hadn’t done much all day since they weren’t stationed at the pumps. In response, Radney swore angrily and, in a harsh and overbearing way, repeated his order without any room for argument. At the same time, he started moving toward the still-seated Lakeman, holding a raised cooper’s club hammer he had grabbed from a nearby barrel."
“Heated and irritated as he was by his spasmodic toil at the pumps, for all his first nameless feeling of forbearance the sweating Steelkilt could but ill brook this bearing in the mate; but somehow still smothering the conflagration within him, without speaking he remained doggedly rooted to his seat, till at last the incensed Radney shook the hammer within a few inches of his face, furiously commanding him to do his bidding.
Frustrated and annoyed from his frantic work at the pumps, despite his initial unspoken feeling of tolerance, the sweating Steelkilt could barely stand the mate's attitude. But somehow, he managed to suppress the rage burning inside him and stayed stubbornly seated without saying a word—until Radney, now furious, waved the hammer just inches from his face and angrily ordered him to obey.
“Steelkilt rose, and slowly retreating round the windlass, steadily followed by the mate with his menacing hammer, deliberately repeated his intention not to obey. Seeing, however, that his forbearance had not the slightest effect, by an awful and unspeakable intimation with his twisted hand he warned off the foolish and infatuated man; but it was to no purpose. And in this way the two went once slowly round the windlass; when, resolved at last no longer to retreat, bethinking him that he had now forborne as much as comported with his humor, the Lakeman paused on the hatches and thus spoke to the officer:
“Steelkilt stood up, slowly backed away around the windlass, and was steadily followed by the mate holding his threatening hammer. Calmly, he repeated that he would not obey. However, when he saw that his restraint wasn’t having any effect, he made a grim and unspoken warning with his clenched hand to ward off the stubborn and reckless man—but it was useless. The two continued to circle the windlass, slow and deliberate, until Steelkilt finally decided he wasn’t going to retreat any further. Realizing he had shown all the restraint his mood would allow, the Lakeman stopped on the hatches and spoke directly to the officer:”
“‘Mr. Radney, I will not obey you. Take that hammer away, or look to yourself.’ But the predestinated mate coming still closer to him, where the Lakeman stood fixed, now shook the heavy hammer within an inch of his teeth; meanwhile repeating a string of insufferable maledictions. Retreating not the thousandth part of an inch; stabbing him in the eye with the unflinching poniard of his glance, Steelkilt, clenching his right hand behind him and creepingly drawing it back, told his persecutor that if the hammer but grazed his cheek he (Steelkilt) would murder him. But, gentlemen, the fool had been branded for the slaughter by the gods. Immediately the hammer touched the cheek; the next instant the lower jaw of the mate was stove in his head; he fell on the hatch spouting blood like a whale.
"‘Mr. Radney, I’m not going to obey you. Put that hammer down, or deal with the consequences.’ But as the determined mate moved even closer, where the Lakeman stood unmoving, he swung the heavy hammer just an inch from his face, spewing out a stream of unbearable curses. Without retreating even a fraction of an inch, glaring at him with an unyielding, dagger-like stare, Steelkilt, his right hand clenched behind his back and slowly pulling it back, warned his tormentor that if the hammer so much as brushed his cheek, he (Steelkilt) would kill him. But, gentlemen, fate had already marked the fool for destruction. The hammer grazed his cheek; in the next moment, Steelkilt’s fist crushed the mate’s lower jaw into his skull, and he dropped to the deck, gushing blood like a harpooned whale."
“Ere the cry could go aft Steelkilt was shaking one of the backstays leading far aloft to where two of his comrades were standing their mastheads. They were both Canallers.
"Before the shout could reach the back of the ship, Steelkilt was climbing one of the backstays, heading high up to where two of his comrades were stationed at their mastheads. Both of them were Canallers."
“‘Canallers!’ cried Don Pedro. ‘We have seen many whale-ships in our harbours, but never heard of your Canallers. Pardon: who and what are they?’
"'Canallers!' shouted Don Pedro. 'We've seen lots of whaling ships in our harbors, but we've never heard of your Canallers. Excuse me, but who and what are they?'"
“‘Canallers, Don, are the boatmen belonging to our grand Erie Canal. You must have heard of it.’
"‘Canallers, Don, are the guys who work on the boats along the great Erie Canal. You’ve heard of it, right?’"
“‘Nay, Senor; hereabouts in this dull, warm, most lazy, and hereditary land, we know but little of your vigorous North.’
"'No, sir; around here in this quiet, warm, sluggish, and old-fashioned land, we know very little about your energetic North.'"
“‘Aye? Well then, Don, refill my cup. Your chicha’s very fine; and ere proceeding further I will tell ye what our Canallers are; for such information may throw side-light upon my story.’
"Ah? Well then, Don, refill my cup. Your chicha is excellent; and before going any further, I'll tell you what our Canallers are, since that might shed some light on my story."
“For three hundred and sixty miles, gentlemen, through the entire breadth of the state of New York; through numerous populous cities and most thriving villages; through long, dismal, uninhabited swamps, and affluent, cultivated fields, unrivalled for fertility; by billiard-room and bar-room; through the holy-of-holies of great forests; on Roman arches over Indian rivers; through sun and shade; by happy hearts or broken; through all the wide contrasting scenery of those noble Mohawk counties; and especially, by rows of snow-white chapels, whose spires stand almost like milestones, flows one continual stream of Venetianly corrupt and often lawless life. There’s your true Ashantee, gentlemen; there howl your pagans; where you ever find them, next door to you; under the long-flung shadow, and the snug patronising lee of churches. For by some curious fatality, as it is often noted of your metropolitan freebooters that they ever encamp around the halls of justice, so sinners, gentlemen, most abound in holiest vicinities.
"For 360 miles, gentlemen, across the whole state of New York; through bustling cities and thriving towns; through long, eerie, uninhabited swamps and rich, cultivated fields unmatched in fertility; past pool halls and bars; through the heart of vast forests; over rivers on Roman-style bridges; through sunlight and shadows; by people full of joy or despair; across the strikingly varied landscapes of those noble Mohawk counties; and especially, passing rows of pristine white churches, whose steeples rise like milestones—there flows a constant stream of morally decayed and often lawless life. That, gentlemen, is your real wilderness; that’s where your pagans roam, living next door to you, right under the protective shadow and cozy support of churches. Because, strangely enough, just as city criminals are often found near courthouses, sinners, gentlemen, are most abundant in the holiest of places."
“‘Is that a friar passing?’ said Don Pedro, looking downwards into the crowded plazza, with humorous concern.
"‘Is that a friar walking by?’ said Don Pedro, glancing down into the busy plaza with a hint of humor."
“‘Well for our northern friend, Dame Isabella’s Inquisition wanes in Lima,’ laughed Don Sebastian. ‘Proceed, Senor.’
"'It's good for our northern friend that Dame Isabella's Inquisition is losing its grip in Lima,' laughed Don Sebastian. 'Go on, Señor.'"
“‘A moment! Pardon!’ cried another of the company. ‘In the name of all us Limeese, I but desire to express to you, sir sailor, that we have by no means overlooked your delicacy in not substituting present Lima for distant Venice in your corrupt comparison. Oh! do not bow and look surprised; you know the proverb all along this coast—“Corrupt as Lima.” It but bears out your saying, too; churches more plentiful than billiard-tables, and for ever open—and “Corrupt as Lima.” So, too, Venice; I have been there; the holy city of the blessed evangelist, St. Mark!—St. Dominic, purge it! Your cup! Thanks: here I refill; now, you pour out again.’
"Wait a moment! Excuse me!" shouted another person in the group. "On behalf of all us Limeños, I just want to thank you, sailor, for not replacing distant Venice with present-day Lima in your unfortunate comparison. Oh, don’t bow and act surprised; you know the saying here on this coast—‘Corrupt as Lima.’ It only supports what you’re saying too: churches outnumber billiard tables and are always open—yet ‘corrupt as Lima.’ The same goes for Venice; I’ve been there—the holy city of St. Mark, the blessed evangelist! St. Dominic, cleanse it! Your drink! Thank you: I’ll refill it, and now you can pour again."
“Freely depicted in his own vocation, gentlemen, the Canaller would make a fine dramatic hero, so abundantly and picturesquely wicked is he. Like Mark Antony, for days and days along his green-turfed, flowery Nile, he indolently floats, openly toying with his red-cheeked Cleopatra, ripening his apricot thigh upon the sunny deck. But ashore, all this effeminacy is dashed. The brigandish guise which the Canaller so proudly sports; his slouched and gaily-ribboned hat betoken his grand features. A terror to the smiling innocence of the villages through which he floats; his swart visage and bold swagger are not unshunned in cities. Once a vagabond on his own canal, I have received good turns from one of these Canallers; I thank him heartily; would fain be not ungrateful; but it is often one of the prime redeeming qualities of your man of violence, that at times he has as stiff an arm to back a poor stranger in a strait, as to plunder a wealthy one. In sum, gentlemen, what the wildness of this canal life is, is emphatically evinced by this; that our wild whale-fishery contains so many of its most finished graduates, and that scarce any race of mankind, except Sydney men, are so much distrusted by our whaling captains. Nor does it at all diminish the curiousness of this matter, that to many thousands of our rural boys and young men born along its line, the probationary life of the Grand Canal furnishes the sole transition between quietly reaping in a Christian corn-field, and recklessly ploughing the waters of the most barbaric seas.
In his own line of work, gentlemen, the Canaller could easily make a striking dramatic hero, as he is so vividly and extravagantly wicked. Much like Mark Antony, he spends days floating lazily along his lush, flower-lined canal, openly flirting with his rosy-cheeked Cleopatra and lounging in the sun as his thigh tans on the deck. But once on land, all that softness vanishes. The Canaller takes on a bold, brigand-like look, complete with a slouched, ribbon-decorated hat that highlights his rugged features. A figure of fear to the cheerful innocence of the towns he passes through, his dark face and confident swagger are not entirely unnoticed in cities either. Having once been a wanderer on his own canal myself, I’ve been helped more than once by one of these Canallers; I thank him sincerely and wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful. It’s often one of the redeeming qualities of men like this—who live by violence—that they’ll sometimes use their strength just as readily to help a struggling stranger as they would to rob a wealthy one. In summary, gentlemen, the wildness of life along the canal is no small thing, as is clearly shown by the fact that so many of the best and bravest from our wild whaling industry come from it—and that very few groups of people, aside from old Sydney men, are as distrusted by whaling captains. What makes it even more remarkable is this: for thousands of rural boys and young men born alongside the canal, the life they begin there is often the only step between peacefully harvesting crops in a Christian field and fearlessly navigating the waters of the most savage oceans.
“‘I see! I see!’ impetuously exclaimed Don Pedro, spilling his chicha upon his silvery ruffles. ‘No need to travel! The world’s one Lima. I had thought, now, that at your temperate North the generations were cold and holy as the hills.—But the story.’
"I see! I see!" exclaimed Don Pedro impulsively, spilling his chicha on his shiny ruffles. "No need to travel! The whole world is just one Lima. I had thought that in your mild North, people were as calm and pure as the mountains. But go on with the story."
“I left off, gentlemen, where the Lakeman shook the backstay. Hardly had he done so, when he was surrounded by the three junior mates and the four harpooneers, who all crowded him to the deck. But sliding down the ropes like baleful comets, the two Canallers rushed into the uproar, and sought to drag their man out of it towards the forecastle. Others of the sailors joined with them in this attempt, and a twisted turmoil ensued; while standing out of harm’s way, the valiant captain danced up and down with a whale-pike, calling upon his officers to manhandle that atrocious scoundrel, and smoke him along to the quarter-deck. At intervals, he ran close up to the revolving border of the confusion, and prying into the heart of it with his pike, sought to prick out the object of his resentment. But Steelkilt and his desperadoes were too much for them all; they succeeded in gaining the forecastle deck, where, hastily slewing about three or four large casks in a line with the windlass, these sea-Parisians entrenched themselves behind the barricade.
"I left off, everyone, where the Lakeman shook the backstay. He had barely done that when the three junior officers and the four harpooneers surrounded him, forcing him to the deck. But sliding down the ropes like fiery meteors, the two Canallers jumped into the chaos, trying to pull their man away toward the forecastle. A few other sailors joined in to help them, and everything descended into a wild mess. Meanwhile, staying safely out of the fray, the bold captain hopped around with a whale-pike in hand, yelling at his officers to rough up that scoundrel and drag him to the quarterdeck. Occasionally, he would approach the edge of the brawl, and using his pike, poke into the mass, trying to single out the target of his anger. But Steelkilt and his crew were too strong for them. They managed to retreat to the forecastle deck, where they quickly rolled three or four big casks into a line near the windlass, creating a barricade to fortify their position like revolutionaries."
“‘Come out of that, ye pirates!’ roared the captain, now menacing them with a pistol in each hand, just brought to him by the steward. ‘Come out of that, ye cut-throats!’
"Get out of there, you pirates!" shouted the captain, now threatening them with a pistol in each hand, just handed to him by the steward. "Get out of there, you cutthroats!"
“Steelkilt leaped on the barricade, and striding up and down there, defied the worst the pistols could do; but gave the captain to understand distinctly, that his (Steelkilt’s) death would be the signal for a murderous mutiny on the part of all hands. Fearing in his heart lest this might prove but too true, the captain a little desisted, but still commanded the insurgents instantly to return to their duty.
Steelkilt jumped onto the barricade, pacing back and forth, daring the pistols to do their worst. He made it very clear to the captain that his (Steelkilt's) death would trigger a violent mutiny from the entire crew. Worried in his heart that this threat might be all too real, the captain backed off slightly but still ordered the rebels to return to their duties immediately.
“‘Will you promise not to touch us, if we do?’ demanded their ringleader.
"'Will you promise not to harm us if we agree?' asked their leader."
“‘Turn to! turn to!—I make no promise;—to your duty! Do you want to sink the ship, by knocking off at a time like this? Turn to!’ and he once more raised a pistol.
“Get to work! Get to work!—I’m not promising anything;—just do your job! Do you want to sink the ship by slacking off at a time like this? Get to work!” And he raised a pistol again.
“‘Sink the ship?’ cried Steelkilt. ‘Aye, let her sink. Not a man of us turns to, unless you swear not to raise a rope-yarn against us. What say ye, men?’ turning to his comrades. A fierce cheer was their response.
"'Sink the ship?' yelled Steelkilt. 'Yeah, let her sink. None of us will lift a finger unless you swear not to lay a hand against us. What do you say, men?' he asked, turning to his crew. Their response was a wild cheer."
“The Lakeman now patrolled the barricade, all the while keeping his eye on the Captain, and jerking out such sentences as these:—‘It’s not our fault; we didn’t want it; I told him to take his hammer away; it was boy’s business; he might have known me before this; I told him not to prick the buffalo; I believe I have broken a finger here against his cursed jaw; ain’t those mincing knives down in the forecastle there, men? look to those handspikes, my hearties. Captain, by God, look to yourself; say the word; don’t be a fool; forget it all; we are ready to turn to; treat us decently, and we’re your men; but we won’t be flogged.’
The Lakeman now paced back and forth along the barricade, keeping an eye on the Captain and throwing out comments like, “It’s not our fault; we didn’t want this; I told him to put his hammer down; it was kid’s stuff; he should’ve known better by now; I told him not to mess with the buffalo; I think I’ve broken a finger against his damn jaw; aren’t there some sharp knives down in the forecastle, guys? check those handspikes, my friends. Captain, for God’s sake, watch yourself; just say the word; don’t be stupid; forget the whole thing; we’re ready to get back to work; treat us fairly, and we’ll stand by you; but we refuse to be whipped.”
“‘Turn to! I make no promises, turn to, I say!’
"Get to work! I’m not making any promises—get to it, I said!"
“‘Look ye, now,’ cried the Lakeman, flinging out his arm towards him, ‘there are a few of us here (and I am one of them) who have shipped for the cruise, d’ye see; now as you well know, sir, we can claim our discharge as soon as the anchor is down; so we don’t want a row; it’s not our interest; we want to be peaceable; we are ready to work, but we won’t be flogged.’
"Listen here," shouted the Lakeman, throwing his arm out toward him, "there are a few of us here (and I'm one of them) who signed up for this trip, you see. Now, as you well know, sir, we can leave as soon as the anchor drops. So we’re not looking for trouble; it’s not in our interest. We want to keep things calm. We’re willing to work, but we won’t be whipped."
“‘Turn to!’ roared the Captain.
“‘Turn to!’ shouted the Captain.
“Steelkilt glanced round him a moment, and then said:—‘I tell you what it is now, Captain, rather than kill ye, and be hung for such a shabby rascal, we won’t lift a hand against ye unless ye attack us; but till you say the word about not flogging us, we don’t do a hand’s turn.’
Steelkilt looked around for a moment and then said, "I'll tell you what, Captain. Rather than kill you and get hanged for such a lowlife, we won't lay a hand on you unless you come at us first. But until you promise not to flog us, we’re not lifting a finger to work."
“‘Down into the forecastle then, down with ye, I’ll keep ye there till ye’re sick of it. Down ye go.’
"Get down to the forecastle, then. Get down there, and I'll keep you there until you're sick of it. Go on, get down."
“‘Shall we?’ cried the ringleader to his men. Most of them were against it; but at length, in obedience to Steelkilt, they preceded him down into their dark den, growlingly disappearing, like bears into a cave.
"‘Shall we?’ shouted the leader to his crew. Most of them were against it, but eventually, following Steelkilt’s orders, they went ahead of him down into their dark quarters, grumbling like bears retreating into a cave."
“As the Lakeman’s bare head was just level with the planks, the Captain and his posse leaped the barricade, and rapidly drawing over the slide of the scuttle, planted their group of hands upon it, and loudly called for the steward to bring the heavy brass padlock belonging to the companionway. Then opening the slide a little, the Captain whispered something down the crack, closed it, and turned the key upon them—ten in number—leaving on deck some twenty or more, who thus far had remained neutral.
As the Lakeman’s uncovered head was just level with the planks, the Captain and his crew jumped over the barricade, quickly slid the scuttle closed, and pressed their hands firmly on it while loudly shouting for the steward to bring the heavy brass padlock for the companionway. Then, the Captain cracked the slide open a bit, whispered something down through the gap, shut it again, and locked it tight—trapping ten men inside. Meanwhile, about twenty others remained on deck, still neutral in the situation so far.
“All night a wide-awake watch was kept by all the officers, forward and aft, especially about the forecastle scuttle and fore hatchway; at which last place it was feared the insurgents might emerge, after breaking through the bulkhead below. But the hours of darkness passed in peace; the men who still remained at their duty toiling hard at the pumps, whose clinking and clanking at intervals through the dreary night dismally resounded through the ship.
All night, the officers kept an alert watch, both at the front and back of the ship, especially around the forecastle hatch and the front hatchway. There was concern that the mutineers might break through the bulkhead below and come up from there. However, the dark hours passed without incident. The crew members still loyal to their duties worked tirelessly at the pumps, which echoed with a dreary clinking and clanking throughout the long, gloomy night.
“At sunrise the Captain went forward, and knocking on the deck, summoned the prisoners to work; but with a yell they refused. Water was then lowered down to them, and a couple of handfuls of biscuit were tossed after it; when again turning the key upon them and pocketing it, the Captain returned to the quarter-deck. Twice every day for three days this was repeated; but on the fourth morning a confused wrangling, and then a scuffling was heard, as the customary summons was delivered; and suddenly four men burst up from the forecastle, saying they were ready to turn to. The fetid closeness of the air, and a famishing diet, united perhaps to some fears of ultimate retribution, had constrained them to surrender at discretion. Emboldened by this, the Captain reiterated his demand to the rest, but Steelkilt shouted up to him a terrific hint to stop his babbling and betake himself where he belonged. On the fifth morning three others of the mutineers bolted up into the air from the desperate arms below that sought to restrain them. Only three were left.
At sunrise, the Captain went to the front of the ship, knocked on the deck, and ordered the prisoners to start working. They screamed and refused. He lowered some water down to them and tossed in a couple of handfuls of biscuits. Then, locking them back in and pocketing the key, he returned to the quarterdeck. This routine was repeated twice a day for three days. On the fourth morning, though, a chaotic argument followed by scuffling was heard when the usual orders were given. Suddenly, four men burst out of the forecastle, saying they were ready to get to work. The suffocating air below, combined with their starvation and perhaps fear of harsher punishment, had forced them to give in. Encouraged by this, the Captain repeated his demand to the others, but Steelkilt shouted back a chilling warning, telling him to shut up and go away. By the fifth morning, three more mutineers fought their way out, escaping from the desperate grips of those still trying to restrain them below. Only three men remained.
“‘Better turn to, now?’ said the Captain with a heartless jeer.
"‘Feeling ready to get to work now?’ said the Captain with a cold sneer."
“‘Shut us up again, will ye!’ cried Steelkilt.
“‘Lock us up again, will you!’ shouted Steelkilt.
“‘Oh certainly,’ said the Captain, and the key clicked.
"‘Oh, of course,’ said the Captain, and the key turned with a click."
“It was at this point, gentlemen, that enraged by the defection of seven of his former associates, and stung by the mocking voice that had last hailed him, and maddened by his long entombment in a place as black as the bowels of despair; it was then that Steelkilt proposed to the two Canallers, thus far apparently of one mind with him, to burst out of their hole at the next summoning of the garrison; and armed with their keen mincing knives (long, crescentic, heavy implements with a handle at each end) run amuck from the bowsprit to the taffrail; and if by any devilishness of desperation possible, seize the ship. For himself, he would do this, he said, whether they joined him or not. That was the last night he should spend in that den. But the scheme met with no opposition on the part of the other two; they swore they were ready for that, or for any other mad thing, for anything in short but a surrender. And what was more, they each insisted upon being the first man on deck, when the time to make the rush should come. But to this their leader as fiercely objected, reserving that priority for himself; particularly as his two comrades would not yield, the one to the other, in the matter; and both of them could not be first, for the ladder would but admit one man at a time. And here, gentlemen, the foul play of these miscreants must come out.
At this point, gentlemen, Steelkilt, furious at being betrayed by seven of his former allies, angered by the mocking voice that had taunted him last, and driven mad from being trapped so long in a place as dark and hopeless as despair itself, made a bold proposal to the two Canallers, who up until now seemed to agree with him. He suggested bursting out of their confinement the next time the guards came, armed with their sharp, crescent-shaped mincing knives—heavy tools with handles on either end—and charging through the ship, from the bowsprit to the taffrail. If desperation gave them even the slightest chance, they would try to seize control of the ship. For his part, he declared that he would do this with or without their help. He swore it would be his last night in that dungeon. Surprisingly, the plan faced no resistance from the other two; instead, they swore they were just as ready for this or any other act of madness as long as it didn’t involve outright surrender. In fact, each insisted on being the first to climb on deck when the time came for their bold attack. However, their leader fiercely rejected this, claiming the right to go first himself. His reasoning was simple—his two comrades refused to give way to one another on this matter, and since the ladder could only allow one person up at a time, both of them couldn’t go first. And so, gentlemen, this is where the treachery of these scoundrels must be revealed.
“Upon hearing the frantic project of their leader, each in his own separate soul had suddenly lighted, it would seem, upon the same piece of treachery, namely: to be foremost in breaking out, in order to be the first of the three, though the last of the ten, to surrender; and thereby secure whatever small chance of pardon such conduct might merit. But when Steelkilt made known his determination still to lead them to the last, they in some way, by some subtle chemistry of villany, mixed their before secret treacheries together; and when their leader fell into a doze, verbally opened their souls to each other in three sentences; and bound the sleeper with cords, and gagged him with cords; and shrieked out for the Captain at midnight.
When their leader revealed his desperate plan, each one, deep down, seemed to come up with the same act of betrayal: to be the first to break free, becoming the first of the group to surrender, even if it meant being the last out of the ten to do so, hoping that such an action might win them a slim chance of pardon. But when Steelkilt firmly declared he would still lead them to the end, they somehow blended their hidden betrayals into a shared scheme. Using some twisted instinct for treachery, they conspired, and as soon as their leader drifted off to sleep, they exchanged a few words to confirm their plot. They tied him up, gagged him, and at midnight, shouted for the Captain.
“Thinking murder at hand, and smelling in the dark for the blood, he and all his armed mates and harpooneers rushed for the forecastle. In a few minutes the scuttle was opened, and, bound hand and foot, the still struggling ringleader was shoved up into the air by his perfidious allies, who at once claimed the honor of securing a man who had been fully ripe for murder. But all these were collared, and dragged along the deck like dead cattle; and, side by side, were seized up into the mizzen rigging, like three quarters of meat, and there they hung till morning. ‘Damn ye,’ cried the Captain, pacing to and fro before them, ‘the vultures would not touch ye, ye villains!’
"Thinking murder was about to happen and sniffing around in the dark for blood, he and his armed crew, along with the harpooners, rushed to the forecastle. Within minutes, they opened the hatch, and the still-struggling ringleader—tied up hand and foot—was pushed up into the open by his treacherous accomplices, who immediately claimed credit for capturing a man on the verge of murder. But all of these were grabbed by the collar and dragged across the deck like dead cattle. Side by side, they were tied up in the mizzen rigging like slabs of meat and left hanging there until morning. ‘Damn you,’ yelled the Captain, pacing back and forth in front of them. ‘Even the vultures wouldn’t touch you, you scoundrels!’"
“At sunrise he summoned all hands; and separating those who had rebelled from those who had taken no part in the mutiny, he told the former that he had a good mind to flog them all round—thought, upon the whole, he would do so—he ought to—justice demanded it; but for the present, considering their timely surrender, he would let them go with a reprimand, which he accordingly administered in the vernacular.
At sunrise, he called everyone together and separated those who had taken part in the rebellion from those who hadn't. He told the rebels that he was strongly considering punishing all of them—felt like he should—it was the right thing to do; however, for now, since they had surrendered in time, he would let them off with a scolding, which he then delivered in plain language.
“‘But as for you, ye carrion rogues,’ turning to the three men in the rigging—‘for you, I mean to mince ye up for the try-pots;’ and, seizing a rope, he applied it with all his might to the backs of the two traitors, till they yelled no more, but lifelessly hung their heads sideways, as the two crucified thieves are drawn.
"But as for you, you worthless scoundrels," he said, turning to the three men in the rigging, "I plan to chop you up for the try-pots." Grabbing a rope, he lashed it with all his strength against the backs of the two traitors until they stopped yelling and their heads drooped lifelessly to the side, like the two crucified thieves are often depicted.
“‘My wrist is sprained with ye!’ he cried, at last; ‘but there is still rope enough left for you, my fine bantam, that wouldn’t give up. Take that gag from his mouth, and let us hear what he can say for himself.’
"My wrist is strained because of you!" he finally shouted. "But there's still enough rope left for you, my proud little rooster who wouldn't back down. Take that gag out of his mouth and let's hear what he has to say for himself."
“For a moment the exhausted mutineer made a tremulous motion of his cramped jaws, and then painfully twisting round his head, said in a sort of hiss, ‘What I say is this—and mind it well—if you flog me, I murder you!’
"For a moment, the worn-out mutineer shakily moved his stiff jaws, then, with great effort, twisted his head around and hissed, 'Here's what I’m saying—listen carefully—if you whip me, I’ll kill you!'"
“‘Say ye so? then see how ye frighten me’—and the Captain drew off with the rope to strike.
"'Oh, is that so? Then watch how you scare me,' said the Captain as he stepped back with the rope to strike."
“‘Best not,’ hissed the Lakeman.
“‘Better not,’ hissed the Lakeman.
“‘But I must,’—and the rope was once more drawn back for the stroke.
"But I have to,"—and the rope was pulled back again for the strike.
“Steelkilt here hissed out something, inaudible to all but the Captain; who, to the amazement of all hands, started back, paced the deck rapidly two or three times, and then suddenly throwing down his rope, said, ‘I won’t do it—let him go—cut him down: d’ye hear?’
"Steelkilt whispered something only the Captain could hear. To everyone’s surprise, the Captain stepped back, paced the deck quickly a few times, and then suddenly threw down his rope and said, 'I’m not doing it—let him go—cut him loose, you hear?'"
“But as the junior mates were hurrying to execute the order, a pale man, with a bandaged head, arrested them—Radney the chief mate. Ever since the blow, he had lain in his berth; but that morning, hearing the tumult on the deck, he had crept out, and thus far had watched the whole scene. Such was the state of his mouth, that he could hardly speak; but mumbling something about his being willing and able to do what the captain dared not attempt, he snatched the rope and advanced to his pinioned foe.
But as the junior mates rushed to carry out the order, a pale man with a bandaged head stopped them—Radney, the chief mate. Ever since the injury, he had been confined to his bunk; but that morning, hearing the commotion on deck, he had dragged himself out and had been observing the entire scene. His mouth was in such bad shape that he could barely talk, but mumbling something about being willing and capable of doing what the captain wouldn’t dare try, he grabbed the rope and approached his restrained enemy.
“‘You are a coward!’ hissed the Lakeman.
"You’re a coward!" hissed the Lakeman.
“‘So I am, but take that.’ The mate was in the very act of striking, when another hiss stayed his uplifted arm. He paused: and then pausing no more, made good his word, spite of Steelkilt’s threat, whatever that might have been. The three men were then cut down, all hands were turned to, and, sullenly worked by the moody seamen, the iron pumps clanged as before.
"'That's right, but take this.' The mate was just about to strike when another hiss stopped his raised arm. He hesitated for a moment, but then, without waiting any longer, followed through on his word, ignoring Steelkilt's threat, whatever it was. The three men were then untied, everyone got back to work, and with the crew working grimly in a bad mood, the iron pumps clanged on as usual."
“Just after dark that day, when one watch had retired below, a clamor was heard in the forecastle; and the two trembling traitors running up, besieged the cabin door, saying they durst not consort with the crew. Entreaties, cuffs, and kicks could not drive them back, so at their own instance they were put down in the ship’s run for salvation. Still, no sign of mutiny reappeared among the rest. On the contrary, it seemed, that mainly at Steelkilt’s instigation, they had resolved to maintain the strictest peacefulness, obey all orders to the last, and, when the ship reached port, desert her in a body. But in order to insure the speediest end to the voyage, they all agreed to another thing—namely, not to sing out for whales, in case any should be discovered. For, spite of her leak, and spite of all her other perils, the Town-Ho still maintained her mast-heads, and her captain was just as willing to lower for a fish that moment, as on the day his craft first struck the cruising ground; and Radney the mate was quite as ready to change his berth for a boat, and with his bandaged mouth seek to gag in death the vital jaw of the whale.
Later that evening, just after dark, when one shift had gone below deck, a commotion broke out in the forecastle. The two frightened traitors ran up to the cabin door, begging for protection, saying they were too scared to stay with the crew. Pleads, slaps, and kicks couldn’t force them back, so, at their own request, they were locked down in the ship’s hold for their own safety. Still, there were no signs of mutiny from the rest of the crew. On the contrary, largely due to Steelkilt’s influence, they had decided to stay completely peaceful, obey all orders until the end, and then desert the ship as a group when they reached port. However, to speed up the end of the voyage, they all agreed on another measure: they wouldn’t call out for whales if they spotted any. Despite the ship’s leak and all its other dangers, the Town-Ho still had its masts intact, and the captain was just as eager to hunt whales as he had been on the first day they started cruising. Radney, the mate, was just as willing to swap his position on the ship for a spot in the whaleboat and, even with his bandaged mouth, risk his life to attack the deadly jaws of a whale.
“But though the Lakeman had induced the seamen to adopt this sort of passiveness in their conduct, he kept his own counsel (at least till all was over) concerning his own proper and private revenge upon the man who had stung him in the ventricles of his heart. He was in Radney the chief mate’s watch; and as if the infatuated man sought to run more than half way to meet his doom, after the scene at the rigging, he insisted, against the express counsel of the captain, upon resuming the head of his watch at night. Upon this, and one or two other circumstances, Steelkilt systematically built the plan of his revenge.
But even though the Lakeman had convinced the crew to take a passive approach in their actions, he kept his own thoughts to himself (at least until everything was said and done) about his personal and private revenge against the man who had struck deep into his heart. He was in Radney, the chief mate's, watch; and as if the foolish man was determined to hasten his own fate, after the incident at the rigging, he insisted—despite the captain's clear advice—on taking back control of his watch that night. Using this and a couple of other incidents, Steelkilt carefully laid out his plan for revenge.
“During the night, Radney had an unseamanlike way of sitting on the bulwarks of the quarter-deck, and leaning his arm upon the gunwale of the boat which was hoisted up there, a little above the ship’s side. In this attitude, it was well known, he sometimes dozed. There was a considerable vacancy between the boat and the ship, and down between this was the sea. Steelkilt calculated his time, and found that his next trick at the helm would come round at two o’clock, in the morning of the third day from that in which he had been betrayed. At his leisure, he employed the interval in braiding something very carefully in his watches below.
"At night, Radney had this unprofessional habit of sitting on the edge of the quarterdeck and resting his arm on the side of the boat hoisted just above the ship’s edge. People knew he sometimes dozed off like that. There was a big gap between the boat and the ship, with the sea below. Steelkilt timed things out and realized his next shift at the helm would happen at 2 a.m. on the third day after he had been betrayed. In his spare time, he spent the wait carefully braiding something during his off-duty hours."
“‘What are you making there?’ said a shipmate.
"What are you working on over there?" asked a crewmate.
“‘What do you think? what does it look like?’
"What do you think? What does it seem like?"
“‘Like a lanyard for your bag; but it’s an odd one, seems to me.’
"‘It’s like a strap for your bag, but it’s kind of weird, if you ask me.’"
“‘Yes, rather oddish,’ said the Lakeman, holding it at arm’s length before him; ‘but I think it will answer. Shipmate, I haven’t enough twine,—have you any?’
"'Yeah, kind of strange,' said the Lakeman, holding it out at arm's length in front of him. 'But I think it'll do. Hey, shipmate, I'm out of twine—got any?'"
“But there was none in the forecastle.
But there wasn’t anyone in the forecastle.
“‘Then I must get some from old Rad;’ and he rose to go aft.
"‘Then I’ll need to grab some from old Rad,’ he said, getting up to head to the back."
“‘You don’t mean to go a begging to him!’ said a sailor.
"You’re not seriously thinking of begging him, are you?" said a sailor.
“‘Why not? Do you think he won’t do me a turn, when it’s to help himself in the end, shipmate?’ and going to the mate, he looked at him quietly, and asked him for some twine to mend his hammock. It was given him—neither twine nor lanyard were seen again; but the next night an iron ball, closely netted, partly rolled from the pocket of the Lakeman’s monkey jacket, as he was tucking the coat into his hammock for a pillow. Twenty-four hours after, his trick at the silent helm—nigh to the man who was apt to doze over the grave always ready dug to the seaman’s hand—that fatal hour was then to come; and in the fore-ordaining soul of Steelkilt, the mate was already stark and stretched as a corpse, with his forehead crushed in.
"‘Why not? Do you think he won’t help me out when it benefits him in the end, buddy?’ Then, walking over to the mate, he looked at him calmly and asked for some twine to fix his hammock. The mate handed it over—but neither the twine nor the lanyard were ever seen again. The next night, an iron ball, tightly netted, partially rolled out from the pocket of the Lakeman’s jacket as he stuffed the jacket into his hammock to use as a pillow. Twenty-four hours later, during his turn steering the silent ship—close to the man prone to dozing near the ever-present grave awaiting a sailor—that fateful moment was approaching. In Steelkilt’s determined mind, the mate was already lying cold and lifeless, his forehead smashed in."
“But, gentlemen, a fool saved the would-be murderer from the bloody deed he had planned. Yet complete revenge he had, and without being the avenger. For by a mysterious fatality, Heaven itself seemed to step in to take out of his hands into its own the damning thing he would have done.
"But, gentlemen, an idiot stopped the would-be killer from committing the bloody act he had planned. Yet he got his full revenge without being the one to carry it out. Because, by some strange twist of fate, it seemed like Heaven itself intervened to take the terrible act out of his hands and do it on its own."
“It was just between daybreak and sunrise of the morning of the second day, when they were washing down the decks, that a stupid Teneriffe man, drawing water in the main-chains, all at once shouted out, ‘There she rolls! there she rolls!’ Jesu, what a whale! It was Moby Dick.
“It was just around dawn on the second morning, while they were washing down the decks, that a clueless man from Tenerife, drawing water near the main-chains, suddenly shouted, ‘There she is! There she is!’ My God, what a whale! It was Moby Dick.”
“‘Moby Dick!’ cried Don Sebastian; ‘St. Dominic! Sir sailor, but do whales have christenings? Whom call you Moby Dick?’
“‘Moby Dick!’ shouted Don Sebastian. ‘St. Dominic! Sailor, do whales even get christenings? Who do you call Moby Dick?’”
“‘A very white, and famous, and most deadly immortal monster, Don;—but that would be too long a story.’
"A very pale, famous, and incredibly deadly immortal monster, Don—but that would be a long story."
“‘How? how?’ cried all the young Spaniards, crowding.
"‘How? How?’ all the young Spaniards cried, gathering around eagerly."
“‘Nay, Dons, Dons—nay, nay! I cannot rehearse that now. Let me get more into the air, Sirs.’
"Nah, gentlemen, nah, nah! I can't repeat that right now. Let me get some fresh air, guys."
“‘The chicha! the chicha!’ cried Don Pedro; ‘our vigorous friend looks faint;—fill up his empty glass!’
"The chicha! The chicha!" cried Don Pedro. "Our energetic friend looks faint—fill up his empty glass!"
“No need, gentlemen; one moment, and I proceed.—Now, gentlemen, so suddenly perceiving the snowy whale within fifty yards of the ship—forgetful of the compact among the crew—in the excitement of the moment, the Teneriffe man had instinctively and involuntarily lifted his voice for the monster, though for some little time past it had been plainly beheld from the three sullen mast-heads. All was now a phrensy. ‘The White Whale—the White Whale!’ was the cry from captain, mates, and harpooneers, who, undeterred by fearful rumours, were all anxious to capture so famous and precious a fish; while the dogged crew eyed askance, and with curses, the appalling beauty of the vast milky mass, that lit up by a horizontal spangling sun, shifted and glistened like a living opal in the blue morning sea. Gentlemen, a strange fatality pervades the whole career of these events, as if verily mapped out before the world itself was charted. The mutineer was the bowsman of the mate, and when fast to a fish, it was his duty to sit next him, while Radney stood up with his lance in the prow, and haul in or slacken the line, at the word of command. Moreover, when the four boats were lowered, the mate’s got the start; and none howled more fiercely with delight than did Steelkilt, as he strained at his oar. After a stiff pull, their harpooneer got fast, and, spear in hand, Radney sprang to the bow. He was always a furious man, it seems, in a boat. And now his bandaged cry was, to beach him on the whale’s topmost back. Nothing loath, his bowsman hauled him up and up, through a blinding foam that blent two whitenesses together; till of a sudden the boat struck as against a sunken ledge, and keeling over, spilled out the standing mate. That instant, as he fell on the whale’s slippery back, the boat righted, and was dashed aside by the swell, while Radney was tossed over into the sea, on the other flank of the whale. He struck out through the spray, and, for an instant, was dimly seen through that veil, wildly seeking to remove himself from the eye of Moby Dick. But the whale rushed round in a sudden maelstrom; seized the swimmer between his jaws; and rearing high up with him, plunged headlong again, and went down.
“No need, gentlemen; just give me a moment, and I’ll continue.—Now, gentlemen, the snowy whale suddenly appeared within fifty yards of the ship. In the heat of the moment, forgetting the agreement among the crew, the man from Teneriffe instinctively and involuntarily shouted at the sight of the whale, even though it had been clearly visible from the three quiet mastheads for a while. Chaos broke loose. ‘The White Whale—the White Whale!’ shouted the captain, mates, and harpooners, all eager to catch such a legendary and valuable prize, despite the chilling stories surrounding it. Meanwhile, the stubborn crew glared at the massive, dazzling creature with both awe and curses. Its immense, milky-white body, illuminated by the glittering rays of a low sun, shimmered like a living opal against the blue morning sea. Gentlemen, there’s an odd sense of fate woven into these events, as though they were planned out before even the world itself was mapped. The rebel happened to be the mate’s bowsman, and when they caught a whale, it was his job to sit beside the mate while Radney stood at the prow, lance in hand, ready to haul in or loosen the line at the mate’s command. When the four boats were lowered, the mate’s crew moved out first, and none rowed harder or more enthusiastically than Steelkilt, straining at his oar with fierce excitement. After an intense pull, their harpooner landed a hit, and Radney grabbed his spear and sprang into the bow. Apparently, he was always a wild, intense figure in the boats. Now, his command was to ride the whale’s giant back. Without hesitation, his bowsman helped lift him higher and higher through the blinding foam, where white foam and the whale’s whiteness merged into one. Then, suddenly, the boat hit something—like a hidden reef—and tipped over, spilling Radney out onto the slippery surface of the whale. In that instant, as Radney landed on the whale’s back, the boat righted itself but was pushed aside by the powerful waves, while Radney was thrown into the ocean on the whale’s other side. Splashing through the water, he could be briefly seen through the spray, desperately trying to escape sight of Moby Dick. But the whale spun around in a sudden whirlpool, caught him in its massive jaws, and, rising high with Radney in its grip, plunged headfirst into the depths and disappeared.”
“Meantime, at the first tap of the boat’s bottom, the Lakeman had slackened the line, so as to drop astern from the whirlpool; calmly looking on, he thought his own thoughts. But a sudden, terrific, downward jerking of the boat, quickly brought his knife to the line. He cut it; and the whale was free. But, at some distance, Moby Dick rose again, with some tatters of Radney’s red woollen shirt, caught in the teeth that had destroyed him. All four boats gave chase again; but the whale eluded them, and finally wholly disappeared.
Meanwhile, as soon as the bottom of the boat touched, the Lakeman loosened the line to drift back from the whirlpool. Calmly watching, he kept his thoughts to himself. But a sudden, violent, downward pull on the boat quickly made him reach for his knife. He cut the line, setting the whale free. But some distance away, Moby Dick surfaced again, with scraps of Radney’s red wool shirt caught in the teeth that had killed him. All four boats took off after the whale again, but it escaped them and eventually vanished completely.
“In good time, the Town-Ho reached her port—a savage, solitary place—where no civilized creature resided. There, headed by the Lakeman, all but five or six of the foremastmen deliberately deserted among the palms; eventually, as it turned out, seizing a large double war-canoe of the savages, and setting sail for some other harbor.
In due time, the Town-Ho arrived at its destination—a wild, isolated spot—where no civilized person lived. There, led by the Lakeman, all but five or six of the crew from the foremast deliberately deserted among the palm trees; eventually, they ended up commandeering a large double war-canoe belonging to the locals and sailed off to find another port.
“The ship’s company being reduced to but a handful, the captain called upon the Islanders to assist him in the laborious business of heaving down the ship to stop the leak. But to such unresting vigilance over their dangerous allies was this small band of whites necessitated, both by night and by day, and so extreme was the hard work they underwent, that upon the vessel being ready again for sea, they were in such a weakened condition that the captain durst not put off with them in so heavy a vessel. After taking counsel with his officers, he anchored the ship as far off shore as possible; loaded and ran out his two cannon from the bows; stacked his muskets on the poop; and warning the Islanders not to approach the ship at their peril, took one man with him, and setting the sail of his best whale-boat, steered straight before the wind for Tahiti, five hundred miles distant, to procure a reinforcement to his crew.
The ship’s crew had been reduced to just a few people, so the captain asked the islanders to help with the tough job of turning the ship over to fix the leak. But because of the constant need to keep a close watch on their unpredictable allies, both day and night, and because of the intense work they had to endure, the remaining crew was so drained by the time the ship was seaworthy again that the captain didn’t dare set sail with them on such a heavy vessel. After discussing with his officers, he anchored the ship as far from shore as possible, loaded and positioned his two cannons at the front, stacked the muskets at the back, and warned the islanders to stay away from the ship at their own risk. Then, taking one man with him, he set the sail on his best whaleboat and headed straight for Tahiti, 500 miles away, to find reinforcements for his crew.
“On the fourth day of the sail, a large canoe was descried, which seemed to have touched at a low isle of corals. He steered away from it; but the savage craft bore down on him; and soon the voice of Steelkilt hailed him to heave to, or he would run him under water. The captain presented a pistol. With one foot on each prow of the yoked war-canoes, the Lakeman laughed him to scorn; assuring him that if the pistol so much as clicked in the lock, he would bury him in bubbles and foam.
On the fourth day of the journey, a large canoe was spotted that seemed to have stopped at a low coral island. He tried to steer away from it, but the savage canoe turned toward him, and soon Steelkilt's voice called out, ordering him to stop or they'd sink him. The captain pulled out a pistol. Standing with one foot on each prow of the joined war canoes, the Lakeman laughed mockingly, warning him that if the pistol even so much as clicked, he'd drown him in bubbles and foam.
“‘What do you want of me?’ cried the captain.
"What do you want from me?" yelled the captain.
“‘Where are you bound? and for what are you bound?’ demanded Steelkilt; ‘no lies.’
"Where are you headed? And what’s your destination?" demanded Steelkilt. "No lies."
“‘I am bound to Tahiti for more men.’
"I'm headed to Tahiti to recruit more men."
“‘Very good. Let me board you a moment—I come in peace.’ With that he leaped from the canoe, swam to the boat; and climbing the gunwale, stood face to face with the captain.
"'Alright, then. Let me come aboard for a moment—I'm here peacefully.' With that, he jumped out of the canoe, swam to the boat, and climbed over the side to stand face-to-face with the captain."
“‘Cross your arms, sir; throw back your head. Now, repeat after me. As soon as Steelkilt leaves me, I swear to beach this boat on yonder island, and remain there six days. If I do not, may lightnings strike me!’
"Cross your arms, sir; tilt your head back. Now, repeat after me: As soon as Steelkilt leaves me, I swear to beach this boat on that island over there and stay there for six days. If I don't, may lightning strike me!"
“‘A pretty scholar,’ laughed the Lakeman. ‘Adios, Senor!’ and leaping into the sea, he swam back to his comrades.
"'What a fine scholar,' laughed the Lakeman. 'Goodbye, Sir!' And with that, he jumped into the sea and swam back to his crew."
“Watching the boat till it was fairly beached, and drawn up to the roots of the cocoa-nut trees, Steelkilt made sail again, and in due time arrived at Tahiti, his own place of destination. There, luck befriended him; two ships were about to sail for France, and were providentially in want of precisely that number of men which the sailor headed. They embarked; and so for ever got the start of their former captain, had he been at all minded to work them legal retribution.
"Watching the boat until it was properly beached and pulled up to the roots of the coconut trees, Steelkilt set sail again and eventually reached Tahiti, his intended destination. There, fortune was on his side; two ships were preparing to head to France and happened to need exactly the number of men that the sailor was leading. They boarded the ships and forever stayed ahead of their old captain, should he have been inclined to pursue any legal payback."
“Some ten days after the French ships sailed, the whale-boat arrived, and the captain was forced to enlist some of the more civilized Tahitians, who had been somewhat used to the sea. Chartering a small native schooner, he returned with them to his vessel; and finding all right there, again resumed his cruisings.
About ten days after the French ships left, the whale boat arrived, and the captain had to recruit a few of the more civilized Tahitians who had some experience with the sea. He hired a small local schooner and went back with them to his ship. Finding everything in order there, he set out cruising again.
“Where Steelkilt now is, gentlemen, none know; but upon the island of Nantucket, the widow of Radney still turns to the sea which refuses to give up its dead; still in dreams sees the awful white whale that destroyed him. * * * *
"Where Steelkilt is now, gentlemen, nobody knows; but on the island of Nantucket, Radney’s widow still gazes out at the sea that won’t return her dead; she still dreams of the terrifying white whale that killed him. * * * *"
“‘Are you through?’ said Don Sebastian, quietly.
"Are you finished?" said Don Sebastian calmly.
“‘I am, Don.’
"I'm here, Don."
“‘Then I entreat you, tell me if to the best of your own convictions, this your story is in substance really true? It is so passing wonderful! Did you get it from an unquestionable source? Bear with me if I seem to press.’
"Then please, tell me—do you truly believe that your story is essentially true? It’s so incredibly amazing! Did you hear it from a reliable source? Forgive me if I seem to push too much."
“‘Also bear with all of us, sir sailor; for we all join in Don Sebastian’s suit,’ cried the company, with exceeding interest.
"Please bear with all of us, sir sailor, because we're all supporting Don Sebastian's request," the group called out with great enthusiasm.
“‘Is there a copy of the Holy Evangelists in the Golden Inn, gentlemen?’
“‘Do you have a copy of the Holy Bible at the Golden Inn, gentlemen?’”
“‘Nay,’ said Don Sebastian; ‘but I know a worthy priest near by, who will quickly procure one for me. I go for it; but are you well advised? this may grow too serious.’
"No," said Don Sebastian, "but I know a good priest nearby who can quickly get one for me. I'll go get it, but are you sure about this? This could get really serious."
“‘Will you be so good as to bring the priest also, Don?’
"Would you mind bringing the priest as well, Don?"
“‘Though there are no Auto-da-Fés in Lima now,’ said one of the company to another; ‘I fear our sailor friend runs risk of the archiepiscopacy. Let us withdraw more out of the moonlight. I see no need of this.’
"‘Even though there aren’t any Auto-da-Fés in Lima these days,’ one of them said to another, ‘I’m afraid our sailor friend might still be in danger from the archbishop’s authority. Let’s move further out of the moonlight. I don’t think this is necessary.’"
“‘Excuse me for running after you, Don Sebastian; but may I also beg that you will be particular in procuring the largest sized Evangelists you can.’
"Excuse me for chasing after you, Don Sebastian, but could I ask you to please make sure to get the largest-sized Evangelists you can?"
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
“‘This is the priest, he brings you the Evangelists,’ said Don Sebastian, gravely, returning with a tall and solemn figure.
"This is the priest; he’s bringing you the Evangelists,” said Don Sebastian seriously, as he came back with a tall, serious-looking figure.
“‘Let me remove my hat. Now, venerable priest, further into the light, and hold the Holy Book before me that I may touch it.
"Let me take off my hat. Now, respected priest, step further into the light, and hold the Holy Book in front of me so I can touch it."
“‘So help me Heaven, and on my honor the story I have told ye, gentlemen, is in substance and its great items, true. I know it to be true; it happened on this ball; I trod the ship; I knew the crew; I have seen and talked with Steelkilt since the death of Radney.’”
"'So help me God, and on my honor, the story I've told you, gentlemen, is true in its essence and main points. I know it's true; it happened on this earth; I was on the ship; I knew the crew; I've seen and spoken with Steelkilt since Radney's death.'"
CHAPTER 55. Of the Monstrous Pictures of Whales.
I shall ere long paint to you as well as one can without canvas, something like the true form of the whale as he actually appears to the eye of the whaleman when in his own absolute body the whale is moored alongside the whale-ship so that he can be fairly stepped upon there. It may be worth while, therefore, previously to advert to those curious imaginary portraits of him which even down to the present day confidently challenge the faith of the landsman. It is time to set the world right in this matter, by proving such pictures of the whale all wrong.
Before long, I’ll describe to you, as best as one can without a canvas, something close to the real appearance of a whale as it looks to the whaleman when its actual body is tied alongside the whaling ship, close enough to step onto. But first, it might be worth mentioning those strange, imaginary depictions of the whale that, even to this day, boldly ask to be believed by people on land. It’s time to clear things up and prove that those pictures of the whale are completely wrong.
It may be that the primal source of all those pictorial delusions will be found among the oldest Hindoo, Egyptian, and Grecian sculptures. For ever since those inventive but unscrupulous times when on the marble panellings of temples, the pedestals of statues, and on shields, medallions, cups, and coins, the dolphin was drawn in scales of chain-armor like Saladin’s, and a helmeted head like St. George’s; ever since then has something of the same sort of license prevailed, not only in most popular pictures of the whale, but in many scientific presentations of him.
The root cause of all those visual misconceptions might go back to the oldest Hindu, Egyptian, and Greek sculptures. Ever since those imaginative yet not entirely truthful times, when dolphins were depicted on temple walls, statue bases, shields, medallions, cups, and coins wearing chainmail-like armor and sporting helmeted heads like St. George’s, a similar tendency has persisted. This artistic freedom has influenced not only popular illustrations of the whale but also some of the scientific depictions of it.
Now, by all odds, the most ancient extant portrait anyways purporting to be the whale’s, is to be found in the famous cavern-pagoda of Elephanta, in India. The Brahmins maintain that in the almost endless sculptures of that immemorial pagoda, all the trades and pursuits, every conceivable avocation of man, were prefigured ages before any of them actually came into being. No wonder then, that in some sort our noble profession of whaling should have been there shadowed forth. The Hindoo whale referred to, occurs in a separate department of the wall, depicting the incarnation of Vishnu in the form of leviathan, learnedly known as the Matse Avatar. But though this sculpture is half man and half whale, so as only to give the tail of the latter, yet that small section of him is all wrong. It looks more like the tapering tail of an anaconda, than the broad palms of the true whale’s majestic flukes.
The oldest known depiction of a whale, by far, can be found in the famous cave-temple of Elephanta in India. The Brahmins claim that the countless sculptures in that ancient temple predicted all the trades, professions, and activities of humanity long before they actually came into existence. So, it's no surprise that in some way, our noble profession of whaling was also represented there. The whale shown in the sculpture appears in a specific section of the wall, portraying the incarnation of Vishnu as a leviathan, known as the Matsya Avatar. However, even though this depiction is half-human, half-whale—only showing the tail of the whale—that small portion is completely inaccurate. It resembles the tapering tail of an anaconda more than the wide, powerful flukes of a true whale.
But go to the old Galleries, and look now at a great Christian painter’s portrait of this fish; for he succeeds no better than the antediluvian Hindoo. It is Guido’s picture of Perseus rescuing Andromeda from the sea-monster or whale. Where did Guido get the model of such a strange creature as that? Nor does Hogarth, in painting the same scene in his own “Perseus Descending,” make out one whit better. The huge corpulence of that Hogarthian monster undulates on the surface, scarcely drawing one inch of water. It has a sort of howdah on its back, and its distended tusked mouth into which the billows are rolling, might be taken for the Traitors’ Gate leading from the Thames by water into the Tower. Then, there are the Prodromus whales of old Scotch Sibbald, and Jonah’s whale, as depicted in the prints of old Bibles and the cuts of old primers. What shall be said of these? As for the book-binder’s whale winding like a vine-stalk round the stock of a descending anchor—as stamped and gilded on the backs and title-pages of many books both old and new—that is a very picturesque but purely fabulous creature, imitated, I take it, from the like figures on antique vases. Though universally denominated a dolphin, I nevertheless call this book-binder’s fish an attempt at a whale; because it was so intended when the device was first introduced. It was introduced by an old Italian publisher somewhere about the 15th century, during the Revival of Learning; and in those days, and even down to a comparatively late period, dolphins were popularly supposed to be a species of the Leviathan.
But head over to the old galleries and check out a great Christian painter's depiction of this fish; he doesn't do any better than the ancient Hindus. Take Guido's painting of Perseus rescuing Andromeda from the sea monster—or whale. Where did Guido come up with such a bizarre-looking creature? And Hogarth, in his own version of the same scene, “Perseus Descending,” doesn’t do any better either. Hogarth's massive, bloated monster floats on the surface, barely sinking an inch into the water. It even has something that looks like a little structure on its back, and its wide, tusked mouth, swallowing the waves, could easily be mistaken for the Traitors’ Gate that leads from the Thames into the Tower of London. Then, there's the Prodromus whales by old Scottish Sibbald, and Jonah's whale as it's shown in the old Bible illustrations and primer woodcuts. What can even be said about these? And those book-binder’s whales, spiraling like vines around the anchor stock on the covers and spines of many books, both old and new—that’s a charming but purely made-up creature. I think it’s inspired by similar designs seen on antique vases. While people call it a dolphin, I insist on calling this book-binder’s fish an attempt at a whale, because that's exactly what it was meant to be when the design first appeared. It was introduced by an Italian publisher back in the 15th century during the Renaissance. At that time, and even for quite a while afterward, dolphins were widely believed to be a type of Leviathan.
In the vignettes and other embellishments of some ancient books you will at times meet with very curious touches at the whale, where all manner of spouts, jets d’eau, hot springs and cold, Saratoga and Baden-Baden, come bubbling up from his unexhausted brain. In the title-page of the original edition of the “Advancement of Learning” you will find some curious whales.
In the illustrations and other decorations of some old books, you’ll occasionally come across some fascinating depictions of whales, with all kinds of spouts, fountains, hot and cold springs, reminiscent of places like Saratoga and Baden-Baden, all bubbling up from the endless imagination of the artist. On the title page of the original edition of “The Advancement of Learning,” you’ll also find some interesting whales.
But quitting all these unprofessional attempts, let us glance at those pictures of leviathan purporting to be sober, scientific delineations, by those who know. In old Harris’s collection of voyages there are some plates of whales extracted from a Dutch book of voyages, A.D. 1671, entitled “A Whaling Voyage to Spitzbergen in the ship Jonas in the Whale, Peter Peterson of Friesland, master.” In one of those plates the whales, like great rafts of logs, are represented lying among ice-isles, with white bears running over their living backs. In another plate, the prodigious blunder is made of representing the whale with perpendicular flukes.
But setting aside all these amateurish attempts, let’s take a look at the illustrations of whales that claim to be serious, scientific depictions by those in the know. In old Harris’s collection of voyages, there are some engravings of whales taken from a Dutch book of travels published in 1671, titled *A Whaling Voyage to Spitzbergen in the Ship Jonas in the Whale, Peter Peterson of Friesland, Master.* In one of these engravings, the whales are shown like giant rafts of logs, lying among icy islands with polar bears running across their living backs. In another engraving, there’s a colossal mistake where the whale is depicted with vertical tail flukes.
Then again, there is an imposing quarto, written by one Captain Colnett, a Post Captain in the English navy, entitled “A Voyage round Cape Horn into the South Seas, for the purpose of extending the Spermaceti Whale Fisheries.” In this book is an outline purporting to be a “Picture of a Physeter or Spermaceti whale, drawn by scale from one killed on the coast of Mexico, August, 1793, and hoisted on deck.” I doubt not the captain had this veracious picture taken for the benefit of his marines. To mention but one thing about it, let me say that it has an eye which applied, according to the accompanying scale, to a full grown sperm whale, would make the eye of that whale a bow-window some five feet long. Ah, my gallant captain, why did ye not give us Jonah looking out of that eye!
There’s also an impressive book written by Captain Colnett, a Post Captain in the British navy, called “A Voyage Around Cape Horn into the South Seas, for the Purpose of Expanding the Spermaceti Whale Fisheries.” In it, there’s a sketch claimed to be a “Picture of a Physeter or Spermaceti Whale, drawn to scale from one killed off the coast of Mexico in August 1793, and hoisted onto the deck.” I have no doubt the captain had this so-called accurate drawing made to amuse his marines. To point out just one odd thing about it—according to the scale included, the whale’s eye, if applied to a full-grown sperm whale, would make it a window about five feet long. Oh, my bold captain, why didn’t you show us Jonah peeking out of that eye!
Nor are the most conscientious compilations of Natural History for the benefit of the young and tender, free from the same heinousness of mistake. Look at that popular work “Goldsmith’s Animated Nature.” In the abridged London edition of 1807, there are plates of an alleged “whale” and a “narwhale.” I do not wish to seem inelegant, but this unsightly whale looks much like an amputated sow; and, as for the narwhale, one glimpse at it is enough to amaze one, that in this nineteenth century such a hippogriff could be palmed for genuine upon any intelligent public of schoolboys.
Even the most carefully crafted natural history books for young readers aren't free from serious errors. Take the popular book "Goldsmith's Animated Nature," for example. In the abridged London edition from 1807, there are illustrations of what are supposed to be a "whale" and a "narwhal." I don’t mean to be rude, but the so-called whale looks more like a mutilated pig, and as for the narwhal, just one look at it is enough to leave you stunned that, in this modern age, such a mythical creature could be passed off as real to any group of smart schoolkids.
Then, again, in 1825, Bernard Germain, Count de Lacépède, a great naturalist, published a scientific systemized whale book, wherein are several pictures of the different species of the Leviathan. All these are not only incorrect, but the picture of the Mysticetus or Greenland whale (that is to say, the Right whale), even Scoresby, a long experienced man as touching that species, declares not to have its counterpart in nature.
In 1825, Bernard Germain, Count de Lacépède, a renowned naturalist, published a systematic scientific book about whales, which included several illustrations of different species of the Leviathan. However, not only are all of these incorrect, but even the illustration of the Mysticetus or Greenland whale (also known as the Right whale) is said by Scoresby—an expert with years of experience studying the species—to have no resemblance to anything found in nature.
But the placing of the cap-sheaf to all this blundering business was reserved for the scientific Frederick Cuvier, brother to the famous Baron. In 1836, he published a Natural History of Whales, in which he gives what he calls a picture of the Sperm Whale. Before showing that picture to any Nantucketer, you had best provide for your summary retreat from Nantucket. In a word, Frederick Cuvier’s Sperm Whale is not a Sperm Whale, but a squash. Of course, he never had the benefit of a whaling voyage (such men seldom have), but whence he derived that picture, who can tell? Perhaps he got it as his scientific predecessor in the same field, Desmarest, got one of his authentic abortions; that is, from a Chinese drawing. And what sort of lively lads with the pencil those Chinese are, many queer cups and saucers inform us.
But the culmination of all this bungling nonsense was left to the scientific Frederick Cuvier, brother of the famous Baron. In 1836, he published a Natural History of Whales, where he included what he called a picture of the Sperm Whale. Before showing that picture to anyone from Nantucket, you’d better plan your quick escape from the island. In short, Frederick Cuvier’s Sperm Whale isn’t a Sperm Whale at all—it’s a squash. Naturally, he never had the experience of a whaling voyage (men like him rarely do), but where he got that picture from, who knows? Maybe he sourced it the same way his predecessor in the field, Desmarest, got one of his so-called authentic disasters—through a Chinese drawing. And judging by the strange cups and saucers we’ve seen, we all know how imaginative those Chinese artists can be.
As for the sign-painters’ whales seen in the streets hanging over the shops of oil-dealers, what shall be said of them? They are generally Richard III. whales, with dromedary humps, and very savage; breakfasting on three or four sailor tarts, that is whaleboats full of mariners: their deformities floundering in seas of blood and blue paint.
What about the whales painted on signs that hang above oil dealers' shops in the streets? They’re usually whales straight out of a Richard III nightmare, with camel-like humps and a vicious demeanor—snacking on three or four sailor pies, meaning whaleboats full of sailors, while their distorted shapes thrash around in seas of blood and blue paint.
But these manifold mistakes in depicting the whale are not so very surprising after all. Consider! Most of the scientific drawings have been taken from the stranded fish; and these are about as correct as a drawing of a wrecked ship, with broken back, would correctly represent the noble animal itself in all its undashed pride of hull and spars. Though elephants have stood for their full-lengths, the living Leviathan has never yet fairly floated himself for his portrait. The living whale, in his full majesty and significance, is only to be seen at sea in unfathomable waters; and afloat the vast bulk of him is out of sight, like a launched line-of-battle ship; and out of that element it is a thing eternally impossible for mortal man to hoist him bodily into the air, so as to preserve all his mighty swells and undulations. And, not to speak of the highly presumable difference of contour between a young sucking whale and a full-grown Platonian Leviathan; yet, even in the case of one of those young sucking whales hoisted to a ship’s deck, such is then the outlandish, eel-like, limbered, varying shape of him, that his precise expression the devil himself could not catch.
But all these countless mistakes in portraying the whale aren't all that surprising, really. Think about it! Most scientific drawings come from stranded whales, and those are about as accurate as a drawing of a wrecked ship with its back broken would be in representing the majestic ship itself, fully intact and proud with its hull and masts. While elephants have been painted in their entirety, the living Leviathan has never truly made himself available for his portrait. The living whale, in all his glory and grandeur, can only be seen at sea, in the endless depths of the ocean; and even there, most of his massive form is hidden underwater, like a gigantic warship on the waves. It's utterly impossible for humans to lift him entirely out of the water, keeping all his immense curves and flowing lines intact. And beyond that, consider the likely difference in shape between a young, nursing whale and a full-grown, massive Leviathan. Even when one of those young whales is brought up onto a ship’s deck, its strange, eel-like, flexible, constantly changing form is so elusive that even the devil himself couldn’t accurately capture its true likeness.
But it may be fancied, that from the naked skeleton of the stranded whale, accurate hints may be derived touching his true form. Not at all. For it is one of the more curious things about this Leviathan, that his skeleton gives very little idea of his general shape. Though Jeremy Bentham’s skeleton, which hangs for candelabra in the library of one of his executors, correctly conveys the idea of a burly-browed utilitarian old gentleman, with all Jeremy’s other leading personal characteristics; yet nothing of this kind could be inferred from any leviathan’s articulated bones. In fact, as the great Hunter says, the mere skeleton of the whale bears the same relation to the fully invested and padded animal as the insect does to the chrysalis that so roundingly envelopes it. This peculiarity is strikingly evinced in the head, as in some part of this book will be incidentally shown. It is also very curiously displayed in the side fin, the bones of which almost exactly answer to the bones of the human hand, minus only the thumb. This fin has four regular bone-fingers, the index, middle, ring, and little finger. But all these are permanently lodged in their fleshy covering, as the human fingers in an artificial covering. “However recklessly the whale may sometimes serve us,” said humorous Stubb one day, “he can never be truly said to handle us without mittens.”
It might be imagined that the bare skeleton of a stranded whale could provide accurate clues about its true shape. Not at all. One of the more curious things about this giant is that its skeleton gives almost no indication of its overall form. While the skeleton of Jeremy Bentham, which hangs like a decorative candelabra in the library of one of his executors, accurately reflects the image of a stocky, utilitarian old man with all of Jeremy's main physical traits, nothing similar can be deduced from the assembled bones of a whale. In fact, as the great Hunter puts it, the whale's skeleton relates to the fully fleshed and padded creature the same way an insect's body compares to the chrysalis that encases it. This oddity is especially noticeable in the whale's head, which will be discussed in another part of this book, and it's also peculiarly visible in the pectoral fin. The bones of the fin closely resemble the bones in a human hand, except there's no thumb. This fin contains four standard bone "fingers"—the index, middle, ring, and little finger—but they are permanently embedded in a thick, fleshy covering, much like human fingers inside a glove. "No matter how roughly the whale may treat us," joked the ever-witty Stubb one day, "he could never be said to handle us without mittens!"
For all these reasons, then, any way you may look at it, you must needs conclude that the great Leviathan is that one creature in the world which must remain unpainted to the last. True, one portrait may hit the mark much nearer than another, but none can hit it with any very considerable degree of exactness. So there is no earthly way of finding out precisely what the whale really looks like. And the only mode in which you can derive even a tolerable idea of his living contour, is by going a whaling yourself; but by so doing, you run no small risk of being eternally stove and sunk by him. Wherefore, it seems to me you had best not be too fastidious in your curiosity touching this Leviathan.
For all these reasons, no matter how you look at it, you have to conclude that the great Leviathan is the one creature in the world that will always remain unpainted. Sure, one portrait might come closer than another, but none can capture it with any real accuracy. There’s no way to know exactly what the whale actually looks like. The only way to get even a decent idea of its living shape is by going whaling yourself—but doing that comes with a serious risk of being smashed and sunk by it. So, it seems to me, it’s probably best not to get too picky in your curiosity about this Leviathan.
CHAPTER 56. Of the Less Erroneous Pictures of Whales, and the True Pictures of Whaling Scenes.
In connexion with the monstrous pictures of whales, I am strongly tempted here to enter upon those still more monstrous stories of them which are to be found in certain books, both ancient and modern, especially in Pliny, Purchas, Hackluyt, Harris, Cuvier, etc. But I pass that matter by.
In connection with the outrageous depictions of whales, I’m very tempted to dive into the even more outrageous stories about them found in certain books, both old and new, especially in works by Pliny, Purchas, Hakluyt, Harris, Cuvier, and others. But I’ll skip over that for now.
I know of only four published outlines of the great Sperm Whale; Colnett’s, Huggins’s, Frederick Cuvier’s, and Beale’s. In the previous chapter Colnett and Cuvier have been referred to. Huggins’s is far better than theirs; but, by great odds, Beale’s is the best. All Beale’s drawings of this whale are good, excepting the middle figure in the picture of three whales in various attitudes, capping his second chapter. His frontispiece, boats attacking Sperm Whales, though no doubt calculated to excite the civil scepticism of some parlor men, is admirably correct and life-like in its general effect. Some of the Sperm Whale drawings in J. Ross Browne are pretty correct in contour; but they are wretchedly engraved. That is not his fault though.
I know of only four published sketches of the great Sperm Whale: Colnett’s, Huggins’s, Frederick Cuvier’s, and Beale’s. In the previous chapter, I already mentioned Colnett and Cuvier. Huggins’s work is much better than theirs, but by far, Beale’s is the best. All of Beale’s sketches of this whale are well done, except for the middle figure in the illustration of three whales in various poses, which appears in the second chapter. His frontispiece, showing boats attacking Sperm Whales, might draw some skepticism from armchair critics, but it’s strikingly accurate and realistic overall. Some of J. Ross Browne’s Sperm Whale sketches are fairly accurate in terms of shape, but the engraving is poorly done—not his fault, though.
Of the Right Whale, the best outline pictures are in Scoresby; but they are drawn on too small a scale to convey a desirable impression. He has but one picture of whaling scenes, and this is a sad deficiency, because it is by such pictures only, when at all well done, that you can derive anything like a truthful idea of the living whale as seen by his living hunters.
The best illustrations of the Right Whale are in Scoresby's work, but they’re drawn too small to leave a good impression. He only includes one picture of whaling scenes, which is a real shortcoming because only through well-executed pictures can you get anything close to an accurate idea of the living whale as seen by its hunters.
But, taken for all in all, by far the finest, though in some details not the most correct, presentations of whales and whaling scenes to be anywhere found, are two large French engravings, well executed, and taken from paintings by one Garnery. Respectively, they represent attacks on the Sperm and Right Whale. In the first engraving a noble Sperm Whale is depicted in full majesty of might, just risen beneath the boat from the profundities of the ocean, and bearing high in the air upon his back the terrific wreck of the stoven planks. The prow of the boat is partially unbroken, and is drawn just balancing upon the monster’s spine; and standing in that prow, for that one single incomputable flash of time, you behold an oarsman, half shrouded by the incensed boiling spout of the whale, and in the act of leaping, as if from a precipice. The action of the whole thing is wonderfully good and true. The half-emptied line-tub floats on the whitened sea; the wooden poles of the spilled harpoons obliquely bob in it; the heads of the swimming crew are scattered about the whale in contrasting expressions of affright; while in the black stormy distance the ship is bearing down upon the scene. Serious fault might be found with the anatomical details of this whale, but let that pass; since, for the life of me, I could not draw so good a one.
All things considered, the best depictions of whales and whaling scenes—though not entirely accurate in every detail—are two large French engravings, skillfully made based on paintings by an artist named Garnery. These engravings respectively show attacks on a Sperm Whale and a Right Whale. In the first piece, a mighty Sperm Whale is shown rising majestically from the depths of the ocean, lifting the shattered remains of a boat high into the air on its back. The front of the boat is partially intact, balancing precariously on the whale's spine, and you can see a rower standing in that prow for just one fleeting, mind-blowing moment, half-hidden by the whale's angry, steaming spout, as he's about to leap as though diving from a cliff. The dynamic energy of the entire scene is incredibly vivid and realistic. A half-empty line-tub floats in the foamy sea; the wooden shafts of spilled harpoons bob at odd angles in the water; the crew members' heads are scattered around the whale, their faces showing various levels of terror; and in the stormy, dark background, the whaling ship is racing toward the chaos. While some criticism might be aimed at the whale’s anatomical inaccuracies, I’ll let that slide—because, honestly, I couldn’t draw one nearly as well myself.
In the second engraving, the boat is in the act of drawing alongside the barnacled flank of a large running Right Whale, that rolls his black weedy bulk in the sea like some mossy rock-slide from the Patagonian cliffs. His jets are erect, full, and black like soot; so that from so abounding a smoke in the chimney, you would think there must be a brave supper cooking in the great bowels below. Sea fowls are pecking at the small crabs, shell-fish, and other sea candies and maccaroni, which the Right Whale sometimes carries on his pestilent back. And all the while the thick-lipped leviathan is rushing through the deep, leaving tons of tumultuous white curds in his wake, and causing the slight boat to rock in the swells like a skiff caught nigh the paddle-wheels of an ocean steamer. Thus, the foreground is all raging commotion; but behind, in admirable artistic contrast, is the glassy level of a sea becalmed, the drooping unstarched sails of the powerless ship, and the inert mass of a dead whale, a conquered fortress, with the flag of capture lazily hanging from the whale-pole inserted into his spout-hole.
In the second illustration, the boat is pulling up alongside the barnacle-covered side of a large Right Whale, rolling its black, seaweed-covered mass in the water like a mossy rockslide from the Patagonian cliffs. Its spouts shoot straight up, thick and black like soot; you'd think all that smoke pouring out of a chimney meant a huge meal was being cooked deep inside. Sea birds are picking at the tiny crabs, shellfish, and other sea treats like candies and noodles that the Right Whale hauls around on its foul back. All the while, the thick-lipped giant speeds through the ocean, churning up tons of frothy white foam behind it, making the small boat rock wildly in the waves like a skiff caught near the paddle-wheels of a steamer. Up front, everything is chaotic and wild, but in perfect artistic contrast, the background shows a calm and glassy sea, the limp, drooping sails of the motionless ship, and the lifeless, massive body of a dead whale—like a captured fortress—with the flag of victory lazily hanging from the pole stuck in its spout.
Who Garnery the painter is, or was, I know not. But my life for it he was either practically conversant with his subject, or else marvellously tutored by some experienced whaleman. The French are the lads for painting action. Go and gaze upon all the paintings of Europe, and where will you find such a gallery of living and breathing commotion on canvas, as in that triumphal hall at Versailles; where the beholder fights his way, pell-mell, through the consecutive great battles of France; where every sword seems a flash of the Northern Lights, and the successive armed kings and Emperors dash by, like a charge of crowned centaurs? Not wholly unworthy of a place in that gallery, are these sea battle-pieces of Garnery.
I have no idea who Garnery the painter is, or was. But I’d bet my life he either knew his subject firsthand or was unbelievably well-coached by some experienced whaler. The French are masters at painting action. Look at all the paintings in Europe—where else will you find a gallery so full of life and movement as the grand hall at Versailles? There, you feel like you’re fighting your way through the epic battles of France, where every sword glitters like the Northern Lights, and kings and emperors on horseback charge past like crowned centaurs. Garnery’s sea battle scenes wouldn’t be entirely out of place in such a gallery.
The natural aptitude of the French for seizing the picturesqueness of things seems to be peculiarly evinced in what paintings and engravings they have of their whaling scenes. With not one tenth of England’s experience in the fishery, and not the thousandth part of that of the Americans, they have nevertheless furnished both nations with the only finished sketches at all capable of conveying the real spirit of the whale hunt. For the most part, the English and American whale draughtsmen seem entirely content with presenting the mechanical outline of things, such as the vacant profile of the whale; which, so far as picturesqueness of effect is concerned, is about tantamount to sketching the profile of a pyramid. Even Scoresby, the justly renowned Right whaleman, after giving us a stiff full length of the Greenland whale, and three or four delicate miniatures of narwhales and porpoises, treats us to a series of classical engravings of boat hooks, chopping knives, and grapnels; and with the microscopic diligence of a Leuwenhoeck submits to the inspection of a shivering world ninety-six fac-similes of magnified Arctic snow crystals. I mean no disparagement to the excellent voyager (I honor him for a veteran), but in so important a matter it was certainly an oversight not to have procured for every crystal a sworn affidavit taken before a Greenland Justice of the Peace.
The natural talent of the French for capturing the visual appeal of things seems especially evident in the paintings and engravings they’ve created of whaling scenes. With only a fraction of England’s experience in whaling, and barely a fraction of that of the Americans, they’ve still managed to provide both nations with the only well-crafted depictions that truly capture the essence of whale hunting. In contrast, most English and American whaling artists seem satisfied with simply presenting mechanical outlines of things, like bland side views of whales—which, as far as artistic impact goes, are about as exciting as sketching the outline of a pyramid. Even Scoresby, the famous expert on Right whales, after presenting us with a stiff full-body illustration of a Greenland whale and a few finely detailed miniatures of narwhals and porpoises, gives us a collection of technical engravings of boat hooks, chopping knives, and grapnels. Then, with all the microscopic precision of a Leuwenhoeck, he offers the freezing world ninety-six replicas of magnified Arctic snowflakes. I mean no disrespect to the distinguished explorer (I respect him as a veteran), but on such an important matter, it seems like an oversight not to have gotten a sworn affidavit for every crystal from a Greenland Justice of the Peace.
In addition to those fine engravings from Garnery, there are two other French engravings worthy of note, by some one who subscribes himself “H. Durand.” One of them, though not precisely adapted to our present purpose, nevertheless deserves mention on other accounts. It is a quiet noon-scene among the isles of the Pacific; a French whaler anchored, inshore, in a calm, and lazily taking water on board; the loosened sails of the ship, and the long leaves of the palms in the background, both drooping together in the breezeless air. The effect is very fine, when considered with reference to its presenting the hardy fishermen under one of their few aspects of oriental repose. The other engraving is quite a different affair: the ship hove-to upon the open sea, and in the very heart of the Leviathanic life, with a Right Whale alongside; the vessel (in the act of cutting-in) hove over to the monster as if to a quay; and a boat, hurriedly pushing off from this scene of activity, is about giving chase to whales in the distance. The harpoons and lances lie levelled for use; three oarsmen are just setting the mast in its hole; while from a sudden roll of the sea, the little craft stands half-erect out of the water, like a rearing horse. From the ship, the smoke of the torments of the boiling whale is going up like the smoke over a village of smithies; and to windward, a black cloud, rising up with earnest of squalls and rains, seems to quicken the activity of the excited seamen.
Along with those detailed engravings by Garnery, there are two other notable French engravings by someone who signs as "H. Durand." One of them, while not entirely fitting for our current focus, is worth mentioning for other reasons. It depicts a peaceful midday scene among the Pacific islands: a French whaling ship anchored close to shore during a calm, lazily taking on water. The ship’s loose sails and the long leaves of the palm trees in the background both hang limp in the still air. The overall effect is impressive, portraying these rugged fishermen in one of their rare moments of serene, almost exotic rest. The other engraving is a completely different scene: the ship drifting on the open sea, immersed in the heart of whaling activity, with a Right Whale alongside. The vessel, in the middle of cutting the whale apart, leans toward the enormous creature like it’s tied to a dock. A smaller boat, hastily pulling away from this energetic scene, is about to pursue distant whales. Harpoons and lances are poised and ready; three rowers are busy setting the mast into position. Meanwhile, a sudden roll of the waves tilts the little boat upward, making it rear out of the water like a bucking horse. From the ship, smoke rises from the boiling whale carcass, drifting upward like the smoke from a cluster of blacksmith shops. To windward, a dark cloud, heavy with the promise of squalls and rain, seems to add urgency to the frenetic energy of the sailors.
CHAPTER 57. Of Whales in Paint; in Teeth; in Wood; in Sheet-Iron; in Stone; in Mountains; in Stars.
On Tower-hill, as you go down to the London docks, you may have seen a crippled beggar (or kedger, as the sailors say) holding a painted board before him, representing the tragic scene in which he lost his leg. There are three whales and three boats; and one of the boats (presumed to contain the missing leg in all its original integrity) is being crunched by the jaws of the foremost whale. Any time these ten years, they tell me, has that man held up that picture, and exhibited that stump to an incredulous world. But the time of his justification has now come. His three whales are as good whales as were ever published in Wapping, at any rate; and his stump as unquestionable a stump as any you will find in the western clearings. But, though for ever mounted on that stump, never a stump-speech does the poor whaleman make; but, with downcast eyes, stands ruefully contemplating his own amputation.
Down on Tower Hill, near the London docks, you might have seen a crippled beggar (or a "kedger," as sailors call him) holding up a painted sign that shows the tragic scene where he lost his leg. The painting features three whales and three boats; in one of the boats (supposedly with his missing leg still intact), you can see it being crushed by the jaws of the leading whale. They say that man has been holding up that picture and showing off his stump to a disbelieving crowd for the past ten years. But now his moment of vindication has arrived. His three whales are as legitimate as any ever recorded in Wapping, and his stump is as real as any you’d find out in the western frontiers. Yet, despite always perched on that stump, the poor whaleman never gives a "stump-speech." Instead, he just stands there, head down, sadly staring at his own lost limb.
Throughout the Pacific, and also in Nantucket, and New Bedford, and Sag Harbor, you will come across lively sketches of whales and whaling-scenes, graven by the fishermen themselves on Sperm Whale-teeth, or ladies’ busks wrought out of the Right Whale-bone, and other like skrimshander articles, as the whalemen call the numerous little ingenious contrivances they elaborately carve out of the rough material, in their hours of ocean leisure. Some of them have little boxes of dentistical-looking implements, specially intended for the skrimshandering business. But, in general, they toil with their jack-knives alone; and, with that almost omnipotent tool of the sailor, they will turn you out anything you please, in the way of a mariner’s fancy.
Across the Pacific, in places like Nantucket, New Bedford, and Sag Harbor, you'll find lively depictions of whales and whaling scenes etched by the fishermen themselves on sperm whale teeth or on ladies' corset stays made from right whale bones, as well as other similar scrimshaw items. These are what the whalemen call the various creative and detailed carvings they craft from raw materials during their downtime at sea. Some of them even have small sets of tools that resemble dental instruments, specifically for their scrimshaw work. However, most sailors simply rely on their jackknives, and with that almost magical tool of the seafarer, they can carve just about anything you could imagine, all inspired by a sailor's creativity.
Long exile from Christendom and civilization inevitably restores a man to that condition in which God placed him, i.e. what is called savagery. Your true whale-hunter is as much a savage as an Iroquois. I myself am a savage, owning no allegiance but to the King of the Cannibals; and ready at any moment to rebel against him.
Long separation from the Christian world and modern society eventually brings a person back to their natural state—what we call savagery. A true whale hunter is just as much a savage as an Iroquois. I, myself, am a savage, owing loyalty to no one but the King of the Cannibals—and I’m always ready to rebel against him.
Now, one of the peculiar characteristics of the savage in his domestic hours, is his wonderful patience of industry. An ancient Hawaiian war-club or spear-paddle, in its full multiplicity and elaboration of carving, is as great a trophy of human perseverance as a Latin lexicon. For, with but a bit of broken sea-shell or a shark’s tooth, that miraculous intricacy of wooden net-work has been achieved; and it has cost steady years of steady application.
One of the unique traits of the native during his home life is his incredible patience and dedication to his work. An old Hawaiian war club or spear-paddle, with all its detailed and intricate carvings, is just as impressive an achievement of human perseverance as a Latin dictionary. Using only a piece of broken seashell or a shark’s tooth, that astonishingly complex wooden design was created, requiring years of consistent hard work and focus.
As with the Hawaiian savage, so with the white sailor-savage. With the same marvellous patience, and with the same single shark’s tooth, of his one poor jack-knife, he will carve you a bit of bone sculpture, not quite as workmanlike, but as close packed in its maziness of design, as the Greek savage, Achilles’s shield; and full of barbaric spirit and suggestiveness, as the prints of that fine old Dutch savage, Albert Durer.
Just like the Hawaiian native, the white sailor-turned-savage shows the same incredible patience. With nothing more than a single shark's tooth or his humble pocketknife, he'll carve a piece of bone sculpture—not as polished, but just as intricate in its complex design as Achilles's shield from Greek mythology. It’s full of wild energy and creativity, much like the art of the old Dutch master, Albrecht Dürer.
Wooden whales, or whales cut in profile out of the small dark slabs of the noble South Sea war-wood, are frequently met with in the forecastles of American whalers. Some of them are done with much accuracy.
Wooden whales, or whales carved in profile from small dark pieces of the noble South Sea war-wood, are often found in the crew's quarters on American whaling ships. Some are made with great precision.
At some old gable-roofed country houses you will see brass whales hung by the tail for knockers to the road-side door. When the porter is sleepy, the anvil-headed whale would be best. But these knocking whales are seldom remarkable as faithful essays. On the spires of some old-fashioned churches you will see sheet-iron whales placed there for weather-cocks; but they are so elevated, and besides that are to all intents and purposes so labelled with “Hands off!” you cannot examine them closely enough to decide upon their merit.
At some old country houses with gabled roofs, you might spot brass whales hanging by their tails as knockers on the roadside doors. If the doorman is feeling drowsy, a whale with a head like an anvil would be more practical. However, these knocking whales are rarely impressive as accurate representations. On the spires of some old-fashioned churches, you'll notice sheet-iron whales used as weather vanes; but they're placed so high up, and effectively marked with a figurative "Hands off!" sign, that you can't get close enough to judge their quality.
In bony, ribby regions of the earth, where at the base of high broken cliffs masses of rock lie strewn in fantastic groupings upon the plain, you will often discover images as of the petrified forms of the Leviathan partly merged in grass, which of a windy day breaks against them in a surf of green surges.
In rugged, rocky areas of the earth, where the bases of towering, jagged cliffs are scattered with masses of stone in wild, random formations across the ground, you’ll often find shapes resembling the fossilized figures of the Leviathan, partly buried in grass that, on a windy day, crashes against them in waves of green turbulence.
Then, again, in mountainous countries where the traveller is continually girdled by amphitheatrical heights; here and there from some lucky point of view you will catch passing glimpses of the profiles of whales defined along the undulating ridges. But you must be a thorough whaleman, to see these sights; and not only that, but if you wish to return to such a sight again, you must be sure and take the exact intersecting latitude and longitude of your first stand-point, else so chance-like are such observations of the hills, that your precise, previous stand-point would require a laborious re-discovery; like the Soloma Islands, which still remain incognita, though once high-ruffed Mendanna trod them and old Figuera chronicled them.
In mountainous areas, where travelers are constantly surrounded by amphitheater-like peaks, there are moments when, from just the right vantage point, you can catch fleeting glimpses of whale-shaped profiles along the rolling ridges. But to notice these, you have to be a seasoned whaler; and not only that, if you want to see such a sight again, you must carefully note the exact latitude and longitude of your original spot. Otherwise, these observations of the hills are so random that finding your exact previous position would require painstaking effort—much like the Solomon Islands, which remain a mystery despite once being visited by the bold Mendaña and recorded by the old chronicler Figueroa.
Nor when expandingly lifted by your subject, can you fail to trace out great whales in the starry heavens, and boats in pursuit of them; as when long filled with thoughts of war the Eastern nations saw armies locked in battle among the clouds. Thus at the North have I chased Leviathan round and round the Pole with the revolutions of the bright points that first defined him to me. And beneath the effulgent Antarctic skies I have boarded the Argo-Navis, and joined the chase against the starry Cetus far beyond the utmost stretch of Hydrus and the Flying Fish.
Nor, when elevated by your subject, can you help but see great whales in the starry skies, along with boats chasing them—just as the ancient Eastern nations, consumed with thoughts of war, imagined armies battling in the clouds. In the North, I’ve pursued Leviathan endlessly around the Pole, following the shining points of light that first revealed him to me. And under the brilliant Antarctic skies, I’ve climbed aboard the Argo-Navis to join the hunt for the starry Cetus, far beyond the farthest reaches of Hydrus and the Flying Fish.
With a frigate’s anchors for my bridle-bitts and fasces of harpoons for spurs, would I could mount that whale and leap the topmost skies, to see whether the fabled heavens with all their countless tents really lie encamped beyond my mortal sight!
With a frigate's anchors for my bridle-bitts and bundles of harpoons for spurs, I wish I could ride that whale and leap into the highest skies to see if the legendary heavens with all their countless tents really exist beyond what my mortal eyes can see!
CHAPTER 58. Brit.
Steering north-eastward from the Crozetts, we fell in with vast meadows of brit, the minute, yellow substance, upon which the Right Whale largely feeds. For leagues and leagues it undulated round us, so that we seemed to be sailing through boundless fields of ripe and golden wheat.
Heading northeast from the Crozet Islands, we came across huge stretches of brit—tiny yellow particles that Right Whales mainly eat. For miles and miles, it rippled around us, making it feel like we were sailing through endless fields of golden, ripe wheat.
On the second day, numbers of Right Whales were seen, who, secure from the attack of a Sperm Whaler like the Pequod, with open jaws sluggishly swam through the brit, which, adhering to the fringing fibres of that wondrous Venetian blind in their mouths, was in that manner separated from the water that escaped at the lip.
On the second day, several Right Whales were spotted, safely out of reach from an attack by a Sperm Whale hunter like the Pequod. They swam lazily through the brit with their jaws open. The brit stuck to the fringed fibers of the remarkable, curtain-like structure in their mouths, separating it from the water that flowed out through their lips.
As morning mowers, who side by side slowly and seethingly advance their scythes through the long wet grass of marshy meads; even so these monsters swam, making a strange, grassy, cutting sound; and leaving behind them endless swaths of blue upon the yellow sea.*
Like early morning workers, side by side, steadily and purposefully moving their scythes through the long, wet grass of marshy fields, these creatures swam, creating a peculiar, grass-like slicing sound and leaving endless trails of blue across the golden sea.*
*That part of the sea known among whalemen as the “Brazil Banks” does not bear that name as the Banks of Newfoundland do, because of there being shallows and soundings there, but because of this remarkable meadow-like appearance, caused by the vast drifts of brit continually floating in those latitudes, where the Right Whale is often chased.
The area of the sea that whalers call the "Brazil Banks" isn't named like the Banks of Newfoundland due to shallow waters or soundings. Instead, it gets its name from its striking, meadow-like appearance, created by the massive drifts of brit constantly floating in those regions, where the Right Whale is frequently hunted.
But it was only the sound they made as they parted the brit which at all reminded one of mowers. Seen from the mast-heads, especially when they paused and were stationary for a while, their vast black forms looked more like lifeless masses of rock than anything else. And as in the great hunting countries of India, the stranger at a distance will sometimes pass on the plains recumbent elephants without knowing them to be such, taking them for bare, blackened elevations of the soil; even so, often, with him, who for the first time beholds this species of the leviathans of the sea. And even when recognised at last, their immense magnitude renders it very hard really to believe that such bulky masses of overgrowth can possibly be instinct, in all parts, with the same sort of life that lives in a dog or a horse.
But it was only the sound they made as they moved through the brit that remotely reminded anyone of mowers. Seen from the mastheads, especially when they paused and stayed still for a while, their massive black shapes looked more like lifeless boulders than anything else. Just as in the vast hunting regions of India, a stranger might sometimes pass reclining elephants on the plains without realizing what they are, mistaking them for bare, dark mounds of earth—so it often is for someone seeing this type of sea leviathan for the first time. And even when finally recognized, their enormous size makes it hard to truly believe that such huge, heavy forms could be alive through and through—just like the life that animates a dog or a horse.
Indeed, in other respects, you can hardly regard any creatures of the deep with the same feelings that you do those of the shore. For though some old naturalists have maintained that all creatures of the land are of their kind in the sea; and though taking a broad general view of the thing, this may very well be; yet coming to specialties, where, for example, does the ocean furnish any fish that in disposition answers to the sagacious kindness of the dog? The accursed shark alone can in any generic respect be said to bear comparative analogy to him.
Honestly, you can't really think about sea creatures the same way you think about land animals. Sure, some old naturalists have argued that every type of land creature has its equivalent in the sea, and in a broad sense, that might seem true. But when you get into specifics, where in the ocean do you find a fish with the loyal and intelligent nature of a dog? The damn shark is the only one that could even remotely be compared to it, and that's not much of a comparison.
But though, to landsmen in general, the native inhabitants of the seas have ever been regarded with emotions unspeakably unsocial and repelling; though we know the sea to be an everlasting terra incognita, so that Columbus sailed over numberless unknown worlds to discover his one superficial western one; though, by vast odds, the most terrific of all mortal disasters have immemorially and indiscriminately befallen tens and hundreds of thousands of those who have gone upon the waters; though but a moment’s consideration will teach, that however baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the continual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense of the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.
Although, to most people on land, the creatures of the sea have always been seen as strange, unapproachable, and even frightening; although we know the ocean to be an endless unknown, where Columbus sailed across countless uncharted worlds just to find his one superficial western one; although the most horrifying disasters in human history, by an overwhelming margin, have indiscriminately claimed the lives of tens and hundreds of thousands who ventured onto the water; although just a moment’s thought will remind us that no matter how much humanity boasts about its science and skill—or how much those might advance in a promising future—the sea will always and forever, until the end of time, defy and destroy him, crushing even the grandest and strongest ships he can build; even so, because we are constantly exposed to these very realities, humanity has lost the ability to fully appreciate the fearsome majesty of the sea that was originally instinctive to us.
The first boat we read of, floated on an ocean, that with Portuguese vengeance had whelmed a whole world without leaving so much as a widow. That same ocean rolls now; that same ocean destroyed the wrecked ships of last year. Yea, foolish mortals, Noah’s flood is not yet subsided; two thirds of the fair world it yet covers.
The first boat we ever hear about floated on an ocean that, with relentless force, wiped out an entire world without even leaving behind a single widow. That same ocean is still here today; that same ocean wrecked ships just last year. Yes, foolish humans, Noah’s flood hasn’t fully receded yet; it still covers two-thirds of the beautiful Earth.
Wherein differ the sea and the land, that a miracle upon one is not a miracle upon the other? Preternatural terrors rested upon the Hebrews, when under the feet of Korah and his company the live ground opened and swallowed them up for ever; yet not a modern sun ever sets, but in precisely the same manner the live sea swallows up ships and crews.
What makes the sea and the land so different that a miracle on one isn’t considered a miracle on the other? The Hebrews were struck with supernatural terror when the ground beneath Korah and his followers opened up and swallowed them forever. Yet every day, the modern sun sets, and the living sea swallows ships and their crews in almost the exact same way.
But not only is the sea such a foe to man who is an alien to it, but it is also a fiend to its own off-spring; worse than the Persian host who murdered his own guests; sparing not the creatures which itself hath spawned. Like a savage tigress that tossing in the jungle overlays her own cubs, so the sea dashes even the mightiest whales against the rocks, and leaves them there side by side with the split wrecks of ships. No mercy, no power but its own controls it. Panting and snorting like a mad battle steed that has lost its rider, the masterless ocean overruns the globe.
Not only is the sea an enemy to humans, who are strangers to it, but it’s also cruel to its own offspring—worse than the Persian tyrant who killed his own guests—showing no mercy even to the creatures it has brought into the world. Like a wild tigress thrashing in the jungle and crushing her own cubs, the sea hurls even the strongest whales against the rocks, leaving them there alongside the shattered remains of ships. It shows no mercy, obeys no power but its own. Gasping and roaring like a crazed warhorse without a rider, the untamed ocean surges across the planet.
Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. Consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks. Consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.
Think about the subtlety of the ocean; how its most feared creatures move silently underwater, mostly unseen and deceptively hidden beneath the prettiest shades of blue. Also, think about the wicked brilliance and beauty of many of its most ruthless species, like the delicate, ornate forms of various types of sharks. And once again, reflect on the constant cycle of predation in the sea; where all its creatures hunt one another, waging an endless war that has gone on since the beginning of time.
Consider all this; and then turn to this green, gentle, and most docile earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return!
Think about all this; then look at this green, gentle, and peaceful earth. Compare the two—the sea and the land—and don’t you feel a strange similarity to something within yourself? Just as this terrifying ocean encircles the lush land, so in the soul of every person, there lies an isolated Tahiti, filled with peace and happiness, but surrounded by all the fears of a life half-understood. May God protect you! Don't sail away from that island—you can never go back!
CHAPTER 59. Squid.
Slowly wading through the meadows of brit, the Pequod still held on her way north-eastward towards the island of Java; a gentle air impelling her keel, so that in the surrounding serenity her three tall tapering masts mildly waved to that languid breeze, as three mild palms on a plain. And still, at wide intervals in the silvery night, the lonely, alluring jet would be seen.
Slowly making its way through the meadows of brit, the Pequod continued heading northeast toward the island of Java. A gentle breeze pushed it forward, so the ship's three tall, slender masts softly swayed in the calm wind, like three peaceful palm trees on a plain. And still, at scattered intervals in the silver night, the solitary and captivating spout could be seen.
But one transparent blue morning, when a stillness almost preternatural spread over the sea, however unattended with any stagnant calm; when the long burnished sun-glade on the waters seemed a golden finger laid across them, enjoining some secrecy; when the slippered waves whispered together as they softly ran on; in this profound hush of the visible sphere a strange spectre was seen by Daggoo from the main-mast-head.
But one clear blue morning, when an almost supernatural stillness spread over the sea, though it wasn’t accompanied by any dead calm; when the long, shiny golden light on the water looked like a finger laid across it, urging silence; when the gentle waves softly whispered to each other as they rolled along; during this deep quiet of the visible world, Daggoo spotted a strange apparition from the main masthead.
In the distance, a great white mass lazily rose, and rising higher and higher, and disentangling itself from the azure, at last gleamed before our prow like a snow-slide, new slid from the hills. Thus glistening for a moment, as slowly it subsided, and sank. Then once more arose, and silently gleamed. It seemed not a whale; and yet is this Moby Dick? thought Daggoo. Again the phantom went down, but on re-appearing once more, with a stiletto-like cry that startled every man from his nod, the negro yelled out—“There! there again! there she breaches! right ahead! The White Whale, the White Whale!”
In the distance, a huge white mass slowly rose, climbing higher and higher, untangling itself from the blue sky, until it finally shimmered in front of our bow like a snow-slide freshly fallen from the mountains. It sparkled for a moment, then slowly sank back down. Then it rose again, silently gleaming. It didn’t seem like a whale, and yet—is this Moby Dick? Daggoo wondered. The phantom sank once more, but when it reappeared again with a piercing cry that jolted every man awake, the sailor shouted, “There! There it is again! It’s breaching right ahead! The White Whale! The White Whale!”
Upon this, the seamen rushed to the yard-arms, as in swarming-time the bees rush to the boughs. Bare-headed in the sultry sun, Ahab stood on the bowsprit, and with one hand pushed far behind in readiness to wave his orders to the helmsman, cast his eager glance in the direction indicated aloft by the outstretched motionless arm of Daggoo.
At that, the sailors hurried to the yard-arms, like bees swarming to branches. Bareheaded under the scorching sun, Ahab stood on the bowsprit, one hand stretched back, ready to signal instructions to the helmsman, while his intense gaze followed the direction pointed out above by Daggoo’s outstretched, unmoving arm.
Whether the flitting attendance of the one still and solitary jet had gradually worked upon Ahab, so that he was now prepared to connect the ideas of mildness and repose with the first sight of the particular whale he pursued; however this was, or whether his eagerness betrayed him; whichever way it might have been, no sooner did he distinctly perceive the white mass, than with a quick intensity he instantly gave orders for lowering.
Whether the constant presence of that lone, still jet of water had gradually influenced Ahab, making him ready to associate calmness and peace with the first sight of the specific whale he was after; whatever the case, or whether his overwhelming excitement got the better of him; whichever way it happened, as soon as he clearly spotted the white shape, he immediately gave the intense, urgent command to lower the boats.
The four boats were soon on the water; Ahab’s in advance, and all swiftly pulling towards their prey. Soon it went down, and while, with oars suspended, we were awaiting its reappearance, lo! in the same spot where it sank, once more it slowly rose. Almost forgetting for the moment all thoughts of Moby Dick, we now gazed at the most wondrous phenomenon which the secret seas have hitherto revealed to mankind. A vast pulpy mass, furlongs in length and breadth, of a glancing cream-colour, lay floating on the water, innumerable long arms radiating from its centre, and curling and twisting like a nest of anacondas, as if blindly to clutch at any hapless object within reach. No perceptible face or front did it have; no conceivable token of either sensation or instinct; but undulated there on the billows, an unearthly, formless, chance-like apparition of life.
The four boats were soon in the water, with Ahab’s leading, all rowing swiftly toward their target. Soon, it disappeared underwater, and while we paused, oars still, waiting for it to resurface, suddenly, in the exact spot where it went down, it slowly rose again. Almost forgetting all about Moby Dick for a moment, we stared in awe at the most incredible phenomenon the hidden depths of the ocean had ever shown to humankind. A massive, jelly-like form, stretching for furlongs in both length and width, floated on the water, its creamy-white surface gleaming. Countless long arms radiated from its center, twisting and curling like a writhing tangle of anacondas, as if blindly groping for any unlucky thing within their grasp. It had no visible face or front, no sign of feeling or instinct, yet it moved with the waves—a strange, shapeless, and otherworldly suggestion of life.
As with a low sucking sound it slowly disappeared again, Starbuck still gazing at the agitated waters where it had sunk, with a wild voice exclaimed—“Almost rather had I seen Moby Dick and fought him, than to have seen thee, thou white ghost!”
As it slowly vanished again with a low, sucking sound, Starbuck kept staring at the churning waters where it had gone down and cried out passionately, "I'd almost rather have seen Moby Dick and fought him than to have seen you, you white ghost!"
“What was it, Sir?” said Flask.
"What was it, sir?" asked Flask.
“The great live squid, which, they say, few whale-ships ever beheld, and returned to their ports to tell of it.”
"The giant live squid, which, they say, is rarely seen by whaling ships that make it back to port to share the story."
But Ahab said nothing; turning his boat, he sailed back to the vessel; the rest as silently following.
But Ahab didn’t say a word. He turned his boat around and sailed back to the ship, with the others quietly following behind.
Whatever superstitions the sperm whalemen in general have connected with the sight of this object, certain it is, that a glimpse of it being so very unusual, that circumstance has gone far to invest it with portentousness. So rarely is it beheld, that though one and all of them declare it to be the largest animated thing in the ocean, yet very few of them have any but the most vague ideas concerning its true nature and form; notwithstanding, they believe it to furnish to the sperm whale his only food. For though other species of whales find their food above water, and may be seen by man in the act of feeding, the spermaceti whale obtains his whole food in unknown zones below the surface; and only by inference is it that any one can tell of what, precisely, that food consists. At times, when closely pursued, he will disgorge what are supposed to be the detached arms of the squid; some of them thus exhibited exceeding twenty and thirty feet in length. They fancy that the monster to which these arms belonged ordinarily clings by them to the bed of the ocean; and that the sperm whale, unlike other species, is supplied with teeth in order to attack and tear it.
Whatever superstitions sperm whale hunters might have about seeing this creature, it’s clear that glimpsing it is so rare that it’s taken on an air of ominous significance. It’s so uncommon to spot that, even though they all claim it’s the largest living thing in the ocean, most of them have only the vaguest ideas about what it actually looks like or its true nature. Still, they believe it’s the sole source of the sperm whale’s food. While other types of whales eat near the surface where they can be observed feeding, the sperm whale gets all its food from uncharted depths beneath the waves, leaving people to speculate about what exactly it eats. Occasionally, when being chased, it will vomit up what are believed to be parts of a squid’s arms—some of which are over 20 or 30 feet long. Many imagine that the creature these arms belong to usually anchors itself to the ocean floor with them, and that the sperm whale, unlike other whales, has teeth specifically designed to attack and tear it apart.
There seems some ground to imagine that the great Kraken of Bishop Pontoppodan may ultimately resolve itself into Squid. The manner in which the Bishop describes it, as alternately rising and sinking, with some other particulars he narrates, in all this the two correspond. But much abatement is necessary with respect to the incredible bulk he assigns it.
It seems reasonable to think that the great Kraken described by Bishop Pontoppodan might actually turn out to be a giant squid. The way he describes it, rising and sinking alternately, along with some other details he mentions, matches up between the two. However, we need to take his claims about its unbelievable size with a big grain of salt.
By some naturalists who have vaguely heard rumors of the mysterious creature, here spoken of, it is included among the class of cuttle-fish, to which, indeed, in certain external respects it would seem to belong, but only as the Anak of the tribe.
Some naturalists who have vaguely heard rumors about this mysterious creature referred to here classify it as a type of cuttlefish. In certain outward characteristics, it might seem to fit that category, but only as the giant of its kind.
CHAPTER 60. The Line.
With reference to the whaling scene shortly to be described, as well as for the better understanding of all similar scenes elsewhere presented, I have here to speak of the magical, sometimes horrible whale-line.
Regarding the whaling scene soon to be described, and to help you better understand all similar scenes shown elsewhere, I need to talk about the mysterious and sometimes terrifying whale-line.
The line originally used in the fishery was of the best hemp, slightly vapored with tar, not impregnated with it, as in the case of ordinary ropes; for while tar, as ordinarily used, makes the hemp more pliable to the rope-maker, and also renders the rope itself more convenient to the sailor for common ship use; yet, not only would the ordinary quantity too much stiffen the whale-line for the close coiling to which it must be subjected; but as most seamen are beginning to learn, tar in general by no means adds to the rope’s durability or strength, however much it may give it compactness and gloss.
The fishing line originally used was made from the finest hemp, lightly treated with tar instead of being saturated with it like regular ropes. While tar in regular ropes makes the hemp more flexible for rope-making and more practical for general ship use, using the usual amount of tar would make the whale line too stiff for the tight coiling it requires. Additionally, as most sailors are now starting to realize, tar doesn't necessarily improve the rope's durability or strength, even if it does make it more compact and shiny.
Of late years the Manilla rope has in the American fishery almost entirely superseded hemp as a material for whale-lines; for, though not so durable as hemp, it is stronger, and far more soft and elastic; and I will add (since there is an æsthetics in all things), is much more handsome and becoming to the boat, than hemp. Hemp is a dusky, dark fellow, a sort of Indian; but Manilla is as a golden-haired Circassian to behold.
In recent years, Manilla rope has almost completely replaced hemp in the American whaling industry as the material for whale lines. While it’s not as durable as hemp, it’s stronger and much softer and more flexible. I’ll also add (since there’s a sense of aesthetics in everything) that it looks much better and suits the boat more than hemp does. Hemp is a dark, rough material, like a kind of somber native, whereas Manilla shines like a golden-haired beauty.
The whale-line is only two-thirds of an inch in thickness. At first sight, you would not think it so strong as it really is. By experiment its one and fifty yarns will each suspend a weight of one hundred and twenty pounds; so that the whole rope will bear a strain nearly equal to three tons. In length, the common sperm whale-line measures something over two hundred fathoms. Towards the stern of the boat it is spirally coiled away in the tub, not like the worm-pipe of a still though, but so as to form one round, cheese-shaped mass of densely bedded “sheaves,” or layers of concentric spiralizations, without any hollow but the “heart,” or minute vertical tube formed at the axis of the cheese. As the least tangle or kink in the coiling would, in running out, infallibly take somebody’s arm, leg, or entire body off, the utmost precaution is used in stowing the line in its tub. Some harpooneers will consume almost an entire morning in this business, carrying the line high aloft and then reeving it downwards through a block towards the tub, so as in the act of coiling to free it from all possible wrinkles and twists.
The whale-line is only two-thirds of an inch thick. At first glance, you wouldn’t think it’s as strong as it actually is. Tests show that its 150 yarns can each hold a weight of 120 pounds, meaning the entire rope can handle a strain of nearly three tons. A typical sperm whale-line is a little over two hundred fathoms long. At the back of the boat, it’s coiled in a tub in a spiral—not like the winding of a still’s worm-pipe, but arranged into a compact, round, cheese-shaped mass of tightly packed "layers" or spirals, with no hollow except for the “heart,” a tiny vertical tube at the center. Since even the slightest tangle or kink in the coil could, while unspooling, easily rip off someone’s arm, leg, or even their whole body, extreme care is taken when storing the line in the tub. Some harpooneers spend nearly an entire morning on this task, hoisting the line high and threading it downward through a block toward the tub to ensure it’s completely free of wrinkles and twists as they coil it.
In the English boats two tubs are used instead of one; the same line being continuously coiled in both tubs. There is some advantage in this; because these twin-tubs being so small they fit more readily into the boat, and do not strain it so much; whereas, the American tub, nearly three feet in diameter and of proportionate depth, makes a rather bulky freight for a craft whose planks are but one half-inch in thickness; for the bottom of the whale-boat is like critical ice, which will bear up a considerable distributed weight, but not very much of a concentrated one. When the painted canvas cover is clapped on the American line-tub, the boat looks as if it were pulling off with a prodigious great wedding-cake to present to the whales.
In the English boats, they use two tubs instead of one, with the same line coiled continuously in both. This has some advantages since the twin tubs are smaller and fit more easily into the boat, putting less strain on it. On the other hand, the American tub, which is almost three feet wide and equally deep, is quite bulky for a boat whose planks are only half an inch thick. The bottom of the whale-boat is like fragile ice—it can support a lot of weight if it's spread out but not if it's concentrated in one spot. When the painted canvas cover is placed over the American line-tub, the boat looks like it's rowing off with an enormous wedding cake to give to the whales.
Both ends of the line are exposed; the lower end terminating in an eye-splice or loop coming up from the bottom against the side of the tub, and hanging over its edge completely disengaged from everything. This arrangement of the lower end is necessary on two accounts. First: In order to facilitate the fastening to it of an additional line from a neighboring boat, in case the stricken whale should sound so deep as to threaten to carry off the entire line originally attached to the harpoon. In these instances, the whale of course is shifted like a mug of ale, as it were, from the one boat to the other; though the first boat always hovers at hand to assist its consort. Second: This arrangement is indispensable for common safety’s sake; for were the lower end of the line in any way attached to the boat, and were the whale then to run the line out to the end almost in a single, smoking minute as he sometimes does, he would not stop there, for the doomed boat would infallibly be dragged down after him into the profundity of the sea; and in that case no town-crier would ever find her again.
Both ends of the line are exposed. The lower end ends in an eye-splice or loop that comes up from the bottom against the side of the tub and hangs over its edge, completely free from everything. This setup for the lower end is necessary for two reasons. First: It allows for an additional line to be easily attached from a nearby boat in case the harpooned whale dives so deep that it risks pulling away the entire line originally connected to the harpoon. In these situations, the whale is essentially passed from one boat to the other, like handing over a mug of beer, though the first boat stays close by to help its partner. Second: This arrangement is absolutely necessary for safety. If the lower end of the line were attached in any way to the boat and the whale suddenly pulled the line out to its limit in a matter of seconds, as it sometimes does, the whale wouldn't stop there. It would inevitably drag the doomed boat down with it into the depths of the ocean—and if that happened, no one would ever find the boat again.
Before lowering the boat for the chase, the upper end of the line is taken aft from the tub, and passing round the loggerhead there, is again carried forward the entire length of the boat, resting crosswise upon the loom or handle of every man’s oar, so that it jogs against his wrist in rowing; and also passing between the men, as they alternately sit at the opposite gunwales, to the leaded chocks or grooves in the extreme pointed prow of the boat, where a wooden pin or skewer the size of a common quill, prevents it from slipping out. From the chocks it hangs in a slight festoon over the bows, and is then passed inside the boat again; and some ten or twenty fathoms (called box-line) being coiled upon the box in the bows, it continues its way to the gunwale still a little further aft, and is then attached to the short-warp—the rope which is immediately connected with the harpoon; but previous to that connexion, the short-warp goes through sundry mystifications too tedious to detail.
Before lowering the boat for the chase, the upper end of the rope is taken to the back of the boat from the tub. It loops around the loggerhead there and is then stretched forward along the entire length of the boat, resting across the loom or handle of each man’s oar, so it bumps against their wrists while they row. It also runs between the men, who are seated alternately on opposite sides of the boat, and leads to the grooved chocks at the sharp, pointed front of the boat. There, a small wooden pin, about the size of a regular pen, keeps it from slipping out. From the chocks, the rope hangs in a slight curve over the front of the boat, then loops back inside. Around ten or twenty fathoms (called the box-line) are coiled on the box in the front of the boat. From there, it continues along the side of the boat a bit further back and is finally attached to the short-warp—the rope directly connected to the harpoon. However, before this connection, the short-warp undergoes a series of complex preparations too lengthy to explain here.
Thus the whale-line folds the whole boat in its complicated coils, twisting and writhing around it in almost every direction. All the oarsmen are involved in its perilous contortions; so that to the timid eye of the landsman, they seem as Indian jugglers, with the deadliest snakes sportively festooning their limbs. Nor can any son of mortal woman, for the first time, seat himself amid those hempen intricacies, and while straining his utmost at the oar, bethink him that at any unknown instant the harpoon may be darted, and all these horrible contortions be put in play like ringed lightnings; he cannot be thus circumstanced without a shudder that makes the very marrow in his bones to quiver in him like a shaken jelly. Yet habit—strange thing! what cannot habit accomplish?—Gayer sallies, more merry mirth, better jokes, and brighter repartees, you never heard over your mahogany, than you will hear over the half-inch white cedar of the whale-boat, when thus hung in hangman’s nooses; and, like the six burghers of Calais before King Edward, the six men composing the crew pull into the jaws of death, with a halter around every neck, as you may say.
The whale-line wraps around the entire boat in its tangled coils, twisting and squirming in nearly every direction. All the rowers are caught up in its dangerous twists, so to the nervous eye of someone unfamiliar with the sea, they look like circus performers handling deadly snakes casually draped around their limbs. No ordinary person, the first time they sit in the midst of those ropey tangles—while rowing with all their might and knowing at any moment the harpoon might be thrown, setting all those terrifying twists into motion like bolts of lightning—could face such a situation without shuddering, feeling their very bones quiver like jelly. Yet habit—a strange force! What can’t it achieve?—You’d never hear lighter jokes, livelier laughter, better humor, or sharper wit than you would over the half-inch white cedar of the whale boat, even while the crew is wrapped in what feels like execution ropes. Like the six burghers of Calais before King Edward, the six crew members row straight into the jaws of death, each with an invisible noose around their neck, so to speak.
Perhaps a very little thought will now enable you to account for those repeated whaling disasters—some few of which are casually chronicled—of this man or that man being taken out of the boat by the line, and lost. For, when the line is darting out, to be seated then in the boat, is like being seated in the midst of the manifold whizzings of a steam-engine in full play, when every flying beam, and shaft, and wheel, is grazing you. It is worse; for you cannot sit motionless in the heart of these perils, because the boat is rocking like a cradle, and you are pitched one way and the other, without the slightest warning; and only by a certain self-adjusting buoyancy and simultaneousness of volition and action, can you escape being made a Mazeppa of, and run away with where the all-seeing sun himself could never pierce you out.
Maybe with just a little thought, you can now understand why those repeated whaling accidents happen—some of which are briefly mentioned—where a person gets caught by the line and lost. When the line is shooting out, sitting in the boat feels like being in the middle of a speeding steam engine with beams, shafts, and wheels flying dangerously close to you. It's even worse because you can't stay still amid all these dangers, as the boat rocks like a cradle, tossing you back and forth without any warning. Only by having a certain natural balance and quick coordination of thought and action can you avoid being dragged off like Mazeppa on a runaway ride to a place even the sun's light can't reach.
Again: as the profound calm which only apparently precedes and prophesies of the storm, is perhaps more awful than the storm itself; for, indeed, the calm is but the wrapper and envelope of the storm; and contains it in itself, as the seemingly harmless rifle holds the fatal powder, and the ball, and the explosion; so the graceful repose of the line, as it silently serpentines about the oarsmen before being brought into actual play—this is a thing which carries more of true terror than any other aspect of this dangerous affair. But why say more? All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life. And if you be a philosopher, though seated in the whale-boat, you would not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.
Once again: the deep calm that seems to come before and predict the storm is often more terrifying than the storm itself. The calm is just the outer layer, the wrapper holding the storm inside it, much like a seemingly harmless rifle holds the deadly gunpowder, the bullet, and the explosion. In the same way, the smooth, graceful stillness of the whale-line, winding silently around the oarsmen before it actually comes into use, is something far more terrifying than any other part of this dangerous business. But why say more? Everyone lives wrapped in whale-lines. We're all born with metaphorical nooses around our necks, but it's only when we're caught in the sudden, unexpected turn of death that we fully realize the quiet, hidden risks that constantly surround us in life. And if you're a philosopher, even sitting in the whale-boat, you'd feel no more fear deep down than you would sitting at home by the fire, with a poker instead of a harpoon by your side.
CHAPTER 61. Stubb Kills a Whale.
If to Starbuck the apparition of the Squid was a thing of portents, to Queequeg it was quite a different object.
If the appearance of the Squid seemed like an omen to Starbuck, to Queequeg it was something entirely different.
“When you see him ’quid,” said the savage, honing his harpoon in the bow of his hoisted boat, “then you quick see him ’parm whale.”
"When you see him, squid," said the savage, sharpening his harpoon in the bow of his lifted boat, "then you'll quickly see him, sperm whale."
The next day was exceedingly still and sultry, and with nothing special to engage them, the Pequod’s crew could hardly resist the spell of sleep induced by such a vacant sea. For this part of the Indian Ocean through which we then were voyaging is not what whalemen call a lively ground; that is, it affords fewer glimpses of porpoises, dolphins, flying-fish, and other vivacious denizens of more stirring waters, than those off the Rio de la Plata, or the in-shore ground off Peru.
The next day was extremely calm and hot, and with nothing of interest to occupy them, the Pequod’s crew found it hard to resist the drowsiness brought on by such an empty sea. This part of the Indian Ocean where we were sailing isn’t what whalemen refer to as lively waters; it has fewer sightings of porpoises, dolphins, flying fish, and other energetic creatures compared to the waters off Rio de la Plata or the coastal areas near Peru.
It was my turn to stand at the foremast-head; and with my shoulders leaning against the slackened royal shrouds, to and fro I idly swayed in what seemed an enchanted air. No resolution could withstand it; in that dreamy mood losing all consciousness, at last my soul went out of my body; though my body still continued to sway as a pendulum will, long after the power which first moved it is withdrawn.
It was my turn to stand at the front masthead; leaning my shoulders against the loosened royal shrouds, I lazily swayed back and forth in what felt like a magical air. No determination could resist it; in that dreamy state, I lost all awareness, and eventually, it felt like my soul left my body—though my body kept swaying like a pendulum, long after the force that initially set it in motion was gone.
Ere forgetfulness altogether came over me, I had noticed that the seamen at the main and mizzen-mast-heads were already drowsy. So that at last all three of us lifelessly swung from the spars, and for every swing that we made there was a nod from below from the slumbering helmsman. The waves, too, nodded their indolent crests; and across the wide trance of the sea, east nodded to west, and the sun over all.
Before I was fully overtaken by forgetfulness, I noticed that the sailors at the mainmast and mizzenmast tops were already drifting off to sleep. Eventually, all three of us hung lifelessly from the spars, each of our swings met with a nod from the dozing helmsman below. The waves, too, lazily nodded their crests; and across the vast, dreamlike sea, east nodded to west, with the sun watching over it all.
Suddenly bubbles seemed bursting beneath my closed eyes; like vices my hands grasped the shrouds; some invisible, gracious agency preserved me; with a shock I came back to life. And lo! close under our lee, not forty fathoms off, a gigantic Sperm Whale lay rolling in the water like the capsized hull of a frigate, his broad, glossy back, of an Ethiopian hue, glistening in the sun’s rays like a mirror. But lazily undulating in the trough of the sea, and ever and anon tranquilly spouting his vapory jet, the whale looked like a portly burgher smoking his pipe of a warm afternoon. But that pipe, poor whale, was thy last. As if struck by some enchanter’s wand, the sleepy ship and every sleeper in it all at once started into wakefulness; and more than a score of voices from all parts of the vessel, simultaneously with the three notes from aloft, shouted forth the accustomed cry, as the great fish slowly and regularly spouted the sparkling brine into the air.
Suddenly, it felt like bubbles were bursting behind my closed eyes; my hands gripped the ropes like they were caught in a vice, and some invisible, merciful force saved me. With a jolt, I came back to life. And there it was—just off to our left, no more than forty fathoms away—a massive sperm whale rolling in the water like the overturned hull of a frigate. Its broad, shiny back, dark as ebony, gleamed in the sunlight like a mirror. Lazily swaying with the sea’s waves and occasionally puffing out its misty spout, the whale looked like a stout townsman relaxing with his pipe on a warm afternoon. But that pipe, poor whale, would be your last. As if someone had waved a magic wand, the drowsy ship and everyone aboard suddenly sprang awake. More than twenty voices across the vessel, along with the three shouts from above, cried out the usual call as the massive creature slowly and steadily sprayed sparkling seawater into the air.
“Clear away the boats! Luff!” cried Ahab. And obeying his own order, he dashed the helm down before the helmsman could handle the spokes.
"Clear the boats! Turn into the wind!" yelled Ahab. Following his own command, he slammed the helm down before the helmsman could grab the wheel.
The sudden exclamations of the crew must have alarmed the whale; and ere the boats were down, majestically turning, he swam away to the leeward, but with such a steady tranquillity, and making so few ripples as he swam, that thinking after all he might not as yet be alarmed, Ahab gave orders that not an oar should be used, and no man must speak but in whispers. So seated like Ontario Indians on the gunwales of the boats, we swiftly but silently paddled along; the calm not admitting of the noiseless sails being set. Presently, as we thus glided in chase, the monster perpendicularly flitted his tail forty feet into the air, and then sank out of sight like a tower swallowed up.
The sudden shouts from the crew must have startled the whale; and before the boats were even lowered, it turned gracefully and swam off to the leeward. But it moved so calmly and created so few ripples as it went that Ahab, thinking it might not be fully alarmed yet, ordered the men to refrain from using their oars, and to speak only in whispers. So, sitting silently like Native Americans on the edges of the boats, we paddled quickly but quietly forward, the stillness of the air preventing us from using sails without noise. Then, as we glided after it, the whale suddenly flipped its tail straight up into the air, rising forty feet, before sinking out of sight like a massive tower disappearing underwater.
“There go flukes!” was the cry, an announcement immediately followed by Stubb’s producing his match and igniting his pipe, for now a respite was granted. After the full interval of his sounding had elapsed, the whale rose again, and being now in advance of the smoker’s boat, and much nearer to it than to any of the others, Stubb counted upon the honor of the capture. It was obvious, now, that the whale had at length become aware of his pursuers. All silence of cautiousness was therefore no longer of use. Paddles were dropped, and oars came loudly into play. And still puffing at his pipe, Stubb cheered on his crew to the assault.
"Flukes ahead!" someone shouted, and as soon as the words were out, Stubb lit his pipe, taking advantage of the brief break. After the whale finished its deep dive and resurfaced, it was now ahead of Stubb’s boat and closer to him than any of the others. Stubb was confident he'd have the glory of the catch. It was now clear that the whale had realized it was being chased. Being quiet was no longer necessary. The paddles were set aside, and the oars started splashing loudly in the water. Still smoking his pipe, Stubb urged his crew on to the attack.
Yes, a mighty change had come over the fish. All alive to his jeopardy, he was going “head out”; that part obliquely projecting from the mad yeast which he brewed.*
Yes, a big change had come over the fish. Fully aware of the danger he was in, he was moving "head out," with that part angled and jutting out of the frenzied froth he was stirring up.
*It will be seen in some other place of what a very light substance the entire interior of the sperm whale’s enormous head consists. Though apparently the most massive, it is by far the most buoyant part about him. So that with ease he elevates it in the air, and invariably does so when going at his utmost speed. Besides, such is the breadth of the upper part of the front of his head, and such the tapering cut-water formation of the lower part, that by obliquely elevating his head, he thereby may be said to transform himself from a bluff-bowed sluggish galliot into a sharppointed New York pilot-boat.
It can be seen elsewhere how the entire inside of the sperm whale's massive head is made up of a surprisingly lightweight material. Although it looks incredibly heavy, it’s actually the most buoyant part of the whale. This allows him to easily lift it above the water, which he always does when swimming at full speed. Moreover, because the upper part of his head is so wide and the lower part is shaped like a tapering keel, tilting his head at an angle essentially transforms him from a bulky, slow-moving barge into a sleek, sharp-pointed New York pilot boat.
“Start her, start her, my men! Don’t hurry yourselves; take plenty of time—but start her; start her like thunder-claps, that’s all,” cried Stubb, spluttering out the smoke as he spoke. “Start her, now; give ’em the long and strong stroke, Tashtego. Start her, Tash, my boy—start her, all; but keep cool, keep cool—cucumbers is the word—easy, easy—only start her like grim death and grinning devils, and raise the buried dead perpendicular out of their graves, boys—that’s all. Start her!”
"Get her going, get her going, guys! No need to rush; take your time—but get her moving; get her going like cracks of thunder, that’s it," shouted Stubb, puffing out smoke as he spoke. "Get her going now; give them those long, strong strokes, Tashtego. Let’s go, Tash, my boy—everyone, get her moving; but stay calm, stay calm—cool as cucumbers, that’s the key—easy, easy—just get her going like grim death and grinning demons, and bring the buried dead straight up out of their graves, boys—got it. Get her going!"
“Woo-hoo! Wa-hee!” screamed the Gay-Header in reply, raising some old war-whoop to the skies; as every oarsman in the strained boat involuntarily bounced forward with the one tremendous leading stroke which the eager Indian gave.
“Woo-hoo! Wa-hee!” screamed the Gay-Header in response, shouting some old war cry to the heavens as every rower in the tense boat instinctively lunged forward with a powerful stroke led by the eager Indian.
But his wild screams were answered by others quite as wild. “Kee-hee! Kee-hee!” yelled Daggoo, straining forwards and backwards on his seat, like a pacing tiger in his cage.
But his frenzied screams were met with equally wild responses. "Kee-hee! Kee-hee!" shouted Daggoo, rocking back and forth on his seat, like a pacing tiger in a cage.
“Ka-la! Koo-loo!” howled Queequeg, as if smacking his lips over a mouthful of Grenadier’s steak. And thus with oars and yells the keels cut the sea. Meanwhile, Stubb retaining his place in the van, still encouraged his men to the onset, all the while puffing the smoke from his mouth. Like desperadoes they tugged and they strained, till the welcome cry was heard—“Stand up, Tashtego!—give it to him!” The harpoon was hurled. “Stern all!” The oarsmen backed water; the same moment something went hot and hissing along every one of their wrists. It was the magical line. An instant before, Stubb had swiftly caught two additional turns with it round the loggerhead, whence, by reason of its increased rapid circlings, a hempen blue smoke now jetted up and mingled with the steady fumes from his pipe. As the line passed round and round the loggerhead; so also, just before reaching that point, it blisteringly passed through and through both of Stubb’s hands, from which the hand-cloths, or squares of quilted canvas sometimes worn at these times, had accidentally dropped. It was like holding an enemy’s sharp two-edged sword by the blade, and that enemy all the time striving to wrest it out of your clutch.
"Ka-la! Koo-loo!" shouted Queequeg, as if savoring a bite of Grenadier steak. With their oars slicing through the water and their cries, the boats sped forward. Up front, Stubb kept his position, urging his crew onward while puffing smoke from his mouth. They rowed like madmen, pulling with all their strength, until the awaited shout came, "Stand up, Tashtego! Let him have it!" The harpoon flew. "Back up, everyone!" The rowers abruptly pulled back, and at that same moment, something shot hot and hissing across all their wrists—the enchanted line. Just seconds earlier, Stubb had quickly added two more loops of it around the loggerhead, and now, as it spun faster and faster, a blue, smoky haze of burning hemp wound upwards and blended with the consistent smoke from his pipe. As the line whipped around the loggerhead, it also seared through Stubb's hands before reaching that point. Unfortunately, the hand-cloths—quilted pads often used in moments like this—had slipped from his grip. Holding it felt like clutching the sharp blade of a two-edged sword, while your opponent fought to tear it from your hands.
“Wet the line! wet the line!” cried Stubb to the tub oarsman (him seated by the tub) who, snatching off his hat, dashed sea-water into it.* More turns were taken, so that the line began holding its place. The boat now flew through the boiling water like a shark all fins. Stubb and Tashtego here changed places—stem for stern—a staggering business truly in that rocking commotion.
“Wet the line! Wet the line!” shouted Stubb to the guy by the tub (the oarsman sitting right there), who quickly yanked off his hat and splashed seawater into it. More loops of the line were secured, and it started staying in place. The boat now sped through the churning water like a shark with all its fins out. Stubb and Tashtego switched spots—front to back—a tricky move in all the wild rocking chaos.
*Partly to show the indispensableness of this act, it may here be stated, that, in the old Dutch fishery, a mop was used to dash the running line with water; in many other ships, a wooden piggin, or bailer, is set apart for that purpose. Your hat, however, is the most convenient.
*Partly to show how necessary this act is, it can be mentioned here that, in the old Dutch fishing industry, a mop was used to splash water on the running line; on many other ships, a wooden bucket or scoop is used specifically for this task. However, your hat is the easiest option.*
From the vibrating line extending the entire length of the upper part of the boat, and from its now being more tight than a harpstring, you would have thought the craft had two keels—one cleaving the water, the other the air—as the boat churned on through both opposing elements at once. A continual cascade played at the bows; a ceaseless whirling eddy in her wake; and, at the slightest motion from within, even but of a little finger, the vibrating, cracking craft canted over her spasmodic gunwale into the sea. Thus they rushed; each man with might and main clinging to his seat, to prevent being tossed to the foam; and the tall form of Tashtego at the steering oar crouching almost double, in order to bring down his centre of gravity. Whole Atlantics and Pacifics seemed passed as they shot on their way, till at length the whale somewhat slackened his flight.
From the tightly stretched line running the entire length of the upper part of the boat—so tight it looked like a harp string—you might have thought the vessel had two keels: one slicing through the water, the other cutting through the air, as the boat raced forward through both opposing elements at once. Water constantly cascaded off the bow, and a never-ending whirl of foam churned in its wake. Even the slightest movement inside the boat—like the twitch of a finger—made the vibrating, creaking vessel tilt precariously so its side nearly dipped into the sea. They surged forward like this, every man holding on with all his strength to stay in his seat and avoid being thrown into the crashing waves. At the back, Tashtego crouched low over the steering oar, bending almost double to lower his center of gravity. They sped on as though traversing endless oceans, rushing through what felt like whole Atlantics and Pacifics, until eventually, the whale began to slow down.
“Haul in—haul in!” cried Stubb to the bowsman! and, facing round towards the whale, all hands began pulling the boat up to him, while yet the boat was being towed on. Soon ranging up by his flank, Stubb, firmly planting his knee in the clumsy cleat, darted dart after dart into the flying fish; at the word of command, the boat alternately sterning out of the way of the whale’s horrible wallow, and then ranging up for another fling.
"Pull in—pull in!" shouted Stubb to the bowman. Turning toward the whale, everyone started pulling the boat closer to it, even as the boat was still being dragged along. Soon, they came alongside its side, and Stubb, bracing his knee against the rough cleat, hurled harpoon after harpoon into the thrashing whale. At his command, the boat alternated between backing away to avoid the whale's violent thrashing and moving in close again for another strike.
The red tide now poured from all sides of the monster like brooks down a hill. His tormented body rolled not in brine but in blood, which bubbled and seethed for furlongs behind in their wake. The slanting sun playing upon this crimson pond in the sea, sent back its reflection into every face, so that they all glowed to each other like red men. And all the while, jet after jet of white smoke was agonizingly shot from the spiracle of the whale, and vehement puff after puff from the mouth of the excited headsman; as at every dart, hauling in upon his crooked lance (by the line attached to it), Stubb straightened it again and again, by a few rapid blows against the gunwale, then again and again sent it into the whale.
The red tide now gushed from all sides of the creature like streams flowing down a hill. Its tortured body rolled not in water but in blood, which bubbled and foamed for miles behind in its wake. The slanting sun shining on this crimson pool in the sea reflected back onto everyone's faces, making them all look as if they were glowing red. Meanwhile, jet after jet of white spray was painfully blasted from the whale's blowhole, while hard puffs of breath came from the mouth of the frantic headsman. With each throw, pulling his hooked lance back in by the attached line, Stubb would straighten it over and over with a few quick strikes against the boat's edge, then relentlessly plunge it into the whale again.
“Pull up—pull up!” he now cried to the bowsman, as the waning whale relaxed in his wrath. “Pull up!—close to!” and the boat ranged along the fish’s flank. When reaching far over the bow, Stubb slowly churned his long sharp lance into the fish, and kept it there, carefully churning and churning, as if cautiously seeking to feel after some gold watch that the whale might have swallowed, and which he was fearful of breaking ere he could hook it out. But that gold watch he sought was the innermost life of the fish. And now it is struck; for, starting from his trance into that unspeakable thing called his “flurry,” the monster horribly wallowed in his blood, overwrapped himself in impenetrable, mad, boiling spray, so that the imperilled craft, instantly dropping astern, had much ado blindly to struggle out from that phrensied twilight into the clear air of the day.
"Pull up—pull up!" he shouted to the bowman as the exhausted whale calmed down in its fury. "Pull up! Get closer!" The boat moved alongside the whale's flank. Leaning far over the bow, Stubb slowly plunged his long, sharp lance into the whale and held it there, carefully twisting and turning it, as if he were delicately trying to retrieve a gold watch the whale might have swallowed—one he was afraid of breaking before he could fish it out. But the "gold watch" he was after was the whale's very life force. And now it was struck. Snapping out of its stillness and into that indescribable frenzy called a "flurry," the whale thrashed violently in its own blood, engulfing itself in an impenetrable, chaotic storm of boiling spray. The endangered boat, quickly falling back, struggled desperately to escape the madness and emerge into the clear daylight.
And now abating in his flurry, the whale once more rolled out into view; surging from side to side; spasmodically dilating and contracting his spout-hole, with sharp, cracking, agonized respirations. At last, gush after gush of clotted red gore, as if it had been the purple lees of red wine, shot into the frighted air; and falling back again, ran dripping down his motionless flanks into the sea. His heart had burst!
Now calming down from his frenzy, the whale rolled back into view, thrashing from side to side, his blowhole spasming open and shut with sharp, cracking, labored breaths. Finally, burst after burst of thick, clotted red blood, like the dregs of dark red wine, shot into the terrified air; then fell back down, streaming down his still flanks into the sea. His heart had exploded!
“He’s dead, Mr. Stubb,” said Daggoo.
"He's dead, Mr. Stubb," Daggoo said.
“Yes; both pipes smoked out!” and withdrawing his own from his mouth, Stubb scattered the dead ashes over the water; and, for a moment, stood thoughtfully eyeing the vast corpse he had made.
"Yeah, both pipes are done!" Stubb said as he took his own pipe out of his mouth, scattering the burnt ashes into the water. For a moment, he stood there, thoughtfully staring at the massive corpse he had created.
CHAPTER 62. The Dart.
A word concerning an incident in the last chapter.
A quick note about something that happened in the previous chapter.
According to the invariable usage of the fishery, the whale-boat pushes off from the ship, with the headsman or whale-killer as temporary steersman, and the harpooneer or whale-fastener pulling the foremost oar, the one known as the harpooneer-oar. Now it needs a strong, nervous arm to strike the first iron into the fish; for often, in what is called a long dart, the heavy implement has to be flung to the distance of twenty or thirty feet. But however prolonged and exhausting the chase, the harpooneer is expected to pull his oar meanwhile to the uttermost; indeed, he is expected to set an example of superhuman activity to the rest, not only by incredible rowing, but by repeated loud and intrepid exclamations; and what it is to keep shouting at the top of one’s compass, while all the other muscles are strained and half started—what that is none know but those who have tried it. For one, I cannot bawl very heartily and work very recklessly at one and the same time. In this straining, bawling state, then, with his back to the fish, all at once the exhausted harpooneer hears the exciting cry—“Stand up, and give it to him!” He now has to drop and secure his oar, turn round on his centre half way, seize his harpoon from the crotch, and with what little strength may remain, he essays to pitch it somehow into the whale. No wonder, taking the whole fleet of whalemen in a body, that out of fifty fair chances for a dart, not five are successful; no wonder that so many hapless harpooneers are madly cursed and disrated; no wonder that some of them actually burst their blood-vessels in the boat; no wonder that some sperm whalemen are absent four years with four barrels; no wonder that to many ship owners, whaling is but a losing concern; for it is the harpooneer that makes the voyage, and if you take the breath out of his body how can you expect to find it there when most wanted!
According to the standard practice of whaling, the whale boat launches from the ship with the headsman or whale killer temporarily steering, and the harpooner, or whale fastener, rowing the front oar, known as the harpooner oar. It takes a strong, steady arm to make the first strike into the whale, especially for what's called a long throw, where the heavy harpoon might need to be hurled twenty or thirty feet. But no matter how long and draining the chase becomes, the harpooner is still expected to row with all his strength. In fact, he's supposed to lead by example with superhuman energy—not just through relentless rowing, but also by shouting loud, brave calls to motivate the others. And shouting with all your strength while every muscle in your body is pushed to its limit—that’s something only those who’ve tried it can truly understand. For one, I can’t yell loudly and work myself to exhaustion simultaneously. In this tense, yelling state, with his back to the whale, the worn-out harpooner suddenly hears the exhilarating command: "Stand up and take your shot!" Immediately, he has to stop rowing, secure his oar, pivot halfway around, grab the harpoon from its place, and, with whatever strength he has left, try to throw it into the whale. It’s no surprise, looking at all the whalemen together, that out of fifty good opportunities to throw, barely five succeed; no surprise that so many unfortunate harpooners are furiously cursed and demoted; no surprise that some even rupture blood vessels in the boat; no surprise that some sperm whalers come back after four years with just four barrels of oil; no surprise that for many shipowners, whaling is a losing business. Because the harpooner makes the voyage—if you take the life out of him, how can you expect him to deliver when it matters most?
Again, if the dart be successful, then at the second critical instant, that is, when the whale starts to run, the boatheader and harpooneer likewise start to running fore and aft, to the imminent jeopardy of themselves and every one else. It is then they change places; and the headsman, the chief officer of the little craft, takes his proper station in the bows of the boat.
Again, if the harpoon hits its mark, then at the next critical moment—when the whale begins to race off—the boat leader and harpooner also dash back and forth, putting themselves and everyone else in serious danger. This is when they switch positions, and the headsman, the main officer of the small boat, takes his rightful place at the front of the vessel.
Now, I care not who maintains the contrary, but all this is both foolish and unnecessary. The headsman should stay in the bows from first to last; he should both dart the harpoon and the lance, and no rowing whatever should be expected of him, except under circumstances obvious to any fisherman. I know that this would sometimes involve a slight loss of speed in the chase; but long experience in various whalemen of more than one nation has convinced me that in the vast majority of failures in the fishery, it has not by any means been so much the speed of the whale as the before described exhaustion of the harpooneer that has caused them.
I don’t care who says otherwise, but all of this is both ridiculous and unnecessary. The harpooneer should stay at the front of the boat from start to finish; he should throw both the harpoon and the lance, and shouldn’t be expected to row at all except in situations obvious to any fisherman. I understand this might sometimes mean a slight loss of speed during the chase, but after lots of experience on a variety of whaling ships from different nations, I’m convinced that most of the failures in whaling haven’t been caused by the whale’s speed as much as by the exhaustion of the harpooneer described earlier.
To insure the greatest efficiency in the dart, the harpooneers of this world must start to their feet from out of idleness, and not from out of toil.
To ensure maximum efficiency with the dart, the harpooners of this world must rise to their feet from a state of rest, not from exhaustion.
CHAPTER 63. The Crotch.
Out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs. So, in productive subjects, grow the chapters.
Out of the trunk, the branches grow, and from them come the twigs. In the same way, chapters grow from productive subjects.
The crotch alluded to on a previous page deserves independent mention. It is a notched stick of a peculiar form, some two feet in length, which is perpendicularly inserted into the starboard gunwale near the bow, for the purpose of furnishing a rest for the wooden extremity of the harpoon, whose other naked, barbed end slopingly projects from the prow. Thereby the weapon is instantly at hand to its hurler, who snatches it up as readily from its rest as a backwoodsman swings his rifle from the wall. It is customary to have two harpoons reposing in the crotch, respectively called the first and second irons.
The crotch mentioned earlier needs its own description. It’s a notched stick with a unique shape, about two feet long, that’s placed vertically into the right side of the boat near the bow. Its purpose is to hold the wooden end of the harpoon, while the sharp, barbed end sticks out at an angle from the front of the boat. This setup ensures the harpoon is always within easy reach of the thrower, who can grab it as quickly as a hunter takes his rifle off the wall. Typically, two harpoons rest in the crotch, known as the first and second irons.
But these two harpoons, each by its own cord, are both connected with the line; the object being this: to dart them both, if possible, one instantly after the other into the same whale; so that if, in the coming drag, one should draw out, the other may still retain a hold. It is a doubling of the chances. But it very often happens that owing to the instantaneous, violent, convulsive running of the whale upon receiving the first iron, it becomes impossible for the harpooneer, however lightning-like in his movements, to pitch the second iron into him. Nevertheless, as the second iron is already connected with the line, and the line is running, hence that weapon must, at all events, be anticipatingly tossed out of the boat, somehow and somewhere; else the most terrible jeopardy would involve all hands. Tumbled into the water, it accordingly is in such cases; the spare coils of box line (mentioned in a preceding chapter) making this feat, in most instances, prudently practicable. But this critical act is not always unattended with the saddest and most fatal casualties.
These two harpoons, each attached to its own rope, are both linked to the main line. The goal is to throw both harpoons, if possible, one immediately after the other into the same whale. That way, if one pulls out during the struggle, the other will still hold. It doubles the chances of success. However, it often happens that because of the whale's sudden, violent, and frantic movement after being struck by the first harpoon, it becomes impossible for the harpooner, no matter how fast, to throw the second harpoon into it. Still, since the second harpoon is already connected to the line, which is quickly unspooling, the weapon must be thrown out of the boat in advance – somewhere and somehow – or the situation could become extremely dangerous for everyone. In such cases, the second harpoon is thrown into the water, as the spare coils of line stored in the box (mentioned in a previous chapter) make this maneuver usually safe to attempt. But this critical act is not always free of tragic or even deadly accidents.
Furthermore: you must know that when the second iron is thrown overboard, it thenceforth becomes a dangling, sharp-edged terror, skittishly curvetting about both boat and whale, entangling the lines, or cutting them, and making a prodigious sensation in all directions. Nor, in general, is it possible to secure it again until the whale is fairly captured and a corpse.
Furthermore: you should know that when the second harpoon is thrown overboard, it becomes a dangerous, sharp-edged menace, darting unpredictably around both the boat and the whale, tangling the lines or cutting them, and causing a huge commotion in all directions. Generally, it can’t be retrieved until the whale is fully caught and dead.
Consider, now, how it must be in the case of four boats all engaging one unusually strong, active, and knowing whale; when owing to these qualities in him, as well as to the thousand concurring accidents of such an audacious enterprise, eight or ten loose second irons may be simultaneously dangling about him. For, of course, each boat is supplied with several harpoons to bend on to the line should the first one be ineffectually darted without recovery. All these particulars are faithfully narrated here, as they will not fail to elucidate several most important, however intricate passages, in scenes hereafter to be painted.
Imagine how it must be when four boats are all going after one incredibly strong, agile, and intelligent whale; with those qualities, along with a thousand unpredictable accidents during such a daring pursuit, there could be eight or ten loose backup harpoons hanging around him at the same time. Naturally, each boat is equipped with multiple harpoons to attach to the line in case the first one is thrown and misses or can’t be retrieved. All these details are carefully explained here because they’ll clearly help make sense of some crucial, though complex, events in scenes coming up later.
CHAPTER 64. Stubb’s Supper.
Stubb’s whale had been killed some distance from the ship. It was a calm; so, forming a tandem of three boats, we commenced the slow business of towing the trophy to the Pequod. And now, as we eighteen men with our thirty-six arms, and one hundred and eighty thumbs and fingers, slowly toiled hour after hour upon that inert, sluggish corpse in the sea; and it seemed hardly to budge at all, except at long intervals; good evidence was hereby furnished of the enormousness of the mass we moved. For, upon the great canal of Hang-Ho, or whatever they call it, in China, four or five laborers on the foot-path will draw a bulky freighted junk at the rate of a mile an hour; but this grand argosy we towed heavily forged along, as if laden with pig-lead in bulk.
Stubb’s whale had been killed a good distance from the ship. It was calm weather, so we lined up three boats in a row and began the slow process of towing the prize back to the Pequod. Now, as the eighteen of us, with our thirty-six arms and one hundred and eighty fingers and thumbs, worked hour after hour on that lifeless, heavy corpse floating in the sea—barely getting it to move except for the occasional small shift—it became very clear just how massive the thing was. For instance, on the big canal in China, the Hang-Ho or whatever they call it, four or five workers on the bank can drag a loaded junk ship at about a mile an hour; but this enormous beast we were towing moved forward so sluggishly, it felt as if it were packed full of solid lead.
Darkness came on; but three lights up and down in the Pequod’s main-rigging dimly guided our way; till drawing nearer we saw Ahab dropping one of several more lanterns over the bulwarks. Vacantly eyeing the heaving whale for a moment, he issued the usual orders for securing it for the night, and then handing his lantern to a seaman, went his way into the cabin, and did not come forward again until morning.
Night fell; but three lights along the Pequod’s main rigging faintly showed us the way. As we got closer, we saw Ahab lowering one of several lanterns over the side. He stared blankly at the rolling whale for a moment, gave the usual orders to secure it for the night, then handed his lantern to a crew member and headed into the cabin. He didn’t come back out until morning.
Though, in overseeing the pursuit of this whale, Captain Ahab had evinced his customary activity, to call it so; yet now that the creature was dead, some vague dissatisfaction, or impatience, or despair, seemed working in him; as if the sight of that dead body reminded him that Moby Dick was yet to be slain; and though a thousand other whales were brought to his ship, all that would not one jot advance his grand, monomaniac object. Very soon you would have thought from the sound on the Pequod’s decks, that all hands were preparing to cast anchor in the deep; for heavy chains are being dragged along the deck, and thrust rattling out of the port-holes. But by those clanking links, the vast corpse itself, not the ship, is to be moored. Tied by the head to the stern, and by the tail to the bows, the whale now lies with its black hull close to the vessel’s and seen through the darkness of the night, which obscured the spars and rigging aloft, the two—ship and whale, seemed yoked together like colossal bullocks, whereof one reclines while the other remains standing.*
Although Captain Ahab had shown his usual energy while chasing the whale, now that the creature was dead, some vague sense of dissatisfaction, impatience, or despair seemed to stir within him. It was as if the sight of the lifeless body reminded him that Moby Dick was still out there and had yet to be killed. Bringing a thousand other whales to his ship wouldn’t bring him any closer to his obsessive goal. Before long, judging by the sounds coming from the deck of the Pequod, you might have thought the crew was getting ready to drop anchor in the deep. Heavy chains were being dragged across the deck and shoved, clanking, out of the portholes. But those rattling chains weren’t for anchoring the ship—they were for securing the enormous corpse. Tied at the head to the stern and at the tail to the bow, the whale now lay with its dark mass alongside the vessel. In the obscurity of the night, which dimmed the outlines of the rigging and masts above, the ship and the whale appeared yoked together like gigantic oxen, one lying down while the other stood tall.
*A little item may as well be related here. The strongest and most reliable hold which the ship has upon the whale when moored alongside, is by the flukes or tail; and as from its greater density that part is relatively heavier than any other (excepting the side-fins), its flexibility even in death, causes it to sink low beneath the surface; so that with the hand you cannot get at it from the boat, in order to put the chain round it. But this difficulty is ingeniously overcome: a small, strong line is prepared with a wooden float at its outer end, and a weight in its middle, while the other end is secured to the ship. By adroit management the wooden float is made to rise on the other side of the mass, so that now having girdled the whale, the chain is readily made to follow suit; and being slipped along the body, is at last locked fast round the smallest part of the tail, at the point of junction with its broad flukes or lobes.
Here’s a little detail worth sharing. The strongest and most reliable way the ship holds onto the whale when it's tied alongside is by its flukes or tail. Since that part is denser and heavier than most of the whale (except for the side fins), its flexibility, even after death, makes it sink low beneath the surface. This means you can't reach it from the boat with your hand to attach the chain. But this problem is cleverly solved: a small, strong line is prepared with a wooden float on one end, a weight in the middle, and the other end secured to the ship. With skillful handling, the wooden float is made to surface on the other side of the whale, effectively encircling it. The chain is then easily guided to follow the path, and once slipped along the body, it’s securely locked around the narrowest part of the tail, right where it connects to the broad flukes or lobes.
If moody Ahab was now all quiescence, at least so far as could be known on deck, Stubb, his second mate, flushed with conquest, betrayed an unusual but still good-natured excitement. Such an unwonted bustle was he in that the staid Starbuck, his official superior, quietly resigned to him for the time the sole management of affairs. One small, helping cause of all this liveliness in Stubb, was soon made strangely manifest. Stubb was a high liver; he was somewhat intemperately fond of the whale as a flavorish thing to his palate.
If the brooding Ahab was now completely calm—at least as far as anyone on deck could tell—Stubb, his second mate, was fired up with a cheerful excitement after their success. He was so unusually energetic that the usually steady Starbuck, his superior officer, willingly handed over full control of operations to him for the moment. A small but noticeable reason behind Stubb’s high spirits soon became clear in an odd way: Stubb had a taste for indulgence and was unusually fond of whale meat as something flavorful to his palate.
“A steak, a steak, ere I sleep! You, Daggoo! overboard you go, and cut me one from his small!”
"A steak, a steak, before I sleep! Hey, Daggoo! Jump overboard and cut one for me from the little one!"
Here be it known, that though these wild fishermen do not, as a general thing, and according to the great military maxim, make the enemy defray the current expenses of the war (at least before realizing the proceeds of the voyage), yet now and then you find some of these Nantucketers who have a genuine relish for that particular part of the Sperm Whale designated by Stubb; comprising the tapering extremity of the body.
Let it be known that although these wild fishermen don't usually, and as a rule, follow the famous military strategy of making the enemy cover the costs of the war (at least not before cashing in the profits of the trip), every now and then you'll find some of these Nantucketers who genuinely enjoy that specific part of the Sperm Whale mentioned by Stubb—the tapered end of the body.
About midnight that steak was cut and cooked; and lighted by two lanterns of sperm oil, Stubb stoutly stood up to his spermaceti supper at the capstan-head, as if that capstan were a sideboard. Nor was Stubb the only banqueter on whale’s flesh that night. Mingling their mumblings with his own mastications, thousands on thousands of sharks, swarming round the dead leviathan, smackingly feasted on its fatness. The few sleepers below in their bunks were often startled by the sharp slapping of their tails against the hull, within a few inches of the sleepers’ hearts. Peering over the side you could just see them (as before you heard them) wallowing in the sullen, black waters, and turning over on their backs as they scooped out huge globular pieces of the whale of the bigness of a human head. This particular feat of the shark seems all but miraculous. How at such an apparently unassailable surface, they contrive to gouge out such symmetrical mouthfuls, remains a part of the universal problem of all things. The mark they thus leave on the whale, may best be likened to the hollow made by a carpenter in countersinking for a screw.
Around midnight, that steak was cut and cooked. Under the glow of two sperm-oil lanterns, Stubb boldly enjoyed his spermaceti meal at the capstan-head, as if the capstan were a makeshift sideboard. And Stubb wasn’t the only one dining on whale meat that night. Joining the sounds of his chewing were the frenzied noises of thousands of sharks swarming around the massive whale carcass, greedily feasting on its fat. The few crew members sleeping below decks were often jolted awake by the loud slapping of shark tails against the hull, just inches away from their hearts. Looking over the side, you could barely make out the sharks in the dark, restless waters—only glimpsing them when they rolled onto their backs to tear away enormous chunks of the whale, as large as a human head. The way sharks manage this almost seems like a miracle. How they can carve such precise, rounded bites out of something so seemingly impenetrable remains one of nature’s baffling mysteries. The marks they leave on the whale are best compared to the neat hollows a carpenter makes when countersinking a screw.
Though amid all the smoking horror and diabolism of a sea-fight, sharks will be seen longingly gazing up to the ship’s decks, like hungry dogs round a table where red meat is being carved, ready to bolt down every killed man that is tossed to them; and though, while the valiant butchers over the deck-table are thus cannibally carving each other’s live meat with carving-knives all gilded and tasselled, the sharks, also, with their jewel-hilted mouths, are quarrelsomely carving away under the table at the dead meat; and though, were you to turn the whole affair upside down, it would still be pretty much the same thing, that is to say, a shocking sharkish business enough for all parties; and though sharks also are the invariable outriders of all slave ships crossing the Atlantic, systematically trotting alongside, to be handy in case a parcel is to be carried anywhere, or a dead slave to be decently buried; and though one or two other like instances might be set down, touching the set terms, places, and occasions, when sharks do most socially congregate, and most hilariously feast; yet is there no conceivable time or occasion when you will find them in such countless numbers, and in gayer or more jovial spirits, than around a dead sperm whale, moored by night to a whaleship at sea. If you have never seen that sight, then suspend your decision about the propriety of devil-worship, and the expediency of conciliating the devil.
Even during the chaos, smoke, and horror of a naval battle, sharks can be seen staring up at the ship’s decks like hungry dogs circling a table where fresh meat is being carved, ready to snatch up any man thrown overboard. While the brave fighters on deck are savagely slashing each other with glittering, decorative weapons, the sharks are below, fighting amongst themselves and tearing apart the corpses with their toothy "jewel-hilted" mouths. If you flipped the entire scene upside down, it wouldn’t look much different—just a gruesome business for everyone involved. Sharks are also the constant companions of all slave ships crossing the Atlantic, dutifully swimming alongside in case someone is tossed overboard or a dead slave needs a “respectable” burial at sea. There are other occasions and places where sharks gather to feast, showing a grim kind of social camaraderie, but you will never see them in greater numbers or in higher spirits than around a dead sperm whale tied to a whaling ship at night. If you’ve never witnessed that scene, hold off on judging whether worshiping or making deals with the devil might, in some situations, seem reasonable.
But, as yet, Stubb heeded not the mumblings of the banquet that was going on so nigh him, no more than the sharks heeded the smacking of his own epicurean lips.
But for now, Stubb paid no attention to the mutterings of the feast happening so close to him, any more than the sharks cared about the sound of his own satisfied lips.
“Cook, cook!—where’s that old Fleece?” he cried at length, widening his legs still further, as if to form a more secure base for his supper; and, at the same time darting his fork into the dish, as if stabbing with his lance; “cook, you cook!—sail this way, cook!”
"Cook, cook! Where’s old Fleece?" he finally shouted, spreading his legs even wider as if to get a more solid stance for his meal. At the same time, he jabbed his fork into the dish like he was stabbing it with a spear. "Cook, hey cook! Come over here, cook!"
The old black, not in any very high glee at having been previously roused from his warm hammock at a most unseasonable hour, came shambling along from his galley, for, like many old blacks, there was something the matter with his knee-pans, which he did not keep well scoured like his other pans; this old Fleece, as they called him, came shuffling and limping along, assisting his step with his tongs, which, after a clumsy fashion, were made of straightened iron hoops; this old Ebony floundered along, and in obedience to the word of command, came to a dead stop on the opposite side of Stubb’s sideboard; when, with both hands folded before him, and resting on his two-legged cane, he bowed his arched back still further over, at the same time sideways inclining his head, so as to bring his best ear into play.
The old Black man, not exactly thrilled about being dragged out of his warm hammock at such an ungodly hour, came shuffling out from his kitchen. Like many older Black men, he had trouble with his knees, which he didn’t keep in as good shape as he did his other pots and pans. This man, known as Fleece, hobbled along awkwardly, limping and using a makeshift cane fashioned from straightened iron hoops to help him walk. He stumbled his way over and, following the order he was given, came to a complete halt on the opposite side of Stubb’s sideboard. With both hands resting on his shaky cane, he bent his back even further and tilted his head sideways to get his better ear in position to listen.
“Cook,” said Stubb, rapidly lifting a rather reddish morsel to his mouth, “don’t you think this steak is rather overdone? You’ve been beating this steak too much, cook; it’s too tender. Don’t I always say that to be good, a whale-steak must be tough? There are those sharks now over the side, don’t you see they prefer it tough and rare? What a shindy they are kicking up! Cook, go and talk to ’em; tell ’em they are welcome to help themselves civilly, and in moderation, but they must keep quiet. Blast me, if I can hear my own voice. Away, cook, and deliver my message. Here, take this lantern,” snatching one from his sideboard; “now then, go and preach to ’em!”
"Cook," said Stubb, quickly popping a rather reddish bite into his mouth, "don't you think this steak is a bit overcooked? You've been beating this steak too much, cook – it's too soft. Haven't I always said that a good whale steak needs to be tough? Look at those sharks over the side; don’t you see they prefer it tough and rare? What a racket they're making! Cook, go talk to them; tell them they’re welcome to help themselves politely and in moderation, but they need to keep it down. Damn it, I can't hear myself think. Get moving, cook, and give them my message. Here, take this lantern," he said, grabbing one from his sideboard. "Now go and preach to them!"
Sullenly taking the offered lantern, old Fleece limped across the deck to the bulwarks; and then, with one hand dropping his light low over the sea, so as to get a good view of his congregation, with the other hand he solemnly flourished his tongs, and leaning far over the side in a mumbling voice began addressing the sharks, while Stubb, softly crawling behind, overheard all that was said.
Grumpily taking the offered lantern, old Fleece hobbled across the deck to the railing. Then, with one hand holding the light low over the water to get a clear view of his audience, and the other hand waving his tongs dramatically, he leaned far over the side and began speaking to the sharks in a low, muttering voice, while Stubb quietly crept up behind him, listening to everything he said.
“Fellow-critters: I’se ordered here to say dat you must stop dat dam noise dare. You hear? Stop dat dam smackin’ ob de lip! Massa Stubb say dat you can fill your dam bellies up to de hatchings, but by Gor! you must stop dat dam racket!”
"Listen up, everyone: I’ve been told to come here and tell you to cut out that damn noise. You hear me? Stop smacking your lips like that! Mr. Stubb says you can eat as much as you want, but by God, you’ve got to stop making all that racket!"
“Cook,” here interposed Stubb, accompanying the word with a sudden slap on the shoulder,—“Cook! why, damn your eyes, you mustn’t swear that way when you’re preaching. That’s no way to convert sinners, cook!”
"Cook," Stubb interrupted, giving him a quick slap on the shoulder, "Cook! Damn it, you can't swear like that while you're preaching. That's not how you convert sinners, cook!"
“Who dat? Den preach to him yourself,” sullenly turning to go.
"Who’s that? Then preach to him yourself," he said moodily, turning to leave.
“No, cook; go on, go on.”
"No, cook; keep going, keep going."
“Well, den, Belubed fellow-critters:”—
"Well then, beloved fellow critters:"
“Right!” exclaimed Stubb, approvingly, “coax ’em to it; try that,” and Fleece continued.
"Exactly!" Stubb exclaimed with approval. "Get them to do it; give it a shot." And Fleece went on.
“Do you is all sharks, and by natur wery woracious, yet I zay to you, fellow-critters, dat dat woraciousness—’top dat dam slappin’ ob de tail! How you tink to hear, spose you keep up such a dam slappin’ and bitin’ dare?”
"You're all sharks, and by nature very greedy, but I say to you, fellow creatures, that that greediness—stop that damn tail slapping! How do you expect to hear anything if you keep up all that damn slapping and biting over there?"
“Cook,” cried Stubb, collaring him, “I won’t have that swearing. Talk to ’em gentlemanly.”
"Cook," shouted Stubb, grabbing him by the collar, "I won't tolerate that swearing. Speak to them respectfully."
Once more the sermon proceeded.
The sermon continued again.
“Your woraciousness, fellow-critters, I don’t blame ye so much for; dat is natur, and can’t be helped; but to gobern dat wicked natur, dat is de pint. You is sharks, sartin; but if you gobern de shark in you, why den you be angel; for all angel is not’ing more dan de shark well goberned. Now, look here, bred’ren, just try wonst to be cibil, a helping yourselbs from dat whale. Don’t be tearin’ de blubber out your neighbour’s mout, I say. Is not one shark dood right as toder to dat whale? And, by Gor, none on you has de right to dat whale; dat whale belong to some one else. I know some o’ you has berry brig mout, brigger dan oders; but den de brig mouts sometimes has de small bellies; so dat de brigness of de mout is not to swaller wid, but to bit off de blubber for de small fry ob sharks, dat can’t get into de scrouge to help demselves.”
"Listen up, my friends, I don’t blame you too much for your greed; that’s natural and can’t really be helped. But controlling that wild nature of yours—that’s the key. You’re sharks, no doubt about it; but if you can control the shark within you, then you can be like angels, because an angel is nothing more than a shark that’s been properly tamed. Now, listen here, brothers, just try, for once, to be decent, and help yourselves from that whale without making a mess. Don’t go ripping the blubber out of your neighbor’s mouth, I’m telling you. Doesn’t one shark have as much right to that whale as another? And remember, none of you actually owns that whale; it belongs to someone else. I know some of you have really big mouths, bigger than others; but sometimes, those with big mouths have small bellies. So those big mouths aren’t just for swallowing everything themselves, but for biting off pieces of blubber to share with the smaller sharks who can’t squeeze into the crowd to get their share."
“Well done, old Fleece!” cried Stubb, “that’s Christianity; go on.”
"Good job, old Fleece!" Stubb shouted. "That's what Christianity is all about; keep it up."
“No use goin’ on; de dam willains will keep a scougin’ and slappin’ each oder, Massa Stubb; dey don’t hear one word; no use a-preachin’ to such dam g’uttons as you call ’em, till dare bellies is full, and dare bellies is bottomless; and when dey do get ’em full, dey wont hear you den; for den dey sink in de sea, go fast to sleep on de coral, and can’t hear not’ing at all, no more, for eber and eber.”
"No point in going on; those damn villains will keep thrashing and hitting each other, Mr. Stubb. They won’t listen to a single word; it’s no use preaching to such damned gluttons, as you call them, until their bellies are full—and their bellies are bottomless. And when they do get full, they won’t hear you then either; because that’s when they sink to the bottom of the sea, fall asleep on the coral, and can’t hear anything at all, ever again."
“Upon my soul, I am about of the same opinion; so give the benediction, Fleece, and I’ll away to my supper.”
"Honestly, I feel the same way. So, give the blessing, Fleece, and I'll head off to my dinner."
Upon this, Fleece, holding both hands over the fishy mob, raised his shrill voice, and cried—
At that, Fleece raised both hands over the crowd of fish and shouted in his high-pitched voice—
“Cussed fellow-critters! Kick up de damndest row as ever you can; fill your dam’ bellies ’till dey bust—and den die.”
“Stupid creatures! Make the loudest racket you possibly can; stuff your damn stomachs until they burst—and then die.”
“Now, cook,” said Stubb, resuming his supper at the capstan; “stand just where you stood before, there, over against me, and pay particular attention.”
"Alright, cook," said Stubb, continuing his meal at the capstan, "stand right where you were before, over there across from me, and listen carefully."
“All dention,” said Fleece, again stooping over upon his tongs in the desired position.
"All attention," said Fleece, bending over again with his tongs in the position he wanted.
“Well,” said Stubb, helping himself freely meanwhile; “I shall now go back to the subject of this steak. In the first place, how old are you, cook?”
"Well," said Stubb, casually helping himself to more, "let's get back to talking about this steak. First off, how old are you, cook?"
“What dat do wid de ’teak,” said the old black, testily.
"What does that have to do with the teak?" said the old Black man irritably.
“Silence! How old are you, cook?”
"Quiet! How old are you, cook?"
“’Bout ninety, dey say,” he gloomily muttered.
"About ninety, they say," he muttered gloomily.
“And you have lived in this world hard upon one hundred years, cook, and don’t know yet how to cook a whale-steak?” rapidly bolting another mouthful at the last word, so that morsel seemed a continuation of the question. “Where were you born, cook?”
"And you've lived in this world for almost a hundred years, cook, and still don't know how to cook a whale steak?" he said quickly, scarfing down another bite with his last word, making it seem like the question continued through the mouthful. "Where were you born, cook?"
“’Hind de hatchway, in ferry-boat, goin’ ober de Roanoke.”
"Behind the hatchway, on the ferryboat, going over the Roanoke."
“Born in a ferry-boat! That’s queer, too. But I want to know what country you were born in, cook!”
"Born on a ferryboat? That’s strange, too. But I want to know what country you were born in, cook!"
“Didn’t I say de Roanoke country?” he cried sharply.
“Didn’t I say the Roanoke area?” he snapped.
“No, you didn’t, cook; but I’ll tell you what I’m coming to, cook. You must go home and be born over again; you don’t know how to cook a whale-steak yet.”
"No, you didn't, cook; but let me tell you something, cook. You need to go back and start all over; you still don't know how to cook a whale steak."
“Bress my soul, if I cook noder one,” he growled, angrily, turning round to depart.
"Bless my soul, if I cook another one," he grumbled angrily, turning around to leave.
“Come back, cook;—here, hand me those tongs;—now take that bit of steak there, and tell me if you think that steak cooked as it should be? Take it, I say”—holding the tongs towards him—“take it, and taste it.”
"Come back here, cook—hand me those tongs. Now, take that piece of steak over there and tell me if you think it's cooked properly. Take it, I said," holding the tongs out to him, "take it and taste it."
Faintly smacking his withered lips over it for a moment, the old negro muttered, “Best cooked ’teak I eber taste; joosy, berry joosy.”
Faintly smacking his dry lips for a moment, the old man muttered, "Best-cooked steak I've ever tasted; juicy, very juicy."
“Cook,” said Stubb, squaring himself once more; “do you belong to the church?”
“Cook,” said Stubb, standing up straight again, “are you a member of the church?”
“Passed one once in Cape-Down,” said the old man sullenly.
"Passed one once in Cape Town," the old man said gruffly.
“And you have once in your life passed a holy church in Cape-Town, where you doubtless overheard a holy parson addressing his hearers as his beloved fellow-creatures, have you, cook! And yet you come here, and tell me such a dreadful lie as you did just now, eh?” said Stubb. “Where do you expect to go to, cook?”
"And you’ve walked past a church in Cape Town at some point in your life, right? You probably heard a preacher calling his audience his beloved fellow humans, didn’t you, cook? And yet now you come here and tell me such an awful lie like you just did, huh?" said Stubb. "Where do you think you're headed, cook?"
“Go to bed berry soon,” he mumbled, half-turning as he spoke.
"Go to bed really soon," he mumbled, half-turning as he spoke.
“Avast! heave to! I mean when you die, cook. It’s an awful question. Now what’s your answer?”
"Stop! Hold up! I mean, what happens when you die, cook? It's a serious question. So, what's your answer?"
“When dis old brack man dies,” said the negro slowly, changing his whole air and demeanor, “he hisself won’t go nowhere; but some bressed angel will come and fetch him.”
"When this old black man dies," said the man slowly, changing his whole tone and demeanor, "he himself won't go anywhere; but some blessed angel will come and take him."
“Fetch him? How? In a coach and four, as they fetched Elijah? And fetch him where?”
"Bring him? How? In a carriage with four horses, like they brought Elijah? And bring him where?"
“Up dere,” said Fleece, holding his tongs straight over his head, and keeping it there very solemnly.
"Up there," said Fleece, holding his tongs straight above his head and keeping them there very solemnly.
“So, then, you expect to go up into our main-top, do you, cook, when you are dead? But don’t you know the higher you climb, the colder it gets? Main-top, eh?”
"So, you’re planning to climb up to our main-top after you die, huh, cook? But don’t you realize the higher you go, the colder it gets? Main-top, huh?"
“Didn’t say dat t’all,” said Fleece, again in the sulks.
"Didn't say that at all," said Fleece, sulking again.
“You said up there, didn’t you? and now look yourself, and see where your tongs are pointing. But, perhaps you expect to get into heaven by crawling through the lubber’s hole, cook; but, no, no, cook, you don’t get there, except you go the regular way, round by the rigging. It’s a ticklish business, but must be done, or else it’s no go. But none of us are in heaven yet. Drop your tongs, cook, and hear my orders. Do ye hear? Hold your hat in one hand, and clap t’other a’top of your heart, when I’m giving my orders, cook. What! that your heart, there?—that’s your gizzard! Aloft! aloft!—that’s it—now you have it. Hold it there now, and pay attention.”
"You said up there, didn’t you? Well, take a look for yourself and see where your tongs are pointing. Maybe you think you can sneak into heaven by crawling through the lubber’s hole, cook. But no, no, cook, that’s not how it works. You’ve got to go the proper way, using the rigging. It’s tricky, but it’s got to be done; otherwise, it’s not happening. But none of us are in heaven yet. Drop your tongs, cook, and listen to my orders. Got it? Hold your hat in one hand, and place the other hand over your heart while I’m giving my orders, cook. What’s that? Your heart’s over there? No, that’s your gizzard! Up you go! Climb up—there you go—you’ve got it now. Keep it like that, and pay attention."
“All ’dention,” said the old black, with both hands placed as desired, vainly wriggling his grizzled head, as if to get both ears in front at one and the same time.
"All attention," said the old Black man, placing his hands as directed, twisting his grizzled head unsuccessfully, as if trying to get both ears to face forward at once.
“Well then, cook, you see this whale-steak of yours was so very bad, that I have put it out of sight as soon as possible; you see that, don’t you? Well, for the future, when you cook another whale-steak for my private table here, the capstan, I’ll tell you what to do so as not to spoil it by overdoing. Hold the steak in one hand, and show a live coal to it with the other; that done, dish it; d’ye hear? And now to-morrow, cook, when we are cutting in the fish, be sure you stand by to get the tips of his fins; have them put in pickle. As for the ends of the flukes, have them soused, cook. There, now ye may go.”
"Alright, cook, this whale steak of yours was so bad that I got rid of it as quickly as I could—you get that, right? So, next time you make a whale steak for my private table here at the capstan, I’ll give you some advice to avoid ruining it by overcooking. Hold the steak in one hand and wave a hot coal near it with the other; once that’s done, serve it up. Got it? Now, tomorrow, cook, when we’re cutting into the whale, make sure you’re ready to grab the tips of its fins; have them pickled. And for the ends of the flukes, get those soaked in brine. Alright, you’re dismissed."
But Fleece had hardly got three paces off, when he was recalled.
But Fleece had barely taken three steps away when he was called back.
“Cook, give me cutlets for supper to-morrow night in the mid-watch. D’ye hear? away you sail, then.—Halloa! stop! make a bow before you go.—Avast heaving again! Whale-balls for breakfast—don’t forget.”
"Cook, I want cutlets for supper tomorrow night during the mid-watch. You hear me? Get going, then. Wait—hold on! Bow before you leave. Stop again! Whale-balls for breakfast—don’t forget."
“Wish, by gor! whale eat him, ’stead of him eat whale. I’m bressed if he ain’t more of shark dan Massa Shark hisself,” muttered the old man, limping away; with which sage ejaculation he went to his hammock.
"Wish, by god! A whale should’ve eaten him instead of him eating the whale. I swear he’s more of a shark than Master Shark himself," muttered the old man, limping away; with that wise remark, he headed to his hammock.
CHAPTER 65. The Whale as a Dish.
That mortal man should feed upon the creature that feeds his lamp, and, like Stubb, eat him by his own light, as you may say; this seems so outlandish a thing that one must needs go a little into the history and philosophy of it.
That humans should eat the animal that fuels their light, and, like Stubb, consume it by its own illumination, so to speak; this seems so strange a concept that we need to delve a bit into its history and reasoning.
It is upon record, that three centuries ago the tongue of the Right Whale was esteemed a great delicacy in France, and commanded large prices there. Also, that in Henry VIIIth’s time, a certain cook of the court obtained a handsome reward for inventing an admirable sauce to be eaten with barbacued porpoises, which, you remember, are a species of whale. Porpoises, indeed, are to this day considered fine eating. The meat is made into balls about the size of billiard balls, and being well seasoned and spiced might be taken for turtle-balls or veal balls. The old monks of Dunfermline were very fond of them. They had a great porpoise grant from the crown.
It’s on record that about three centuries ago, the tongue of the Right Whale was considered a great delicacy in France and sold for high prices. During the time of Henry VIII, a court cook received a generous reward for creating an excellent sauce to go with barbecued porpoises—which, as you know, are a type of whale. Even today, porpoises are thought of as good eating. The meat is shaped into balls about the size of billiard balls and, when well-seasoned and spiced, could be mistaken for turtle balls or veal balls. The old monks of Dunfermline were particularly fond of them—they even received a significant porpoise grant from the crown.
The fact is, that among his hunters at least, the whale would by all hands be considered a noble dish, were there not so much of him; but when you come to sit down before a meat-pie nearly one hundred feet long, it takes away your appetite. Only the most unprejudiced of men like Stubb, nowadays partake of cooked whales; but the Esquimaux are not so fastidious. We all know how they live upon whales, and have rare old vintages of prime old train oil. Zogranda, one of their most famous doctors, recommends strips of blubber for infants, as being exceedingly juicy and nourishing. And this reminds me that certain Englishmen, who long ago were accidentally left in Greenland by a whaling vessel—that these men actually lived for several months on the mouldy scraps of whales which had been left ashore after trying out the blubber. Among the Dutch whalemen these scraps are called “fritters”; which, indeed, they greatly resemble, being brown and crisp, and smelling something like old Amsterdam housewives’ dough-nuts or oly-cooks, when fresh. They have such an eatable look that the most self-denying stranger can hardly keep his hands off.
The truth is, at least among whalers, the whale would be considered a fine delicacy by everyone if it weren’t so massive; but when you’re faced with a meat pie almost a hundred feet long, it’s hard to keep your appetite. These days, only the most open-minded people, like Stubb, enjoy cooked whale meat; but the Inuit aren’t so picky. Everyone knows they rely on whales for sustenance and even have old stockpiles of premium whale oil. Zogranda, one of their most renowned doctors, recommends strips of blubber for infants, claiming they’re incredibly juicy and nutritious. This reminds me of a story about some Englishmen who, long ago, were accidentally stranded in Greenland by a whaling ship—those men actually survived for months on the rotting scraps of whale left behind onshore after the blubber was rendered. Among Dutch whalers, those scraps are called “fritters,” because they really do look like fritters: brown, crispy, and smelling a bit like the doughnuts or “oly-cooks” made by old Amsterdam housewives when fresh. They look so appetizing that even the most disciplined stranger would find it hard to resist.
But what further depreciates the whale as a civilized dish, is his exceeding richness. He is the great prize ox of the sea, too fat to be delicately good. Look at his hump, which would be as fine eating as the buffalo’s (which is esteemed a rare dish), were it not such a solid pyramid of fat. But the spermaceti itself, how bland and creamy that is; like the transparent, half-jellied, white meat of a cocoanut in the third month of its growth, yet far too rich to supply a substitute for butter. Nevertheless, many whalemen have a method of absorbing it into some other substance, and then partaking of it. In the long try watches of the night it is a common thing for the seamen to dip their ship-biscuit into the huge oil-pots and let them fry there awhile. Many a good supper have I thus made.
What makes the whale even less appealing as a civilized meal is how incredibly rich it is. He’s like the prized, overfed steer of the ocean—too fatty to be truly tasty. Take his hump, for instance; it could be as exquisite as buffalo hump (considered a rare delicacy) if it weren’t just a massive block of fat. And the spermaceti itself—how smooth and creamy it is, like the soft, translucent, jelly-like flesh of a young coconut three months into its growth, yet far too rich to be a butter replacement. Even so, many whalers have a way of mixing it into something else before eating it. During the long late-night watches at the try-works, it’s not unusual for sailors to dip their ship biscuits into the big oil pots, letting them fry for a bit. I’ve had many a satisfying meal that way.
In the case of a small Sperm Whale the brains are accounted a fine dish. The casket of the skull is broken into with an axe, and the two plump, whitish lobes being withdrawn (precisely resembling two large puddings), they are then mixed with flour, and cooked into a most delectable mess, in flavor somewhat resembling calves’ head, which is quite a dish among some epicures; and every one knows that some young bucks among the epicures, by continually dining upon calves’ brains, by and by get to have a little brains of their own, so as to be able to tell a calf’s head from their own heads; which, indeed, requires uncommon discrimination. And that is the reason why a young buck with an intelligent looking calf’s head before him, is somehow one of the saddest sights you can see. The head looks a sort of reproachfully at him, with an “Et tu Brute!” expression.
When it comes to a small sperm whale, the brains are considered a delicacy. The skull is cracked open with an axe, and the two plump, whitish lobes (which look exactly like two large puddings) are removed. These are then mixed with flour and cooked into an incredibly tasty dish, with a flavor somewhat like calves’ head, a favorite of certain food enthusiasts. Everyone knows that some young gourmets, after constantly eating calves’ brains, eventually gain just enough brains themselves to distinguish a calf’s head from their own. That ability, of course, takes more than a little discernment. And that’s why a young man sitting before an intelligent-looking calf’s head is somehow one of the saddest sights you’ll ever see. The head seems to look back at him reproachfully, with a kind of “Et tu, Brute?” expression.
It is not, perhaps, entirely because the whale is so excessively unctuous that landsmen seem to regard the eating of him with abhorrence; that appears to result, in some way, from the consideration before mentioned: i.e. that a man should eat a newly murdered thing of the sea, and eat it too by its own light. But no doubt the first man that ever murdered an ox was regarded as a murderer; perhaps he was hung; and if he had been put on his trial by oxen, he certainly would have been; and he certainly deserved it if any murderer does. Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal’s jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy paté-de-foie-gras.
Maybe it’s not entirely because the whale is so ridiculously oily that people on land seem to find the idea of eating it so repulsive; that reaction probably comes, at least partly, from what was mentioned earlier: *i.e.* the thought of a person eating something freshly killed from the sea—and eating it by using its own oil for light. But no doubt, the first human who killed an ox was seen as a murderer; maybe they were even hanged for it. And if the case had been judged by oxen, they definitely would’ve been—and probably deserved it, if anyone ever does. Go to the butcher shop on a Saturday night and look at the crowds of living humans staring at the rows of dead animals. Doesn’t that kind of scene make you think twice about calling anyone else a cannibal? Cannibals? Who *isn’t* a cannibal in some way? I’m telling you, it’ll go easier on the Fejee who stored a scrawny missionary in his basement for the next famine—it’ll be easier for that resourceful Fejee on Judgment Day, I say, than for you, oh “civilized” and “enlightened” foodie, who pins geese to the ground and devours their swollen livers in your foie gras.
But Stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he? and that is adding insult to injury, is it? Look at your knife-handle, there, my civilized and enlightened gourmand dining off that roast beef, what is that handle made of?—what but the bones of the brother of the very ox you are eating? And what do you pick your teeth with, after devouring that fat goose? With a feather of the same fowl. And with what quill did the Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Ganders formally indite his circulars? It is only within the last month or two that that society passed a resolution to patronize nothing but steel pens.
But Stubb, does he eat the whale using its own light? That's really rubbing salt in the wound, isn't it? Look at the handle of your knife there, you cultured and refined foodie enjoying that roast beef—what's it made of? Nothing other than the bones of the very ox you’re eating! And what do you use to pick your teeth after devouring that juicy goose? A feather from the same bird. And what pen did the Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Geese use to write up his official notices? It’s only in the last month or two that the society decided to exclusively use steel pens.
CHAPTER 66. The Shark Massacre.
When in the Southern Fishery, a captured Sperm Whale, after long and weary toil, is brought alongside late at night, it is not, as a general thing at least, customary to proceed at once to the business of cutting him in. For that business is an exceedingly laborious one; is not very soon completed; and requires all hands to set about it. Therefore, the common usage is to take in all sail; lash the helm a’lee; and then send every one below to his hammock till daylight, with the reservation that, until that time, anchor-watches shall be kept; that is, two and two for an hour, each couple, the crew in rotation shall mount the deck to see that all goes well.
When in the Southern Fishery, if a Sperm Whale is captured after long and exhausting work and brought alongside the ship late at night, it’s not usually the practice to immediately start cutting it up. This is because the process is extremely demanding, takes a long time to finish, and requires everyone’s effort. So, the usual routine is to take down all the sails, secure the helm, and send everyone below deck to their hammocks until morning—except for keeping anchor watches. In these watches, two crew members at a time take turns staying on deck for an hour to make sure everything remains in order.
But sometimes, especially upon the Line in the Pacific, this plan will not answer at all; because such incalculable hosts of sharks gather round the moored carcase, that were he left so for six hours, say, on a stretch, little more than the skeleton would be visible by morning. In most other parts of the ocean, however, where these fish do not so largely abound, their wondrous voracity can be at times considerably diminished, by vigorously stirring them up with sharp whaling-spades, a procedure notwithstanding, which, in some instances, only seems to tickle them into still greater activity. But it was not thus in the present case with the Pequod’s sharks; though, to be sure, any man unaccustomed to such sights, to have looked over her side that night, would have almost thought the whole round sea was one huge cheese, and those sharks the maggots in it.
Sometimes, especially near the Equator in the Pacific, this approach doesn't work at all. So many sharks swarm around the tied-up carcass that if it's left there for even six hours straight, by morning there would barely be anything left but the skeleton. However, in most other parts of the ocean, where these fish aren't as numerous, their incredible appetite can sometimes be significantly reduced by aggressively prodding them with sharp whaling spades—a tactic that, in some cases, only seems to excite them even more. But that wasn’t the case this time with the sharks around the Pequod. Still, anyone unaccustomed to such a sight who happened to look over the ship's side that night might have thought the entire ocean was one giant block of cheese with the sharks swarming like maggots through it.
Nevertheless, upon Stubb setting the anchor-watch after his supper was concluded; and when, accordingly, Queequeg and a forecastle seaman came on deck, no small excitement was created among the sharks; for immediately suspending the cutting stages over the side, and lowering three lanterns, so that they cast long gleams of light over the turbid sea, these two mariners, darting their long whaling-spades, kept up an incessant murdering of the sharks,* by striking the keen steel deep into their skulls, seemingly their only vital part. But in the foamy confusion of their mixed and struggling hosts, the marksmen could not always hit their mark; and this brought about new revelations of the incredible ferocity of the foe. They viciously snapped, not only at each other’s disembowelments, but like flexible bows, bent round, and bit their own; till those entrails seemed swallowed over and over again by the same mouth, to be oppositely voided by the gaping wound. Nor was this all. It was unsafe to meddle with the corpses and ghosts of these creatures. A sort of generic or Pantheistic vitality seemed to lurk in their very joints and bones, after what might be called the individual life had departed. Killed and hoisted on deck for the sake of his skin, one of these sharks almost took poor Queequeg’s hand off, when he tried to shut down the dead lid of his murderous jaw.
After Stubb set the anchor watch after finishing his supper, and when Queequeg and a sailor from the forecastle came on deck, chaos broke out among the sharks. They quickly suspended the cutting stages over the side of the ship and lowered three lanterns, casting long beams of light over the churning sea. The two sailors began fiercely stabbing at the sharks with their long whaling spades, driving the sharp blades deep into the sharks' skulls, seemingly the only place that would kill them. However, in the swirling chaos of their frenzied, struggling masses, the men couldn’t always hit their target. This revealed even more of the sharks’ unbelievable ferocity—they snapped viciously, not just at each other’s exposed innards but, like twisted bows, they bent around and bit themselves. Their guts seemed to be swallowed again and again by their own mouths, only to spill out once more through gaping wounds. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Even after death, the corpses of these creatures still seemed dangerous. A strange, almost universal life force appeared to linger in their very bones and joints, long after the individual shark had died. One of these sharks, killed and hauled onto the deck for its skin, nearly bit off Queequeg's hand when he tried to close the dead creature’s savage jaw.
*The whaling-spade used for cutting-in is made of the very best steel; is about the bigness of a man’s spread hand; and in general shape, corresponds to the garden implement after which it is named; only its sides are perfectly flat, and its upper end considerably narrower than the lower. This weapon is always kept as sharp as possible; and when being used is occasionally honed, just like a razor. In its socket, a stiff pole, from twenty to thirty feet long, is inserted for a handle.
The whaling spade used for cutting in is made from top-quality steel, about the size of a man's outstretched hand, and shaped similarly to the gardening tool it’s named after. However, its sides are completely flat, and the upper end is much narrower than the lower. This tool is always kept as sharp as possible and is occasionally sharpened like a razor while in use. A sturdy pole, about twenty to thirty feet long, is attached to it as a handle.
“Queequeg no care what god made him shark,” said the savage, agonizingly lifting his hand up and down; “wedder Fejee god or Nantucket god; but de god wat made shark must be one dam Ingin.”
"Queequeg doesn't care which god made the shark," said the savage, painfully raising and lowering his hand. "Whether it was a Fijian god or a Nantucket god, the god that made the shark must be some damn Indian."
CHAPTER 67. Cutting In.
It was a Saturday night, and such a Sabbath as followed! Ex officio professors of Sabbath breaking are all whalemen. The ivory Pequod was turned into what seemed a shamble; every sailor a butcher. You would have thought we were offering up ten thousand red oxen to the sea gods.
It was a Saturday night, and what a Sunday followed! By nature of their job, whalers are all experts in breaking the Sabbath. The ivory Pequod was turned into what looked like a slaughterhouse; every sailor became a butcher. You’d have thought we were sacrificing ten thousand red oxen to the sea gods.
In the first place, the enormous cutting tackles, among other ponderous things comprising a cluster of blocks generally painted green, and which no single man can possibly lift—this vast bunch of grapes was swayed up to the main-top and firmly lashed to the lower mast-head, the strongest point anywhere above a ship’s deck. The end of the hawser-like rope winding through these intricacies, was then conducted to the windlass, and the huge lower block of the tackles was swung over the whale; to this block the great blubber hook, weighing some one hundred pounds, was attached. And now suspended in stages over the side, Starbuck and Stubb, the mates, armed with their long spades, began cutting a hole in the body for the insertion of the hook just above the nearest of the two side-fins. This done, a broad, semicircular line is cut round the hole, the hook is inserted, and the main body of the crew striking up a wild chorus, now commence heaving in one dense crowd at the windlass. When instantly, the entire ship careens over on her side; every bolt in her starts like the nail-heads of an old house in frosty weather; she trembles, quivers, and nods her frighted mast-heads to the sky. More and more she leans over to the whale, while every gasping heave of the windlass is answered by a helping heave from the billows; till at last, a swift, startling snap is heard; with a great swash the ship rolls upwards and backwards from the whale, and the triumphant tackle rises into sight dragging after it the disengaged semicircular end of the first strip of blubber. Now as the blubber envelopes the whale precisely as the rind does an orange, so is it stripped off from the body precisely as an orange is sometimes stripped by spiralizing it. For the strain constantly kept up by the windlass continually keeps the whale rolling over and over in the water, and as the blubber in one strip uniformly peels off along the line called the “scarf,” simultaneously cut by the spades of Starbuck and Stubb, the mates; and just as fast as it is thus peeled off, and indeed by that very act itself, it is all the time being hoisted higher and higher aloft till its upper end grazes the main-top; the men at the windlass then cease heaving, and for a moment or two the prodigious blood-dripping mass sways to and fro as if let down from the sky, and every one present must take good heed to dodge it when it swings, else it may box his ears and pitch him headlong overboard.
First, the massive cutting tackles—made up of several heavy blocks usually painted green and so large no single person could lift them—were hoisted up to the main-top and securely tied to the lower masthead, the strongest point above the deck. The thick, rope-like hawser that threaded through this arrangement was then attached to the windlass. The massive lower block of the tackle was positioned over the whale, and to this block was fastened a huge blubber hook weighing about a hundred pounds. Suspended on platforms over the side of the ship, Starbuck and Stubb—the mates—used their long spades to cut a hole in the whale’s body, just above the nearest side fin, to insert the hook. Once the hole was made, they cut a broad, semicircular line around it and inserted the hook. At that point, the crew, crowded around the windlass, began pulling in unison, singing a raucous chant as they worked. As they pulled, the entire ship tilted to one side, bolts and nails straining and creaking like an old house in the cold. The ship quivered, shook, and leaned even more toward the whale, each pull of the windlass answered by the surge of the waves. Then suddenly, a sharp, loud snap! With a great splash, the ship jerked backward and straightened up, while the tackle reappeared, triumphantly hauling the first detached strip of blubber. The whale’s blubber, which coated its body like the peel of an orange, was stripped off in a similar way—by spiraling it. The constant tension on the windlass kept the whale rolling in the water, and the blubber peeled off in one continuous strip along a line called the “scarf.” This line was cut as the whale turned, with Starbuck and Stubb wielding their spades. As the blubber peeled away, it was hoisted bit by bit higher into the air, until its topmost end reached the main-top. The men at the windlass would then stop pulling, and for a moment, the enormous, blood-drenched slab of blubber would hang, swaying back and forth as if dropped from the heavens. Everyone nearby had to stay alert, ready to dodge its swing; otherwise, they risked getting hit or even knocked overboard.
One of the attending harpooneers now advances with a long, keen weapon called a boarding-sword, and watching his chance he dexterously slices out a considerable hole in the lower part of the swaying mass. Into this hole, the end of the second alternating great tackle is then hooked so as to retain a hold upon the blubber, in order to prepare for what follows. Whereupon, this accomplished swordsman, warning all hands to stand off, once more makes a scientific dash at the mass, and with a few sidelong, desperate, lunging slicings, severs it completely in twain; so that while the short lower part is still fast, the long upper strip, called a blanket-piece, swings clear, and is all ready for lowering. The heavers forward now resume their song, and while the one tackle is peeling and hoisting a second strip from the whale, the other is slowly slackened away, and down goes the first strip through the main hatchway right beneath, into an unfurnished parlor called the blubber-room. Into this twilight apartment sundry nimble hands keep coiling away the long blanket-piece as if it were a great live mass of plaited serpents. And thus the work proceeds; the two tackles hoisting and lowering simultaneously; both whale and windlass heaving, the heavers singing, the blubber-room gentlemen coiling, the mates scarfing, the ship straining, and all hands swearing occasionally, by way of assuaging the general friction.
One of the harpooners steps up with a long, sharp weapon called a boarding sword. Watching for the right moment, he skillfully cuts a sizable hole in the lower part of the swaying mass. Into this hole, the end of the second alternating large tackle is hooked to hold onto the blubber, setting things up for the next steps. Once that’s done, the swordsman warns everyone to back off, then expertly lunges at the mass again. With a few precise, sideways cuts, he slices it completely in two. The shorter lower section stays secured, while the longer upper strip, known as a blanket piece, swings free, ready to be lowered. The workers at the front start singing again, and while one tackle peels and lifts another strip off the whale, the other is gradually released, letting the first strip descend through the main hatchway into a bare room below called the blubber room. In this dim space, a group of quick-moving crew members coils up the long blanket piece as if it were a giant mess of writhing snakes. And so the work continues: the two tackles lifting and lowering in sync, the whale and the windlass heaving, the workers singing, the blubber-room crew coiling, the mates slicing, the ship groaning under the strain, and everyone cursing now and then to blow off some steam.
CHAPTER 68. The Blanket.
I have given no small attention to that not unvexed subject, the skin of the whale. I have had controversies about it with experienced whalemen afloat, and learned naturalists ashore. My original opinion remains unchanged; but it is only an opinion.
I’ve spent considerable time thinking about the tricky subject of the whale’s skin. I’ve debated it with seasoned whalers at sea and knowledgeable scientists on land. My initial belief hasn’t changed, though it’s still just a belief.
The question is, what and where is the skin of the whale? Already you know what his blubber is. That blubber is something of the consistence of firm, close-grained beef, but tougher, more elastic and compact, and ranges from eight or ten to twelve and fifteen inches in thickness.
The question is, what and where is the whale's skin? By now, you already know what its blubber is. That blubber is kind of like firm, dense beef, but it's tougher, stretchier, and more solid, ranging from eight or ten to twelve or fifteen inches thick.
Now, however preposterous it may at first seem to talk of any creature’s skin as being of that sort of consistence and thickness, yet in point of fact these are no arguments against such a presumption; because you cannot raise any other dense enveloping layer from the whale’s body but that same blubber; and the outermost enveloping layer of any animal, if reasonably dense, what can that be but the skin? True, from the unmarred dead body of the whale, you may scrape off with your hand an infinitely thin, transparent substance, somewhat resembling the thinnest shreds of isinglass, only it is almost as flexible and soft as satin; that is, previous to being dried, when it not only contracts and thickens, but becomes rather hard and brittle. I have several such dried bits, which I use for marks in my whale-books. It is transparent, as I said before; and being laid upon the printed page, I have sometimes pleased myself with fancying it exerted a magnifying influence. At any rate, it is pleasant to read about whales through their own spectacles, as you may say. But what I am driving at here is this. That same infinitely thin, isinglass substance, which, I admit, invests the entire body of the whale, is not so much to be regarded as the skin of the creature, as the skin of the skin, so to speak; for it were simply ridiculous to say, that the proper skin of the tremendous whale is thinner and more tender than the skin of a new-born child. But no more of this.
Now, as ridiculous as it might sound at first to call a creature’s skin that thick and tough, the fact is that there’s no argument against it. You can’t remove any other dense outer layer from a whale’s body except that same blubber; and the outermost layer of any animal, if it’s reasonably dense, can only be its skin, right? True, you can scrape off an incredibly thin, transparent layer from the undamaged body of a dead whale with your hand—a substance that looks a bit like the thinnest shreds of isinglass. But it’s soft and flexible, almost like satin, at least until it’s dried. Once dried, it contracts, thickens, and becomes brittle and hard. I have a few dried scraps of it that I use as bookmarks in my whale books. It's transparent, as I already mentioned, and when placed over a printed page, I like to imagine it works as a magnifier. Either way, it’s kind of fun to read about whales through what you could call their "own lenses." But here’s the point I’m making: that incredibly thin, isinglass-like substance, which I agree covers the whale’s entire body, shouldn’t really be considered the creature’s skin. It’s more like the skin of the skin, if that makes sense. Because it would be absurd to suggest that the actual skin of the massive whale is thinner and more delicate than a newborn baby’s. But enough of this.
Assuming the blubber to be the skin of the whale; then, when this skin, as in the case of a very large Sperm Whale, will yield the bulk of one hundred barrels of oil; and, when it is considered that, in quantity, or rather weight, that oil, in its expressed state, is only three fourths, and not the entire substance of the coat; some idea may hence be had of the enormousness of that animated mass, a mere part of whose mere integument yields such a lake of liquid as that. Reckoning ten barrels to the ton, you have ten tons for the net weight of only three quarters of the stuff of the whale’s skin.
If we consider the blubber to be the whale's skin, then in the case of a very large Sperm Whale, this "skin" can produce the equivalent of one hundred barrels of oil. And when you realize that, in terms of quantity or weight, that oil—once extracted—accounts for only three-fourths of the blubber and not the entirety of the layer, you can start to grasp the sheer enormity of this living creature. Just a portion of its outer layer provides such a massive amount of liquid. Calculating at ten barrels per ton, that’s ten tons as the net weight of just three-quarters of the whale's skin material.
In life, the visible surface of the Sperm Whale is not the least among the many marvels he presents. Almost invariably it is all over obliquely crossed and re-crossed with numberless straight marks in thick array, something like those in the finest Italian line engravings. But these marks do not seem to be impressed upon the isinglass substance above mentioned, but seem to be seen through it, as if they were engraved upon the body itself. Nor is this all. In some instances, to the quick, observant eye, those linear marks, as in a veritable engraving, but afford the ground for far other delineations. These are hieroglyphical; that is, if you call those mysterious cyphers on the walls of pyramids hieroglyphics, then that is the proper word to use in the present connexion. By my retentive memory of the hieroglyphics upon one Sperm Whale in particular, I was much struck with a plate representing the old Indian characters chiselled on the famous hieroglyphic palisades on the banks of the Upper Mississippi. Like those mystic rocks, too, the mystic-marked whale remains undecipherable. This allusion to the Indian rocks reminds me of another thing. Besides all the other phenomena which the exterior of the Sperm Whale presents, he not seldom displays the back, and more especially his flanks, effaced in great part of the regular linear appearance, by reason of numerous rude scratches, altogether of an irregular, random aspect. I should say that those New England rocks on the sea-coast, which Agassiz imagines to bear the marks of violent scraping contact with vast floating icebergs—I should say, that those rocks must not a little resemble the Sperm Whale in this particular. It also seems to me that such scratches in the whale are probably made by hostile contact with other whales; for I have most remarked them in the large, full-grown bulls of the species.
In life, the visible surface of the Sperm Whale is one of the many remarkable things about it. Almost always, its skin is covered with countless intersecting straight marks, arranged closely together, resembling the designs in the finest Italian line engravings. However, these marks don’t appear to be imprinted on the transparent, glassy layer mentioned earlier. Instead, they look like they’re beneath it, as if engraved directly onto the whale’s body. But that’s not all. Sometimes, if you have a sharp eye, these linear marks, much like a detailed engraving, serve as a background for entirely different patterns. These patterns are hieroglyphic in nature—meaning, if the cryptic symbols on the walls of pyramids are what you consider hieroglyphics, then it’s the right term for describing these shapes here. I can recall, from memory, the hieroglyphic patterns on one particular Sperm Whale that struck me as similar to an illustration of ancient Native American carvings etched into the famous hieroglyphic palisades along the Upper Mississippi River. Like those mysterious rocks, the whale’s markings remain impossible to decipher. Thinking of those Native American rock carvings brings something else to mind. Aside from the many fascinating features of the Sperm Whale’s exterior, its back—and especially its sides—are often marked with irregular, rough scratches that disrupt the neat linear patterns. These scratches look random and chaotic. They remind me of the New England coastal rocks that Agassiz theorized were scraped violently by massive floating icebergs. I’d say those rocks bear quite a resemblance to the Sperm Whale in this regard. To me, these scratches on the whale likely come from aggressive encounters with other whales. I’ve noticed them most frequently on the large, mature male whales, the bulls.
A word or two more concerning this matter of the skin or blubber of the whale. It has already been said, that it is stript from him in long pieces, called blanket-pieces. Like most sea-terms, this one is very happy and significant. For the whale is indeed wrapt up in his blubber as in a real blanket or counterpane; or, still better, an Indian poncho slipt over his head, and skirting his extremity. It is by reason of this cosy blanketing of his body, that the whale is enabled to keep himself comfortable in all weathers, in all seas, times, and tides. What would become of a Greenland whale, say, in those shuddering, icy seas of the North, if unsupplied with his cosy surtout? True, other fish are found exceedingly brisk in those Hyperborean waters; but these, be it observed, are your cold-blooded, lungless fish, whose very bellies are refrigerators; creatures, that warm themselves under the lee of an iceberg, as a traveller in winter would bask before an inn fire; whereas, like man, the whale has lungs and warm blood. Freeze his blood, and he dies. How wonderful is it then—except after explanation—that this great monster, to whom corporeal warmth is as indispensable as it is to man; how wonderful that he should be found at home, immersed to his lips for life in those Arctic waters! where, when seamen fall overboard, they are sometimes found, months afterwards, perpendicularly frozen into the hearts of fields of ice, as a fly is found glued in amber. But more surprising is it to know, as has been proved by experiment, that the blood of a Polar whale is warmer than that of a Borneo negro in summer.
A few more words about the skin or blubber of the whale. As mentioned earlier, it’s removed from the whale in long strips called blanket-pieces. Like most nautical terms, this one is quite fitting and descriptive. The whale really is wrapped in its blubber like it’s wearing a thick blanket or quilt—or better yet, like an Indian poncho slipped over its head and covering its whole body. It’s this cozy covering that allows the whale to stay warm and comfortable in all kinds of weather, seas, seasons, and currents. Imagine what would happen to a Greenland whale, for example, in those freezing, icy northern seas without its snug outer layer. Sure, other fish seem perfectly active in those frigid waters, but keep in mind, those are cold-blooded, lungless creatures whose very bodies are like refrigerators. They can warm themselves behind an iceberg the way a traveler might enjoy a fire at an inn in the winter. But the whale, like humans, has lungs and warm blood. If its blood freezes, it dies. So, isn’t it amazing—unless you’ve had it explained—that this enormous creature, which depends on body heat just as much as humans do, can live comfortably, fully immersed for life in those Arctic waters? Waters where, if sailors fall overboard, they are sometimes found months later frozen upright in fields of ice, like a fly trapped in amber. Even more astonishing, as experiments have proven, is that the blood of a Polar whale is actually warmer than that of a Borneo native in the summer.
It does seem to me, that herein we see the rare virtue of a strong individual vitality, and the rare virtue of thick walls, and the rare virtue of interior spaciousness. Oh, man! admire and model thyself after the whale! Do thou, too, remain warm among ice. Do thou, too, live in this world without being of it. Be cool at the equator; keep thy blood fluid at the Pole. Like the great dome of St. Peter’s, and like the great whale, retain, O man! in all seasons a temperature of thine own.
It seems to me that this shows the unique strength of a powerful individual spirit, the unique strength of solid walls, and the unique strength of inner space. Oh, human! Admire the whale and take it as your example! Stay warm even in the ice. Live in this world without being consumed by it. Stay cool at the equator and keep your blood flowing at the poles. Like the great dome of St. Peter’s and the mighty whale, maintain, O human, your own steady temperature through all seasons.
But how easy and how hopeless to teach these fine things! Of erections, how few are domed like St. Peter’s! of creatures, how few vast as the whale!
But how simple yet impossible it is to teach such grand ideas! Of buildings, how few are as majestic as St. Peter’s! Of creatures, how few are as massive as the whale!
CHAPTER 69. The Funeral.
“Haul in the chains! Let the carcase go astern!”
"Pull in the chains! Let the carcass drift behind!"
The vast tackles have now done their duty. The peeled white body of the beheaded whale flashes like a marble sepulchre; though changed in hue, it has not perceptibly lost anything in bulk. It is still colossal. Slowly it floats more and more away, the water round it torn and splashed by the insatiate sharks, and the air above vexed with rapacious flights of screaming fowls, whose beaks are like so many insulting poniards in the whale. The vast white headless phantom floats further and further from the ship, and every rod that it so floats, what seem square roods of sharks and cubic roods of fowls, augment the murderous din. For hours and hours from the almost stationary ship that hideous sight is seen. Beneath the unclouded and mild azure sky, upon the fair face of the pleasant sea, wafted by the joyous breezes, that great mass of death floats on and on, till lost in infinite perspectives.
The massive rigging has done its job. The stripped, white body of the decapitated whale gleams like a marble tomb; though its color has changed, it hasn’t visibly shrunk in size. It’s still enormous. Gradually, it drifts farther and farther away, the water around it churning and splashing from the relentless sharks, while above, the air is filled with the chaotic frenzy of screeching birds, their beaks stabbing at the whale like countless mocking daggers. The enormous, headless ghostly figure floats further and further from the ship, and with every distance it covers, the swarming hordes of sharks and flocks of birds seem to grow, amplifying the horrific chaos. For hours, from the almost motionless ship, that dreadful scene unfolds. Under the clear, calm blue sky, across the serene surface of the beautiful sea, carried by cheerful breezes, that massive corpse drifts on and on, until it disappears into the endless horizon.
There’s a most doleful and most mocking funeral! The sea-vultures all in pious mourning, the air-sharks all punctiliously in black or speckled. In life but few of them would have helped the whale, I ween, if peradventure he had needed it; but upon the banquet of his funeral they most piously do pounce. Oh, horrible vultureism of earth! from which not the mightiest whale is free.
What a sad and mocking funeral this is! The sea vultures are all dressed in solemn mourning, and the air sharks are meticulously wearing black or speckled attire. While alive, I doubt many of them would have lifted a finger to help the whale, even if he had needed it. But now, at the feast of his funeral, they pounce so devoutly. Oh, the awful vulture-like nature of the world! Not even the greatest whale can escape it.
Nor is this the end. Desecrated as the body is, a vengeful ghost survives and hovers over it to scare. Espied by some timid man-of-war or blundering discovery-vessel from afar, when the distance obscuring the swarming fowls, nevertheless still shows the white mass floating in the sun, and the white spray heaving high against it; straightway the whale’s unharming corpse, with trembling fingers is set down in the log—shoals, rocks, and breakers hereabouts: beware! And for years afterwards, perhaps, ships shun the place; leaping over it as silly sheep leap over a vacuum, because their leader originally leaped there when a stick was held. There’s your law of precedents; there’s your utility of traditions; there’s the story of your obstinate survival of old beliefs never bottomed on the earth, and now not even hovering in the air! There’s orthodoxy!
This isn’t the end. Even though the body is desecrated, a vengeful ghost lingers, hovering over it to haunt. Spotted by some nervous naval ship or clueless exploration vessel from a distance, when the swarming birds are hidden by the distance but the bright, floating mass shines in the sun, and the white spray surges high around it, the crew, with shaky hands, logs it as—“shoals, rocks, and breakers nearby: beware!” And for years after, perhaps, ships avoid the area; skipping over it like foolish sheep jumping over nothing because their leader once jumped there when a stick was in the way. There’s your law of precedents; there’s your value of traditions; there’s the tale of your stubborn adherence to old beliefs that were never grounded in reality and now don’t even float in the imagination! That’s orthodoxy for you!
Thus, while in life the great whale’s body may have been a real terror to his foes, in his death his ghost becomes a powerless panic to a world.
So, while the great whale's body might have been a real threat to his enemies during his life, in death, his ghost becomes a harmless source of fear for the world.
Are you a believer in ghosts, my friend? There are other ghosts than the Cock-Lane one, and far deeper men than Doctor Johnson who believe in them.
Do you believe in ghosts, my friend? There are more kinds of ghosts than the Cock-Lane one, and much smarter people than Doctor Johnson who believe in them.
CHAPTER 70. The Sphynx.
It should not have been omitted that previous to completely stripping the body of the leviathan, he was beheaded. Now, the beheading of the Sperm Whale is a scientific anatomical feat, upon which experienced whale surgeons very much pride themselves: and not without reason.
It shouldn’t be left out that before fully stripping the whale’s body, its head was cut off. The beheading of a sperm whale is a precise anatomical task that skilled whale surgeons take great pride in—and for good reason.
Consider that the whale has nothing that can properly be called a neck; on the contrary, where his head and body seem to join, there, in that very place, is the thickest part of him. Remember, also, that the surgeon must operate from above, some eight or ten feet intervening between him and his subject, and that subject almost hidden in a discoloured, rolling, and oftentimes tumultuous and bursting sea. Bear in mind, too, that under these untoward circumstances he has to cut many feet deep in the flesh; and in that subterraneous manner, without so much as getting one single peep into the ever-contracting gash thus made, he must skilfully steer clear of all adjacent, interdicted parts, and exactly divide the spine at a critical point hard by its insertion into the skull. Do you not marvel, then, at Stubb’s boast, that he demanded but ten minutes to behead a sperm whale?
Think about the fact that a whale doesn’t have anything you’d really call a neck; in fact, where its head and body connect is actually the thickest part of its body. Also, keep in mind that the surgeon has to work from above, with about eight or ten feet between him and the whale, which is almost completely hidden in a murky, rolling, often chaotic, and crashing sea. Remember, too, that in these difficult conditions, he has to cut many feet deep into the flesh; and while working blindly in this way—without even a single look into the constantly narrowing cut he’s making—he has to expertly avoid all neighboring forbidden areas and precisely sever the spine at a crucial point near where it connects to the skull. Don’t you find it amazing, then, that Stubb could brag about only needing ten minutes to decapitate a sperm whale?
When first severed, the head is dropped astern and held there by a cable till the body is stripped. That done, if it belong to a small whale it is hoisted on deck to be deliberately disposed of. But, with a full grown leviathan this is impossible; for the sperm whale’s head embraces nearly one third of his entire bulk, and completely to suspend such a burden as that, even by the immense tackles of a whaler, this were as vain a thing as to attempt weighing a Dutch barn in jewellers’ scales.
When first cut off, the head is dropped behind the ship and held there by a cable until the body is stripped. Once that’s done, if it’s a small whale, the head is lifted onto the deck to be dealt with carefully. But with a fully grown whale, that’s not possible. A sperm whale's head makes up almost a third of its entire body, and trying to lift something that massive—even with the powerful gear of a whaling ship—is as pointless as trying to weigh a barn with a jeweler’s scales.
The Pequod’s whale being decapitated and the body stripped, the head was hoisted against the ship’s side—about half way out of the sea, so that it might yet in great part be buoyed up by its native element. And there with the strained craft steeply leaning over to it, by reason of the enormous downward drag from the lower mast-head, and every yard-arm on that side projecting like a crane over the waves; there, that blood-dripping head hung to the Pequod’s waist like the giant Holofernes’s from the girdle of Judith.
The whale from the Pequod was beheaded, and its body stripped clean. The head was hauled up along the side of the ship—partly out of the water but still mostly supported by the sea itself. With the ship tilting sharply toward it due to the immense weight pulling down from the lower masthead, and every yardarm on that side jutting out over the waves like a crane, the blood-soaked head dangled from the side of the Pequod like the giant Holofernes's head hanging from Judith’s belt.
When this last task was accomplished it was noon, and the seamen went below to their dinner. Silence reigned over the before tumultuous but now deserted deck. An intense copper calm, like a universal yellow lotus, was more and more unfolding its noiseless measureless leaves upon the sea.
When the final task was done, it was noon, and the sailors headed below deck for their lunch. The once chaotic but now empty deck was completely silent. A deep, coppery stillness, like a giant yellow lotus, kept spreading its endless, silent petals across the sea.
A short space elapsed, and up into this noiselessness came Ahab alone from his cabin. Taking a few turns on the quarter-deck, he paused to gaze over the side, then slowly getting into the main-chains he took Stubb’s long spade—still remaining there after the whale’s decapitation—and striking it into the lower part of the half-suspended mass, placed its other end crutch-wise under one arm, and so stood leaning over with eyes attentively fixed on this head.
A short time passed, and Ahab emerged alone from his cabin into the quiet. After pacing back and forth a few times on the quarterdeck, he stopped to look over the side. Then, moving slowly into the main chains, he grabbed Stubb's long spade—which was still there after the whale's head had been cut off—and struck it into the lower part of the half-suspended mass. He placed the other end of the spade under one arm like a crutch and stood there, leaning forward with his eyes fixed intently on the whale's head.
It was a black and hooded head; and hanging there in the midst of so intense a calm, it seemed the Sphynx’s in the desert. “Speak, thou vast and venerable head,” muttered Ahab, “which, though ungarnished with a beard, yet here and there lookest hoary with mosses; speak, mighty head, and tell us the secret thing that is in thee. Of all divers, thou hast dived the deepest. That head upon which the upper sun now gleams, has moved amid this world’s foundations. Where unrecorded names and navies rust, and untold hopes and anchors rot; where in her murderous hold this frigate earth is ballasted with bones of millions of the drowned; there, in that awful water-land, there was thy most familiar home. Thou hast been where bell or diver never went; hast slept by many a sailor’s side, where sleepless mothers would give their lives to lay them down. Thou saw’st the locked lovers when leaping from their flaming ship; heart to heart they sank beneath the exulting wave; true to each other, when heaven seemed false to them. Thou saw’st the murdered mate when tossed by pirates from the midnight deck; for hours he fell into the deeper midnight of the insatiate maw; and his murderers still sailed on unharmed—while swift lightnings shivered the neighboring ship that would have borne a righteous husband to outstretched, longing arms. O head! thou hast seen enough to split the planets and make an infidel of Abraham, and not one syllable is thine!”
It was a dark, hooded head; hanging there in such a deep stillness, it looked like the Sphinx in the desert. “Speak, you vast and ancient head,” Ahab murmured, “though you have no beard, here and there you seem aged with patches of moss; speak, mighty head, and reveal the secret you hold. Of all divers, you’ve gone the deepest. That head, now gleaming under the sun, has moved through the very foundations of this world. Where unrecorded names and forgotten fleets decay, where abandoned hopes and rotted anchors lie; where the murderous grip of this earth-ship is weighted with the bones of millions who’ve drowned; there, in that dreadful underwater land, was your most familiar home. You’ve been where no bell or diver has ever gone; you’ve rested alongside many sailors where sleepless mothers would have given anything to lay them to sleep. You’ve seen the lovers locked together, leaping from their burning ship; heart to heart, they sank beneath the celebratory waves, staying true to each other even when the heavens seemed to forsake them. You’ve seen the murdered mate thrown overboard by pirates in the dead of night; for hours he fell into the unquenchable blackness of the sea’s abyss, while his killers sailed on untouched—meanwhile, lightning struck the nearby ship that would have reunited a righteous husband with the arms of his waiting wife. O head! You’ve witnessed enough to split the planets and shake the faith of someone as steadfast as Abraham, and yet not a single word comes from you!”
“Sail ho!” cried a triumphant voice from the main-mast-head.
"Ship ahead!" shouted an excited voice from the mainmast top.
“Aye? Well, now, that’s cheering,” cried Ahab, suddenly erecting himself, while whole thunder-clouds swept aside from his brow. “That lively cry upon this deadly calm might almost convert a better man.—Where away?”
"Yeah? Well, that’s uplifting," Ahab suddenly exclaimed, standing upright as the stormy expression cleared from his face. "That energetic shout in this deadly calm could almost change a better man.—Where to?"
“Three points on the starboard bow, sir, and bringing down her breeze to us!
"Three points off the starboard bow, sir, and she's bringing her breeze our way!"
“Better and better, man. Would now St. Paul would come along that way, and to my breezelessness bring his breeze! O Nature, and O soul of man! how far beyond all utterance are your linked analogies! not the smallest atom stirs or lives on matter, but has its cunning duplicate in mind.”
"Better and better, man. If only St. Paul would come this way now and bring his breeze to my stillness! Oh Nature, and oh human soul! How far beyond words are your deep connections! Not the tiniest particle moves or lives in matter without having its clever counterpart in the mind."
CHAPTER 71. The Jeroboam’s Story.
Hand in hand, ship and breeze blew on; but the breeze came faster than the ship, and soon the Pequod began to rock.
Hand in hand, the ship and the wind moved forward together; but the wind picked up speed faster than the ship, and soon the Pequod started to sway.
By and by, through the glass the stranger’s boats and manned mast-heads proved her a whale-ship. But as she was so far to windward, and shooting by, apparently making a passage to some other ground, the Pequod could not hope to reach her. So the signal was set to see what response would be made.
Soon enough, looking through the glass, the stranger's boats and crew up on the mastheads showed she was a whaling ship. But since she was so far upwind and speeding past, seemingly heading to a different area, the Pequod had no chance of catching her. So, a signal was raised to see if she would respond.
Here be it said, that like the vessels of military marines, the ships of the American Whale Fleet have each a private signal; all which signals being collected in a book with the names of the respective vessels attached, every captain is provided with it. Thereby, the whale commanders are enabled to recognise each other upon the ocean, even at considerable distances and with no small facility.
Let it be noted that, just like military navy ships, each ship in the American Whale Fleet has its own unique signal. All these signals, along with the names of the corresponding ships, are compiled in a book that every captain carries. This allows whale fleet captains to identify one another on the ocean, even from significant distances, and with considerable ease.
The Pequod’s signal was at last responded to by the stranger’s setting her own; which proved the ship to be the Jeroboam of Nantucket. Squaring her yards, she bore down, ranged abeam under the Pequod’s lee, and lowered a boat; it soon drew nigh; but, as the side-ladder was being rigged by Starbuck’s order to accommodate the visiting captain, the stranger in question waved his hand from his boat’s stern in token of that proceeding being entirely unnecessary. It turned out that the Jeroboam had a malignant epidemic on board, and that Mayhew, her captain, was fearful of infecting the Pequod’s company. For, though himself and boat’s crew remained untainted, and though his ship was half a rifle-shot off, and an incorruptible sea and air rolling and flowing between; yet conscientiously adhering to the timid quarantine of the land, he peremptorily refused to come into direct contact with the Pequod.
The Pequod’s signal was finally answered by the stranger ship, which revealed herself as the Jeroboam from Nantucket. Adjusting her sails, she approached, came alongside the Pequod on the lee side, and lowered a boat. The boat soon came close, and Starbuck ordered a side-ladder to be set up for the visiting captain. However, the stranger in the boat’s stern waved his hand, signaling that it wasn’t necessary. It turned out the Jeroboam was dealing with a dangerous epidemic on board, and Captain Mayhew was concerned about spreading it to the crew of the Pequod. Even though neither he nor his boat’s crew had been infected, and despite the fact that his ship was half a rifle-shot away with clean sea and air between them, he strictly followed the cautious quarantine practices of the land and firmly refused to come into direct contact with the Pequod.
But this did by no means prevent all communications. Preserving an interval of some few yards between itself and the ship, the Jeroboam’s boat by the occasional use of its oars contrived to keep parallel to the Pequod, as she heavily forged through the sea (for by this time it blew very fresh), with her main-topsail aback; though, indeed, at times by the sudden onset of a large rolling wave, the boat would be pushed some way ahead; but would be soon skilfully brought to her proper bearings again. Subject to this, and other the like interruptions now and then, a conversation was sustained between the two parties; but at intervals not without still another interruption of a very different sort.
However, this didn’t completely stop communication. Keeping a distance of a few yards from the ship, the Jeroboam’s boat managed to stay parallel to the Pequod by occasionally using its oars, as the ship steadily pushed through the sea (since by now the wind was blowing quite strong), with its main topsail held back. At times, though, a big rolling wave would suddenly shove the boat forward, but it was quickly and skillfully brought back into position. Despite these and similar interruptions now and then, the two groups maintained a conversation, though occasionally it was broken by a very different kind of disruption.
Pulling an oar in the Jeroboam’s boat, was a man of a singular appearance, even in that wild whaling life where individual notabilities make up all totalities. He was a small, short, youngish man, sprinkled all over his face with freckles, and wearing redundant yellow hair. A long-skirted, cabalistically-cut coat of a faded walnut tinge enveloped him; the overlapping sleeves of which were rolled up on his wrists. A deep, settled, fanatic delirium was in his eyes.
Rowing in the Jeroboam's boat was a man with a truly unique look, even in the wild world of whaling, where individuality defines everyone. He was small, short, and fairly young, his face covered in freckles, and he had a head full of thick, yellow hair. He wore a long, oddly tailored coat with a faded brownish color, its oversized sleeves rolled up to his wrists. His eyes held a deep, unwavering, fanatical intensity.
So soon as this figure had been first descried, Stubb had exclaimed—“That’s he! that’s he!—the long-togged scaramouch the Town-Ho’s company told us of!” Stubb here alluded to a strange story told of the Jeroboam, and a certain man among her crew, some time previous when the Pequod spoke the Town-Ho. According to this account and what was subsequently learned, it seemed that the scaramouch in question had gained a wonderful ascendency over almost everybody in the Jeroboam. His story was this:
As soon as this figure was first spotted, Stubb exclaimed, "That's him! That's him!—the long-robed clown the Town-Ho's crew told us about!" Stubb was referring to a strange story about the Jeroboam and a certain man in her crew, a story they had heard some time ago when the Pequod crossed paths with the Town-Ho. Based on this account and what they later discovered, it seemed that this peculiar man had gained an incredible influence over nearly everyone on the Jeroboam. His story was this:
He had been originally nurtured among the crazy society of Neskyeuna Shakers, where he had been a great prophet; in their cracked, secret meetings having several times descended from heaven by the way of a trap-door, announcing the speedy opening of the seventh vial, which he carried in his vest-pocket; but, which, instead of containing gunpowder, was supposed to be charged with laudanum. A strange, apostolic whim having seized him, he had left Neskyeuna for Nantucket, where, with that cunning peculiar to craziness, he assumed a steady, common-sense exterior, and offered himself as a green-hand candidate for the Jeroboam’s whaling voyage. They engaged him; but straightway upon the ship’s getting out of sight of land, his insanity broke out in a freshet. He announced himself as the archangel Gabriel, and commanded the captain to jump overboard. He published his manifesto, whereby he set himself forth as the deliverer of the isles of the sea and vicar-general of all Oceanica. The unflinching earnestness with which he declared these things;—the dark, daring play of his sleepless, excited imagination, and all the preternatural terrors of real delirium, united to invest this Gabriel in the minds of the majority of the ignorant crew, with an atmosphere of sacredness. Moreover, they were afraid of him. As such a man, however, was not of much practical use in the ship, especially as he refused to work except when he pleased, the incredulous captain would fain have been rid of him; but apprised that that individual’s intention was to land him in the first convenient port, the archangel forthwith opened all his seals and vials—devoting the ship and all hands to unconditional perdition, in case this intention was carried out. So strongly did he work upon his disciples among the crew, that at last in a body they went to the captain and told him if Gabriel was sent from the ship, not a man of them would remain. He was therefore forced to relinquish his plan. Nor would they permit Gabriel to be any way maltreated, say or do what he would; so that it came to pass that Gabriel had the complete freedom of the ship. The consequence of all this was, that the archangel cared little or nothing for the captain and mates; and since the epidemic had broken out, he carried a higher hand than ever; declaring that the plague, as he called it, was at his sole command; nor should it be stayed but according to his good pleasure. The sailors, mostly poor devils, cringed, and some of them fawned before him; in obedience to his instructions, sometimes rendering him personal homage, as to a god. Such things may seem incredible; but, however wondrous, they are true. Nor is the history of fanatics half so striking in respect to the measureless self-deception of the fanatic himself, as his measureless power of deceiving and bedevilling so many others. But it is time to return to the Pequod.
He had originally been brought up among the eccentric group of Neskyeuna Shakers, where he had been a prominent prophet. During their odd, secret gatherings, he had supposedly descended from heaven via a trapdoor several times, proclaiming the imminent opening of the seventh vial, which he claimed to carry in his vest pocket. However, instead of containing gunpowder, it was believed to be filled with laudanum. Overcome by a strange, apostolic impulse, he left Neskyeuna for Nantucket. With the kind of slyness crazy people often have, he disguised himself as a steady, practical man and signed up as a novice for the whaling voyage of the Jeroboam. They accepted him, but as soon as the ship was out of sight of land, his madness erupted. He declared himself to be the Archangel Gabriel and demanded that the captain throw himself overboard. He issued a manifesto in which he proclaimed himself the liberator of the islands of the sea and the vicar-general of all Oceanica. The fervent seriousness of his declarations, the bold and wild imagination of his delirium, and the eerie awe that madness often inspires led much of the ignorant crew to revere him. They saw him as surrounded by a sacred aura. On top of that, they were terrified of him. This man was of little practical use aboard the ship, especially since he worked only when he felt like it, so the skeptical captain wanted to get rid of him. But when Gabriel learned of the captain’s plan to leave him at the first convenient port, he unleashed all his “seals and vials,” dooming the ship and its entire crew to destruction if his removal were carried out. Gabriel had such a hold over his followers among the crew that they eventually went to the captain as a group and declared that if Gabriel was put off the ship, they would all leave as well. The captain had no choice but to abandon his plan. Moreover, the crew wouldn’t allow Gabriel to be harmed or disciplined no matter what he said or did, leaving Gabriel free to do as he pleased on the ship. Because of this, Gabriel stopped caring about the captain and officers altogether. Once an epidemic spread among the crew, he became more emboldened than ever, claiming the plague was entirely under his control and would only stop when he decided. Many of the sailors, poor, desperate souls, groveled before him, with some even worshiping him as though he were a god, obeying his commands to pay him personal homage. These events might seem unbelievable, but they are, nonetheless, true. The history of fanatics is rarely as shocking when it comes to their self-deception as it is when considering their ability to deceive and manipulate so many others. But now, it’s time to return to the Pequod.
“I fear not thy epidemic, man,” said Ahab from the bulwarks, to Captain Mayhew, who stood in the boat’s stern; “come on board.”
"I'm not afraid of your epidemic, man," Ahab said from the ship's railing to Captain Mayhew, who was standing at the back of the boat. "Come aboard."
But now Gabriel started to his feet.
But then Gabriel quickly jumped to his feet.
“Think, think of the fevers, yellow and bilious! Beware of the horrible plague!”
"Think, think about the fevers—yellow fever and bilious fever! Watch out for that terrible plague!"
“Gabriel! Gabriel!” cried Captain Mayhew; “thou must either—” But that instant a headlong wave shot the boat far ahead, and its seethings drowned all speech.
"Gabriel! Gabriel!" shouted Captain Mayhew. "You must either—" But at that moment, a powerful wave surged the boat forward, and the roaring water drowned out his words.
“Hast thou seen the White Whale?” demanded Ahab, when the boat drifted back.
"Have you seen the White Whale?" Ahab demanded as the boat drifted back.
“Think, think of thy whale-boat, stoven and sunk! Beware of the horrible tail!”
"Think, think about your whaleboat, smashed and sunk! Watch out for the terrifying tail!"
“I tell thee again, Gabriel, that—” But again the boat tore ahead as if dragged by fiends. Nothing was said for some moments, while a succession of riotous waves rolled by, which by one of those occasional caprices of the seas were tumbling, not heaving it. Meantime, the hoisted sperm whale’s head jogged about very violently, and Gabriel was seen eyeing it with rather more apprehensiveness than his archangel nature seemed to warrant.
"I’m telling you again, Gabriel, that—" But once more, the boat surged forward as if pulled by demons. No one spoke for a few moments as a series of wild waves raced by, tumbling chaotically instead of heaving. Meanwhile, the hoisted sperm whale’s head swung around violently, and Gabriel was seen watching it with a bit more nervousness than his supposed archangel demeanor seemed to justify.
When this interlude was over, Captain Mayhew began a dark story concerning Moby Dick; not, however, without frequent interruptions from Gabriel, whenever his name was mentioned, and the crazy sea that seemed leagued with him.
When this pause ended, Captain Mayhew started telling a grim story about Moby Dick, though he was often interrupted by Gabriel whenever his name came up, along with the raging sea that seemed to be on his side.
It seemed that the Jeroboam had not long left home, when upon speaking a whale-ship, her people were reliably apprised of the existence of Moby Dick, and the havoc he had made. Greedily sucking in this intelligence, Gabriel solemnly warned the captain against attacking the White Whale, in case the monster should be seen; in his gibbering insanity, pronouncing the White Whale to be no less a being than the Shaker God incarnated; the Shakers receiving the Bible. But when, some year or two afterwards, Moby Dick was fairly sighted from the mast-heads, Macey, the chief mate, burned with ardour to encounter him; and the captain himself being not unwilling to let him have the opportunity, despite all the archangel’s denunciations and forewarnings, Macey succeeded in persuading five men to man his boat. With them he pushed off; and, after much weary pulling, and many perilous, unsuccessful onsets, he at last succeeded in getting one iron fast. Meantime, Gabriel, ascending to the main-royal mast-head, was tossing one arm in frantic gestures, and hurling forth prophecies of speedy doom to the sacrilegious assailants of his divinity. Now, while Macey, the mate, was standing up in his boat’s bow, and with all the reckless energy of his tribe was venting his wild exclamations upon the whale, and essaying to get a fair chance for his poised lance, lo! a broad white shadow rose from the sea; by its quick, fanning motion, temporarily taking the breath out of the bodies of the oarsmen. Next instant, the luckless mate, so full of furious life, was smitten bodily into the air, and making a long arc in his descent, fell into the sea at the distance of about fifty yards. Not a chip of the boat was harmed, nor a hair of any oarsman’s head; but the mate for ever sank.
It seemed the Jeroboam hadn't been away from home for long when they spoke with another whaling ship and were reliably informed about the existence of Moby Dick and the destruction he had caused. Eagerly absorbing this information, Gabriel solemnly warned the captain against trying to attack the White Whale if they happened to encounter it. In his rambling madness, he claimed the White Whale was none other than the Shaker God incarnated, with the Shakers accepting the Bible. However, a year or two later, when Moby Dick was finally spotted from the masthead, Macey, the chief mate, was eager to confront him. The captain, despite Gabriel’s fervent warnings and doomsday prophecies, was not opposed to giving him the chance. Macey managed to convince five crew members to join him in the boat. They rowed out, and after exhausting efforts and several dangerous, failed attempts, Macey finally got a harpoon lodged in the whale. Meanwhile, Gabriel climbed to the main-royal masthead, wildly waving one arm and shouting out prophecies of doom for those defying his divine warning. As Macey stood at the front of the boat, recklessly shouting at the whale and trying to land a precise strike with his lance, a massive white figure emerged from the sea. Its sudden, sweeping motion seemed to knock the wind out of the oarsmen. In the next moment, the unfortunate Macey, charged with furious determination, was struck and flung high into the air. He fell in a long arc and hit the water about fifty yards away. Not a splinter of the boat was touched, nor was a single oarsman harmed—but the mate was lost forever, sinking into the sea.
It is well to parenthesize here, that of the fatal accidents in the Sperm-Whale Fishery, this kind is perhaps almost as frequent as any. Sometimes, nothing is injured but the man who is thus annihilated; oftener the boat’s bow is knocked off, or the thigh-board, in which the headsman stands, is torn from its place and accompanies the body. But strangest of all is the circumstance, that in more instances than one, when the body has been recovered, not a single mark of violence is discernible; the man being stark dead.
It's worth noting here that in the sperm whale hunting industry, this type of fatal accident is perhaps one of the most common. Sometimes, only the man who is killed is affected; more often, the front of the boat is smashed, or the platform where the headsman stands is ripped away and goes with the body. But the strangest thing of all is that in several cases, when the body is recovered, there isn’t a single visible sign of injury—the man is just completely dead.
The whole calamity, with the falling form of Macey, was plainly descried from the ship. Raising a piercing shriek—“The vial! the vial!” Gabriel called off the terror-stricken crew from the further hunting of the whale. This terrible event clothed the archangel with added influence; because his credulous disciples believed that he had specifically fore-announced it, instead of only making a general prophecy, which any one might have done, and so have chanced to hit one of many marks in the wide margin allowed. He became a nameless terror to the ship.
The entire disaster, along with Macey's falling figure, was clearly seen from the ship. Letting out a piercing scream—“The vial! The vial!”—Gabriel pulled the terrified crew away from continuing their pursuit of the whale. This horrifying event gave the archangel even more authority, as his gullible followers believed he had specifically predicted it, rather than just making a vague prophecy that anyone could have made and then happened to match one of countless possibilities. He became an unseen but dreadful presence on the ship.
Mayhew having concluded his narration, Ahab put such questions to him, that the stranger captain could not forbear inquiring whether he intended to hunt the White Whale, if opportunity should offer. To which Ahab answered—“Aye.” Straightway, then, Gabriel once more started to his feet, glaring upon the old man, and vehemently exclaimed, with downward pointed finger—“Think, think of the blasphemer—dead, and down there!—beware of the blasphemer’s end!”
After Mayhew finished his story, Ahab asked him some questions that made the other captain ask if he planned to hunt the White Whale if he got the chance. Ahab simply replied, "Yes." Immediately, Gabriel jumped to his feet again, stared intensely at the old man, and shouted passionately, pointing downward with his finger, "Think, think of the blasphemer—dead and down there! Beware of the blasphemer's fate!"
Ahab stolidly turned aside; then said to Mayhew, “Captain, I have just bethought me of my letter-bag; there is a letter for one of thy officers, if I mistake not. Starbuck, look over the bag.”
Ahab calmly turned away, then said to Mayhew, “Captain, I just remembered my mailbag; I think there’s a letter for one of your officers. Starbuck, check the bag.”
Every whale-ship takes out a goodly number of letters for various ships, whose delivery to the persons to whom they may be addressed, depends upon the mere chance of encountering them in the four oceans. Thus, most letters never reach their mark; and many are only received after attaining an age of two or three years or more.
Every whaling ship carries a fair number of letters meant for various other ships, and their delivery to the intended recipients relies purely on the chance of crossing paths somewhere in the world's oceans. Because of this, most letters never make it to their destination, and many are only delivered after two or three years—or even longer.
Soon Starbuck returned with a letter in his hand. It was sorely tumbled, damp, and covered with a dull, spotted, green mould, in consequence of being kept in a dark locker of the cabin. Of such a letter, Death himself might well have been the post-boy.
Soon Starbuck came back holding a letter in his hand. It was crumpled, damp, and marked with a dull, patchy green mold from being stored in a dark locker in the cabin. A letter like this could easily have been delivered by Death himself.
“Can’st not read it?” cried Ahab. “Give it me, man. Aye, aye, it’s but a dim scrawl;—what’s this?” As he was studying it out, Starbuck took a long cutting-spade pole, and with his knife slightly split the end, to insert the letter there, and in that way, hand it to the boat, without its coming any closer to the ship.
"Can't read it?" shouted Ahab. "Hand it over, man. Yeah, yeah, it's just a faint scribble—what's this?" While he was trying to make it out, Starbuck grabbed a long cutting-spade pole and carefully split the end with his knife to slip the letter in. This way, he could pass it to the boat without it needing to come any closer to the ship.
Meantime, Ahab holding the letter, muttered, “Mr. Har—yes, Mr. Harry—(a woman’s pinny hand,—the man’s wife, I’ll wager)—Aye—Mr. Harry Macey, Ship Jeroboam;—why it’s Macey, and he’s dead!”
In the meantime, Ahab, holding the letter, muttered, "Mr. Har—yeah, Mr. Harry—(a woman’s delicate handwriting—must be the man’s wife, I bet)—Yeah—Mr. Harry Macey, Ship Jeroboam;—wait, it’s Macey, and he’s dead!"
“Poor fellow! poor fellow! and from his wife,” sighed Mayhew; “but let me have it.”
"Poor guy! Poor guy! And from his wife," sighed Mayhew. "But let me have it."
“Nay, keep it thyself,” cried Gabriel to Ahab; “thou art soon going that way.”
"No, keep it for yourself," Gabriel shouted to Ahab. "You're heading that way soon."
“Curses throttle thee!” yelled Ahab. “Captain Mayhew, stand by now to receive it”; and taking the fatal missive from Starbuck’s hands, he caught it in the slit of the pole, and reached it over towards the boat. But as he did so, the oarsmen expectantly desisted from rowing; the boat drifted a little towards the ship’s stern; so that, as if by magic, the letter suddenly ranged along with Gabriel’s eager hand. He clutched it in an instant, seized the boat-knife, and impaling the letter on it, sent it thus loaded back into the ship. It fell at Ahab’s feet. Then Gabriel shrieked out to his comrades to give way with their oars, and in that manner the mutinous boat rapidly shot away from the Pequod.
“Curse you!” shouted Ahab. “Captain Mayhew, get ready to take it.” Taking the fateful letter from Starbuck, he wedged it into the slit of the pole and extended it out toward the boat. But as he did, the rowers stopped rowing, watching expectantly; the boat drifted slightly toward the ship’s stern. As if by some strange chance, the letter ended up right within Gabriel’s reach. In an instant, he grabbed it, snatched up the boat-knife, stabbed the letter onto it, and flung it back toward the ship. It landed at Ahab’s feet. Gabriel then screamed at his crew to start rowing again, and the rebellious boat quickly sped away from the Pequod.
As, after this interlude, the seamen resumed their work upon the jacket of the whale, many strange things were hinted in reference to this wild affair.
After this break, as the sailors went back to working on the whale's blubber, many strange ideas were suggested about this bizarre incident.
CHAPTER 72. The Monkey-Rope.
In the tumultuous business of cutting-in and attending to a whale, there is much running backwards and forwards among the crew. Now hands are wanted here, and then again hands are wanted there. There is no staying in any one place; for at one and the same time everything has to be done everywhere. It is much the same with him who endeavors the description of the scene. We must now retrace our way a little. It was mentioned that upon first breaking ground in the whale’s back, the blubber-hook was inserted into the original hole there cut by the spades of the mates. But how did so clumsy and weighty a mass as that same hook get fixed in that hole? It was inserted there by my particular friend Queequeg, whose duty it was, as harpooneer, to descend upon the monster’s back for the special purpose referred to. But in very many cases, circumstances require that the harpooneer shall remain on the whale till the whole flensing or stripping operation is concluded. The whale, be it observed, lies almost entirely submerged, excepting the immediate parts operated upon. So down there, some ten feet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer flounders about, half on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass revolves like a tread-mill beneath him. On the occasion in question, Queequeg figured in the Highland costume—a shirt and socks—in which to my eyes, at least, he appeared to uncommon advantage; and no one had a better chance to observe him, as will presently be seen.
In the chaotic work of cutting into and processing a whale, the crew is constantly rushing back and forth. One moment they’re needed here, the next they’re needed there. There’s no staying in one spot because everything has to happen everywhere at once. It’s much the same when trying to describe the scene. Let’s backtrack a bit. Earlier, it was mentioned that, when first cutting into the whale’s back, the blubber hook was placed into the original hole made by the mates’ spades. But how did such a heavy and awkward tool end up secured in that hole? It was put there by my good friend Queequeg, whose job as harpooneer was to climb onto the whale’s back for this specific purpose. In many situations, the harpooneer has to stay on the whale until the entire process of flensing or stripping the blubber is finished. Keep in mind, the whale is almost fully submerged, except for the parts being worked on. So there the poor harpooneer is, about ten feet below the deck, struggling partly on the whale and partly in the water, as the massive carcass spins beneath him like a treadmill. On this particular occasion, Queequeg was wearing what could only be described as a Highland costume—a shirt and socks—which, at least to me, suited him remarkably well. As you’ll soon see, I had the best view of him.
Being the savage’s bowsman, that is, the person who pulled the bow-oar in his boat (the second one from forward), it was my cheerful duty to attend upon him while taking that hard-scrabble scramble upon the dead whale’s back. You have seen Italian organ-boys holding a dancing-ape by a long cord. Just so, from the ship’s steep side, did I hold Queequeg down there in the sea, by what is technically called in the fishery a monkey-rope, attached to a strong strip of canvas belted round his waist.
Being the savage's oarsman—meaning the one who rowed the second oar from the front in his boat—it was my lively responsibility to help him as he climbed and scrambled over the dead whale’s back. You've probably seen Italian street performers holding a dancing monkey on a long leash. In much the same way, from the high side of the ship, I held Queequeg down in the water with what’s known in whaling as a monkey-rope, tied to a sturdy strip of canvas fastened around his waist.
It was a humorously perilous business for both of us. For, before we proceed further, it must be said that the monkey-rope was fast at both ends; fast to Queequeg’s broad canvas belt, and fast to my narrow leather one. So that for better or for worse, we two, for the time, were wedded; and should poor Queequeg sink to rise no more, then both usage and honor demanded, that instead of cutting the cord, it should drag me down in his wake. So, then, an elongated Siamese ligature united us. Queequeg was my own inseparable twin brother; nor could I any way get rid of the dangerous liabilities which the hempen bond entailed.
It was a hilariously dangerous situation for both of us. Before we go any further, let me explain: the monkey-rope was tied securely at both ends—one end to Queequeg’s wide canvas belt and the other to my thin leather one. For better or worse, we were, temporarily, tied together like a married couple. If poor Queequeg were to sink and never come back up, both tradition and honor required that instead of cutting the rope, I’d have to let it pull me down with him. So, we were connected by a long, shared lifeline like Siamese twins. Queequeg was my inseparable twin brother, and there was no way I could escape the dangerous risks that came with that rope.
So strongly and metaphysically did I conceive of my situation then, that while earnestly watching his motions, I seemed distinctly to perceive that my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock company of two; that my free will had received a mortal wound; and that another’s mistake or misfortune might plunge innocent me into unmerited disaster and death. Therefore, I saw that here was a sort of interregnum in Providence; for its even-handed equity never could have so gross an injustice. And yet still further pondering—while I jerked him now and then from between the whale and ship, which would threaten to jam him—still further pondering, I say, I saw that this situation of mine was the precise situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in most cases, he, one way or other, has this Siamese connexion with a plurality of other mortals. If your banker breaks, you snap; if your apothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die. True, you may say that, by exceeding caution, you may possibly escape these and the multitudinous other evil chances of life. But handle Queequeg’s monkey-rope heedfully as I would, sometimes he jerked it so, that I came very near sliding overboard. Nor could I possibly forget that, do what I would, I only had the management of one end of it.*
I thought about my situation so deeply and intensely at that moment that, as I watched his movements closely, it felt clear to me that my own individuality had fused into a kind of partnership between the two of us. My free will had been dealt a fatal blow, and someone else’s mistake or bad luck could drag me, an innocent person, into undeserved disaster—even death. Because of this, I felt like there was some kind of gap in Providence, since its usual fairness could never allow such gross injustice. Yet, as I kept thinking this over—while occasionally yanking him away from the space between the whale and the ship that could crush him—I realized that this situation wasn’t unique to me. It really applied to every person alive, except that most people, in one way or another, have similar interconnected ties with many others. If your banker collapses, you’re ruined. If your pharmacist accidentally gives you poison instead of medicine, you’re dead. Sure, you could argue that with extreme caution you might avoid these types of situations, along with the countless other dangers life throws at you. But no matter how carefully I handled Queequeg’s monkey rope, there were times he yanked so hard that I almost went overboard myself. And I couldn’t forget that no matter what I did, I could only control my end of the rope. *
*The monkey-rope is found in all whalers; but it was only in the Pequod that the monkey and his holder were ever tied together. This improvement upon the original usage was introduced by no less a man than Stubb, in order to afford the imperilled harpooneer the strongest possible guarantee for the faithfulness and vigilance of his monkey-rope holder.
The monkey-rope is used on all whaling ships, but only on the Pequod were the monkey and their handler ever tied together. This innovation in the original practice was introduced by none other than Stubb, to give the endangered harpooner the best assurance of the loyalty and attentiveness of their monkey-rope handler.
I have hinted that I would often jerk poor Queequeg from between the whale and the ship—where he would occasionally fall, from the incessant rolling and swaying of both. But this was not the only jamming jeopardy he was exposed to. Unappalled by the massacre made upon them during the night, the sharks now freshly and more keenly allured by the before pent blood which began to flow from the carcass—the rabid creatures swarmed round it like bees in a beehive.
I mentioned that I would often pull poor Queequeg out from between the whale and the ship—where he would sometimes fall due to the constant rocking and swaying of both. But that wasn’t the only dangerous situation he faced. Undeterred by the carnage inflicted on them during the night, the sharks, now even more fiercely attracted by the freshly released blood flowing from the carcass, swarmed around it like bees around a hive.
And right in among those sharks was Queequeg; who often pushed them aside with his floundering feet. A thing altogether incredible were it not that attracted by such prey as a dead whale, the otherwise miscellaneously carnivorous shark will seldom touch a man.
And right there among those sharks was Queequeg, who often kicked them aside with his thrashing feet. It would be completely unbelievable if it weren't for the fact that, drawn to something like a dead whale, the usually indiscriminate meat-eating shark will rarely go after a human.
Nevertheless, it may well be believed that since they have such a ravenous finger in the pie, it is deemed but wise to look sharp to them. Accordingly, besides the monkey-rope, with which I now and then jerked the poor fellow from too close a vicinity to the maw of what seemed a peculiarly ferocious shark—he was provided with still another protection. Suspended over the side in one of the stages, Tashtego and Daggoo continually flourished over his head a couple of keen whale-spades, wherewith they slaughtered as many sharks as they could reach. This procedure of theirs, to be sure, was very disinterested and benevolent of them. They meant Queequeg’s best happiness, I admit; but in their hasty zeal to befriend him, and from the circumstance that both he and the sharks were at times half hidden by the blood-muddled water, those indiscreet spades of theirs would come nearer amputating a leg than a tail. But poor Queequeg, I suppose, straining and gasping there with that great iron hook—poor Queequeg, I suppose, only prayed to his Yojo, and gave up his life into the hands of his gods.
Still, it’s easy to believe that since they were so aggressively involved, it seemed wise to keep a close eye on them. So, besides the monkey rope I would occasionally use to yank the poor guy away from getting too close to the jaws of what looked like an especially vicious shark, he was given another layer of protection. Hanging over the side on one of the stages, Tashtego and Daggoo swung a couple of sharp whale spades over his head, killing as many sharks as they could reach. Their actions, no doubt, were both selfless and well-meaning. They genuinely wanted to safeguard Queequeg’s well-being, I’ll admit, but in their over-enthusiastic effort to help—and given that both he and the sharks would occasionally disappear into the murky, bloodied water—those careless spades of theirs often came closer to chopping off one of his legs than a shark’s tail. Poor Queequeg, I imagine, struggling and gasping there with that huge iron hook—poor Queequeg must have just prayed to his Yojo and resigned himself into the hands of his gods.
Well, well, my dear comrade and twin-brother, thought I, as I drew in and then slacked off the rope to every swell of the sea—what matters it, after all? Are you not the precious image of each and all of us men in this whaling world? That unsounded ocean you gasp in, is Life; those sharks, your foes; those spades, your friends; and what between sharks and spades you are in a sad pickle and peril, poor lad.
Alright, my dear friend and twin spirit, I thought to myself as I pulled in and let out the rope with every wave of the sea—does it really matter in the end? Aren’t you just a symbol of all of us in this whaling life? That vast, unfathomable ocean you’re struggling in is Life itself; those sharks are your enemies; those spades are your allies; and caught between the sharks and spades, you’re in a tough and dangerous spot, poor guy.
But courage! there is good cheer in store for you, Queequeg. For now, as with blue lips and blood-shot eyes the exhausted savage at last climbs up the chains and stands all dripping and involuntarily trembling over the side; the steward advances, and with a benevolent, consolatory glance hands him—what? Some hot Cognac? No! hands him, ye gods! hands him a cup of tepid ginger and water!
But don’t worry! There’s some relief waiting for you, Queequeg. Now, with blue lips and bloodshot eyes, the worn-out savage finally climbs up the chains, standing there soaking wet and shaking uncontrollably on the deck; the steward steps forward and, with a kind, comforting glance, offers him—what? Some hot Cognac? Nope! Offers him, for heaven’s sake—a cup of lukewarm ginger water!
“Ginger? Do I smell ginger?” suspiciously asked Stubb, coming near. “Yes, this must be ginger,” peering into the as yet untasted cup. Then standing as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards the astonished steward slowly saying, “Ginger? ginger? and will you have the goodness to tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, where lies the virtue of ginger? Ginger! is ginger the sort of fuel you use, Dough-boy, to kindle a fire in this shivering cannibal? Ginger!—what the devil is ginger? Sea-coal? firewood?—lucifer matches?—tinder?—gunpowder?—what the devil is ginger, I say, that you offer this cup to our poor Queequeg here.”
"Ginger? Do I smell ginger?" Stubb asked suspiciously as he came closer. "Yeah, this has to be ginger," he said, peering into the untouched cup. Then, standing there for a moment as if he couldn't believe it, he calmly walked over to the bewildered steward and slowly said, "Ginger? Ginger? Can you please tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, what’s so special about ginger? Ginger! Is ginger the kind of fuel you think will warm up this freezing cannibal? Ginger! What on earth is ginger? Coal? Firewood? Matches? Tinder? Gunpowder? What on earth do you think ginger is, that you’d give this cup to poor Queequeg?"
“There is some sneaking Temperance Society movement about this business,” he suddenly added, now approaching Starbuck, who had just come from forward. “Will you look at that kannakin, sir: smell of it, if you please.” Then watching the mate’s countenance, he added, “The steward, Mr. Starbuck, had the face to offer that calomel and jalap to Queequeg, there, this instant off the whale. Is the steward an apothecary, sir? and may I ask whether this is the sort of bitters by which he blows back the life into a half-drowned man?”
“There’s some undercover Temperance Society movement going on here,” he suddenly said, walking up to Starbuck, who had just come from the front. “Take a look at that mug, sir—go on, give it a sniff.” Then, watching the mate’s expression, he added, “The steward, Mr. Starbuck, had the nerve to offer that medicine—calomel and jalap—to Queequeg just now, fresh off the whale. Is the steward a pharmacist, sir? And may I ask if this is how he thinks he’s going to revive a half-drowned man with ‘bitters’ like these?”
“I trust not,” said Starbuck, “it is poor stuff enough.”
"I hope not," said Starbuck. "It's flimsy enough as it is."
“Aye, aye, steward,” cried Stubb, “we’ll teach you to drug a harpooneer; none of your apothecary’s medicine here; you want to poison us, do ye? You have got out insurances on our lives and want to murder us all, and pocket the proceeds, do ye?”
"Alright, alright, steward," shouted Stubb, "we’ll show you not to drug a harpooner! No pharmacy medicine here; are you trying to poison us? Did you take out insurance on our lives and plan to kill us all to cash in on it, huh?"
“It was not me,” cried Dough-Boy, “it was Aunt Charity that brought the ginger on board; and bade me never give the harpooneers any spirits, but only this ginger-jub—so she called it.”
"It wasn't me," shouted Dough-Boy. "It was Aunt Charity who brought the ginger on board and told me to never give the harpooners any alcohol, only this ginger drink—she called it ginger-jub."
“Ginger-jub! you gingerly rascal! take that! and run along with ye to the lockers, and get something better. I hope I do no wrong, Mr. Starbuck. It is the captain’s orders—grog for the harpooneer on a whale.”
"Ginger-jub! You sneaky rascal! Take that and go to the lockers to grab something better. I hope I’m not doing anything wrong, Mr. Starbuck. It’s the captain’s orders—grog for the harpooner on a whale."
“Enough,” replied Starbuck, “only don’t hit him again, but—”
"That's enough," Starbuck said. "Just don't hit him again, but—"
“Oh, I never hurt when I hit, except when I hit a whale or something of that sort; and this fellow’s a weazel. What were you about saying, sir?”
“Oh, it never hurts when I hit, unless I’m hitting a whale or something like that; and this guy’s just a weasel. What were you saying, sir?”
“Only this: go down with him, and get what thou wantest thyself.”
"Just this: go with him and get what you need yourself."
When Stubb reappeared, he came with a dark flask in one hand, and a sort of tea-caddy in the other. The first contained strong spirits, and was handed to Queequeg; the second was Aunt Charity’s gift, and that was freely given to the waves.
When Stubb came back, he was holding a dark flask in one hand and something like a tea tin in the other. The flask had strong liquor in it, which he gave to Queequeg; the tea tin was a gift from Aunt Charity, and he generously tossed that into the waves.
CHAPTER 73. Stubb and Flask kill a Right Whale; and Then Have a Talk over Him.
It must be borne in mind that all this time we have a Sperm Whale’s prodigious head hanging to the Pequod’s side. But we must let it continue hanging there a while till we can get a chance to attend to it. For the present other matters press, and the best we can do now for the head, is to pray heaven the tackles may hold.
We need to remember that the whole time, the massive head of a Sperm Whale is hanging off the side of the Pequod. But we have to leave it there for now until we get a chance to deal with it. At the moment, other priorities demand our attention, and the best we can do for the head is hope to heaven that the ropes hold tight.
Now, during the past night and forenoon, the Pequod had gradually drifted into a sea, which, by its occasional patches of yellow brit, gave unusual tokens of the vicinity of Right Whales, a species of the Leviathan that but few supposed to be at this particular time lurking anywhere near. And though all hands commonly disdained the capture of those inferior creatures; and though the Pequod was not commissioned to cruise for them at all, and though she had passed numbers of them near the Crozetts without lowering a boat; yet now that a Sperm Whale had been brought alongside and beheaded, to the surprise of all, the announcement was made that a Right Whale should be captured that day, if opportunity offered.
Last night and this morning, the Pequod had slowly drifted into a part of the sea where occasional patches of yellow brit hinted at the presence of Right Whales — a type of whale that few expected to be lurking in the area at this time. While the crew usually looked down on hunting these less valuable creatures, and even though the Pequod wasn’t assigned to seek them out, passing by many near the Crozet Islands without lowering a boat, the surprising announcement was made that, since a Sperm Whale had been brought alongside and its head removed, they would capture a Right Whale that day if the chance arose.
Nor was this long wanting. Tall spouts were seen to leeward; and two boats, Stubb’s and Flask’s, were detached in pursuit. Pulling further and further away, they at last became almost invisible to the men at the mast-head. But suddenly in the distance, they saw a great heap of tumultuous white water, and soon after news came from aloft that one or both the boats must be fast. An interval passed and the boats were in plain sight, in the act of being dragged right towards the ship by the towing whale. So close did the monster come to the hull, that at first it seemed as if he meant it malice; but suddenly going down in a maelstrom, within three rods of the planks, he wholly disappeared from view, as if diving under the keel. “Cut, cut!” was the cry from the ship to the boats, which, for one instant, seemed on the point of being brought with a deadly dash against the vessel’s side. But having plenty of line yet in the tubs, and the whale not sounding very rapidly, they paid out abundance of rope, and at the same time pulled with all their might so as to get ahead of the ship. For a few minutes the struggle was intensely critical; for while they still slacked out the tightened line in one direction, and still plied their oars in another, the contending strain threatened to take them under. But it was only a few feet advance they sought to gain. And they stuck to it till they did gain it; when instantly, a swift tremor was felt running like lightning along the keel, as the strained line, scraping beneath the ship, suddenly rose to view under her bows, snapping and quivering; and so flinging off its drippings, that the drops fell like bits of broken glass on the water, while the whale beyond also rose to sight, and once more the boats were free to fly. But the fagged whale abated his speed, and blindly altering his course, went round the stern of the ship towing the two boats after him, so that they performed a complete circuit.
Nor did it take long for action to start. Tall spouts of water were spotted to leeward, and two boats, Stubb's and Flask's, were sent out to chase them. Rowing farther and farther away, they eventually became almost impossible to see from the masthead. But suddenly, in the distance, a huge burst of chaotic white water was spotted, and soon word came from above that one or both boats had likely harpooned a whale. After a brief pause, the boats came into clear view, being dragged toward the ship by the whale they had hooked. The creature came so close to the hull that it initially looked like it might attack, but then it suddenly disappeared in a whirlpool just three ship-lengths from the side, as though it had dived beneath the keel. "Cut the line! Cut the line!" came the frantic call from the ship to the boats, as for a moment it seemed the boats were about to slam fatally against the vessel’s side. However, since there was still plenty of rope left in the tubs and the whale wasn’t diving too quickly, the crews let out more line and rowed with all their strength to get clear of the ship. For a few minutes, the situation was intensely dangerous. As they let out slack with the rope pulling in one direction and rowed in another, the tension threatened to pull them under. Yet they only aimed to get a few feet ahead—and they did, sticking with it until they succeeded. Suddenly, a sharp vibration shot along the ship’s keel like lightning as the taut line scraped beneath it, rising back up at the bow with a snap and a quiver. Water sprayed from the line like shattered glass as it whipped free, and the whale reappeared beyond, giving the boats space to move again. Exhausted, the whale slowed its pace and, seemingly disoriented, changed direction, circling around the stern of the ship and pulling the two boats with it in a full loop.
Meantime, they hauled more and more upon their lines, till close flanking him on both sides, Stubb answered Flask with lance for lance; and thus round and round the Pequod the battle went, while the multitudes of sharks that had before swum round the Sperm Whale’s body, rushed to the fresh blood that was spilled, thirstily drinking at every new gash, as the eager Israelites did at the new bursting fountains that poured from the smitten rock.
Meanwhile, they kept pulling harder and harder on their lines, until, flanking him closely on both sides, Stubb responded to Flask, lance for lance. Around and around the Pequod, the battle continued, while swarms of sharks that had previously circled the Sperm Whale's body now charged toward the fresh blood spilling into the water, hungrily drinking from every new wound, just as the eager Israelites drank from the newly gushing fountains that flowed from the struck rock.
At last his spout grew thick, and with a frightful roll and vomit, he turned upon his back a corpse.
Finally, his spout thickened, and with a horrifying roll and spew, he flipped onto his back, lifeless.
While the two headsmen were engaged in making fast cords to his flukes, and in other ways getting the mass in readiness for towing, some conversation ensued between them.
While the two executioners were busy securing ropes to his tail and preparing the massive body for towing, they started talking to each other.
“I wonder what the old man wants with this lump of foul lard,” said Stubb, not without some disgust at the thought of having to do with so ignoble a leviathan.
"I wonder what the old man wants with this chunk of disgusting fat," said Stubb, with some disgust at the idea of dealing with such a lowly whale.
“Wants with it?” said Flask, coiling some spare line in the boat’s bow, “did you never hear that the ship which but once has a Sperm Whale’s head hoisted on her starboard side, and at the same time a Right Whale’s on the larboard; did you never hear, Stubb, that that ship can never afterwards capsize?”
"Wants what with it?" said Flask, coiling some spare line in the front of the boat. "Haven't you ever heard that a ship with a Sperm Whale's head hoisted on its starboard side and at the same time a Right Whale's head on the port side can never capsize after that, Stubb?"
“Why not?
"Why not?"
“I don’t know, but I heard that gamboge ghost of a Fedallah saying so, and he seems to know all about ships’ charms. But I sometimes think he’ll charm the ship to no good at last. I don’t half like that chap, Stubb. Did you ever notice how that tusk of his is a sort of carved into a snake’s head, Stubb?”
"I’m not sure, but I heard that yellowish ghost of a guy, Fedallah, saying it, and he seems to know all about ship charms. Still, I sometimes think he’ll end up bringing bad luck to the ship. I don’t really trust that guy, Stubb. Have you ever noticed how that tusk of his is kind of carved to look like a snake’s head, Stubb?"
“Sink him! I never look at him at all; but if ever I get a chance of a dark night, and he standing hard by the bulwarks, and no one by; look down there, Flask”—pointing into the sea with a peculiar motion of both hands—“Aye, will I! Flask, I take that Fedallah to be the devil in disguise. Do you believe that cock and bull story about his having been stowed away on board ship? He’s the devil, I say. The reason why you don’t see his tail, is because he tucks it up out of sight; he carries it coiled away in his pocket, I guess. Blast him! now that I think of it, he’s always wanting oakum to stuff into the toes of his boots.”
"Damn him! I never even look at the guy; but if I ever get a chance on a dark night, and he’s standing close to the railing with no one else around—just look down there, Flask," he said, gesturing toward the sea with both hands in a strange way. "Yeah, I will! Flask, I swear that Fedallah is the devil in disguise. Do you actually believe that ridiculous story about him being smuggled on board? He’s the devil, I’m telling you. The only reason you don’t see his tail is because he keeps it tucked away out of sight—probably coiled up in his pocket, I’d bet. Damn him! Now that I think about it, he’s always asking for oakum to stuff into the toes of his boots."
“He sleeps in his boots, don’t he? He hasn’t got any hammock; but I’ve seen him lay of nights in a coil of rigging.”
"He sleeps in his boots, doesn't he? He doesn't have a hammock, but I've seen him lying at night in a coil of ropes."
“No doubt, and it’s because of his cursed tail; he coils it down, do ye see, in the eye of the rigging.”
"Yeah, no doubt—it’s because of his darn tail; you see, he wraps it down right in the middle of the rigging."
“What’s the old man have so much to do with him for?”
"Why is the old man so involved with him?"
“Striking up a swap or a bargain, I suppose.”
"Making a deal or negotiating a trade, I guess."
“Bargain?—about what?”
"Deal?—about what?"
“Why, do ye see, the old man is hard bent after that White Whale, and the devil there is trying to come round him, and get him to swap away his silver watch, or his soul, or something of that sort, and then he’ll surrender Moby Dick.”
"Well, you see, the old man is dead set on going after that White Whale, and the devil over there is trying to trick him into trading away his silver watch, or maybe even his soul, or something like that, and then he’ll give up Moby Dick."
“Pooh! Stubb, you are skylarking; how can Fedallah do that?”
"Come on, Stubb, you're joking around; how could Fedallah do that?"
“I don’t know, Flask, but the devil is a curious chap, and a wicked one, I tell ye. Why, they say as how he went a sauntering into the old flag-ship once, switching his tail about devilish easy and gentlemanlike, and inquiring if the old governor was at home. Well, he was at home, and asked the devil what he wanted. The devil, switching his hoofs, up and says, ‘I want John.’ ‘What for?’ says the old governor. ‘What business is that of yours,’ says the devil, getting mad,—‘I want to use him.’ ‘Take him,’ says the governor—and by the Lord, Flask, if the devil didn’t give John the Asiatic cholera before he got through with him, I’ll eat this whale in one mouthful. But look sharp—ain’t you all ready there? Well, then, pull ahead, and let’s get the whale alongside.”
"I don’t know, Flask, but the devil’s a strange guy, and a nasty one, I’m telling you. They say he once casually strolled into the old flagship, swinging his tail around all smug and polite, and asked if the old governor was home. Well, turns out he was home, so he asked the devil what he wanted. The devil, tapping his hooves, says, ‘I’m here for John.’ ‘Why?’ asks the old governor. ‘That’s none of your business,’ snaps the devil, starting to get angry. ‘I need him.’ ‘Fine, take him,’ says the governor—and I swear, Flask, if the devil didn’t give John the Asiatic cholera before he was done with him, I’ll eat this whale in one bite. But come on, is everybody ready? Alright then, start rowing, let’s get this whale tied up."
“I think I remember some such story as you were telling,” said Flask, when at last the two boats were slowly advancing with their burden towards the ship, “but I can’t remember where.”
"I think I remember a story like the one you were telling," said Flask, as the two boats finally started moving slowly toward the ship with their load, "but I can't remember where I heard it."
“Three Spaniards? Adventures of those three bloody-minded soldadoes? Did ye read it there, Flask? I guess ye did?”
"Three Spaniards? The adventures of those three ruthless soldiers? Did you read about it there, Flask? I bet you did."
“No: never saw such a book; heard of it, though. But now, tell me, Stubb, do you suppose that that devil you was speaking of just now, was the same you say is now on board the Pequod?”
"No, never seen a book like that; I've heard of it, though. But tell me, Stubb, do you really think the devil you were just talking about is the same one you say is now onboard the Pequod?"
“Am I the same man that helped kill this whale? Doesn’t the devil live for ever; who ever heard that the devil was dead? Did you ever see any parson a wearing mourning for the devil? And if the devil has a latch-key to get into the admiral’s cabin, don’t you suppose he can crawl into a porthole? Tell me that, Mr. Flask?”
"Am I still the same person who helped kill this whale? Doesn't the devil live forever? Have you ever heard of the devil dying? Have you ever seen a preacher wearing mourning clothes for the devil? And if the devil has a key to get into the admiral's cabin, don't you think he could crawl through a porthole? Tell me that, Mr. Flask?"
“How old do you suppose Fedallah is, Stubb?”
"How old do you think Fedallah is, Stubb?"
“Do you see that mainmast there?” pointing to the ship; “well, that’s the figure one; now take all the hoops in the Pequod’s hold, and string along in a row with that mast, for oughts, do you see; well, that wouldn’t begin to be Fedallah’s age. Nor all the coopers in creation couldn’t show hoops enough to make oughts enough.”
"Do you see that mainmast there?" he said, pointing to the ship. "Well, that’s the number one. Now, take all the hoops in the Pequod’s hold and line them up in a row with that mast as the zeros, you see? Well, that still wouldn’t even come close to Fedallah’s age. There aren’t enough coopers in the world to make enough hoops to count it.”
“But see here, Stubb, I thought you a little boasted just now, that you meant to give Fedallah a sea-toss, if you got a good chance. Now, if he’s so old as all those hoops of yours come to, and if he is going to live for ever, what good will it do to pitch him overboard—tell me that?
"But listen here, Stubb, I thought you were bragging a minute ago about planning to toss Fedallah overboard if you got the chance. Now, if he’s as old as all those hoops of yours suggest, and if he’s going to live forever, what’s the point of throwing him overboard—explain that to me?"
“Give him a good ducking, anyhow.”
"Give him a good dunking, anyway."
“But he’d crawl back.”
“But he would come back.”
“Duck him again; and keep ducking him.”
"Dunk him again, and keep dunking him."
“Suppose he should take it into his head to duck you, though—yes, and drown you—what then?”
"Just imagine if he decided to dunk you underwater—yeah, and drown you—what would you do then?"
“I should like to see him try it; I’d give him such a pair of black eyes that he wouldn’t dare to show his face in the admiral’s cabin again for a long while, let alone down in the orlop there, where he lives, and hereabouts on the upper decks where he sneaks so much. Damn the devil, Flask; so you suppose I’m afraid of the devil? Who’s afraid of him, except the old governor who daresn’t catch him and put him in double-darbies, as he deserves, but lets him go about kidnapping people; aye, and signed a bond with him, that all the people the devil kidnapped, he’d roast for him? There’s a governor!”
"I’d like to see him try it; I’d give him such a pair of black eyes he wouldn’t dare show his face in the admiral’s cabin for a long time, let alone down in the orlop where he stays, or up here on the upper decks where he creeps around all the time. Damn the devil, Flask; do you think I’m scared of the devil? Who’s afraid of him, except the old governor who doesn’t have the guts to catch him and lock him up in double shackles like he deserves, but instead lets him roam free kidnapping people? Yeah, and even made a deal with him, agreeing to roast all the folks the devil snatches. Now that’s a governor for you!"
“Do you suppose Fedallah wants to kidnap Captain Ahab?”
"Do you think Fedallah is planning to kidnap Captain Ahab?"
“Do I suppose it? You’ll know it before long, Flask. But I am going now to keep a sharp look-out on him; and if I see anything very suspicious going on, I’ll just take him by the nape of his neck, and say—Look here, Beelzebub, you don’t do it; and if he makes any fuss, by the Lord I’ll make a grab into his pocket for his tail, take it to the capstan, and give him such a wrenching and heaving, that his tail will come short off at the stump—do you see; and then, I rather guess when he finds himself docked in that queer fashion, he’ll sneak off without the poor satisfaction of feeling his tail between his legs.”
"Do I think so? You’ll know soon enough, Flask. But for now, I’m going to keep a close eye on him; and if I catch him doing anything really suspicious, I’ll grab him by the scruff of the neck and say—Listen here, Beelzebub, you’re not pulling that off; and if he complains, I swear I’ll reach into his pocket for his tail, drag it over to the capstan, and give it such a twist and pull that it’ll snap clean off at the base—got it? Then, I bet once he realizes he’s been docked like that, he’ll slink away without even the sorry comfort of having his tail between his legs."
“And what will you do with the tail, Stubb?”
"And what are you going to do with the tail, Stubb?"
“Do with it? Sell it for an ox whip when we get home;—what else?”
"What should we do with it? Sell it for an ox whip when we get back home—what else?"
“Now, do you mean what you say, and have been saying all along, Stubb?”
"Now, do you really mean what you've been saying all this time, Stubb?"
“Mean or not mean, here we are at the ship.”
"Rude or not, here we are at the ship."
The boats were here hailed, to tow the whale on the larboard side, where fluke chains and other necessaries were already prepared for securing him.
The boats were called over to tow the whale on the left side, where chains for the tail and other necessary equipment were already set up to secure it.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” said Flask; “yes, you’ll soon see this right whale’s head hoisted up opposite that parmacetti’s.”
"Didn't I tell you?" said Flask. "Yeah, you'll soon see this right whale's head hoisted up opposite that sperm whale's."
In good time, Flask’s saying proved true. As before, the Pequod steeply leaned over towards the sperm whale’s head, now, by the counterpoise of both heads, she regained her even keel; though sorely strained, you may well believe. So, when on one side you hoist in Locke’s head, you go over that way; but now, on the other side, hoist in Kant’s and you come back again; but in very poor plight. Thus, some minds for ever keep trimming boat. Oh, ye foolish! throw all these thunder-heads overboard, and then you will float light and right.
In due time, Flask’s words came true. Just like before, the Pequod sharply tilted toward the sperm whale’s head, but now, with the balance of both heads, she leveled out again—though she was clearly under a lot of strain, as you can imagine. It’s like when you lift Locke’s head on one side, the ship tilts that way; then you lift Kant’s head on the other side, and it steadies out again—but in pretty rough shape. Some minds are always trying to balance the boat like this. Oh, you fools! Toss all those heavy heads overboard, and then you’ll float free and steady.
In disposing of the body of a right whale, when brought alongside the ship, the same preliminary proceedings commonly take place as in the case of a sperm whale; only, in the latter instance, the head is cut off whole, but in the former the lips and tongue are separately removed and hoisted on deck, with all the well known black bone attached to what is called the crown-piece. But nothing like this, in the present case, had been done. The carcases of both whales had dropped astern; and the head-laden ship not a little resembled a mule carrying a pair of overburdening panniers.
When dealing with the body of a right whale once it's brought alongside the ship, the same initial steps are usually taken as with a sperm whale. However, with a sperm whale, the head is cut off in one piece, while with a right whale, the lips and tongue are removed separately and lifted onto the deck, along with the well-known black bone attached to what's called the crown-piece. But none of this had been done in this case. The carcasses of both whales had drifted behind the ship, and the ship itself, loaded with heads, looked a bit like a mule weighed down by a pair of oversized saddlebags.
Meantime, Fedallah was calmly eyeing the right whale’s head, and ever and anon glancing from the deep wrinkles there to the lines in his own hand. And Ahab chanced so to stand, that the Parsee occupied his shadow; while, if the Parsee’s shadow was there at all it seemed only to blend with, and lengthen Ahab’s. As the crew toiled on, Laplandish speculations were bandied among them, concerning all these passing things.
Meanwhile, Fedallah calmly stared at the right whale’s head, occasionally glancing from its deep wrinkles to the lines in his own hand. Ahab happened to stand in such a way that the Parsee stood within his shadow, and if the Parsee had a shadow of his own, it seemed to merge with and extend Ahab’s. As the crew kept working, they tossed around superstitious speculations about all these strange occurrences.
CHAPTER 74. The Sperm Whale’s Head—Contrasted View.
Here, now, are two great whales, laying their heads together; let us join them, and lay together our own.
Here are two massive whales now, with their heads together; let’s join them and put our heads together too.
Of the grand order of folio leviathans, the Sperm Whale and the Right Whale are by far the most noteworthy. They are the only whales regularly hunted by man. To the Nantucketer, they present the two extremes of all the known varieties of the whale. As the external difference between them is mainly observable in their heads; and as a head of each is this moment hanging from the Pequod’s side; and as we may freely go from one to the other, by merely stepping across the deck:—where, I should like to know, will you obtain a better chance to study practical cetology than here?
Among the massive folio-sized whales, the Sperm Whale and the Right Whale are by far the most significant. They are the only whales consistently hunted by humans. To the Nantucketer, they represent the two extremes of all known whale species. Since the main difference between them lies in their heads, and since one of each currently hangs from the sides of the Pequod, and we can easily move from one to the other just by crossing the deck, I’d like to ask—where else could you find a better chance to study practical cetology than right here?
In the first place, you are struck by the general contrast between these heads. Both are massive enough in all conscience; but there is a certain mathematical symmetry in the Sperm Whale’s which the Right Whale’s sadly lacks. There is more character in the Sperm Whale’s head. As you behold it, you involuntarily yield the immense superiority to him, in point of pervading dignity. In the present instance, too, this dignity is heightened by the pepper and salt colour of his head at the summit, giving token of advanced age and large experience. In short, he is what the fishermen technically call a “grey-headed whale.”
First of all, you can’t help but notice the stark difference between these two heads. Both are undeniably massive, but the Sperm Whale’s head has a certain mathematical symmetry that the Right Whale’s head noticeably lacks. The Sperm Whale’s head has more character. Looking at it, you automatically acknowledge its overwhelming superiority in terms of dignity. In this case, that dignity is further emphasized by the speckled, salt-and-pepper color on the top of his head, a clear sign of age and extensive experience. In short, he’s what the fishermen refer to as a “grey-headed whale.”
Let us now note what is least dissimilar in these heads—namely, the two most important organs, the eye and the ear. Far back on the side of the head, and low down, near the angle of either whale’s jaw, if you narrowly search, you will at last see a lashless eye, which you would fancy to be a young colt’s eye; so out of all proportion is it to the magnitude of the head.
Let's take a look at what’s most similar between these heads—the two most important organs, the eye and the ear. If you look closely, you’ll find a small, lashless eye far back on the side of the head, low near the angle of the whale’s jaw. It looks so much like a young colt’s eye that you might mistake it for one, as it seems too small compared to the massive size of the head.
Now, from this peculiar sideway position of the whale’s eyes, it is plain that he can never see an object which is exactly ahead, no more than he can one exactly astern. In a word, the position of the whale’s eyes corresponds to that of a man’s ears; and you may fancy, for yourself, how it would fare with you, did you sideways survey objects through your ears. You would find that you could only command some thirty degrees of vision in advance of the straight side-line of sight; and about thirty more behind it. If your bitterest foe were walking straight towards you, with dagger uplifted in broad day, you would not be able to see him, any more than if he were stealing upon you from behind. In a word, you would have two backs, so to speak; but, at the same time, also, two fronts (side fronts): for what is it that makes the front of a man—what, indeed, but his eyes?
Now, because of the strange sideways placement of the whale's eyes, it's clear that he can never see something directly in front of him, nor directly behind him. In other words, the position of the whale's eyes is like that of a person’s ears. Imagine for a moment how things would be if you had to look at objects sideways through your ears. You’d find that you could only see about thirty degrees ahead of your direct side view, and about thirty degrees behind it. If your worst enemy were walking straight toward you in broad daylight with a knife in hand, you wouldn’t see them—just as you wouldn’t notice if they were sneaking up on you from behind. Essentially, you’d have two backs, in a sense; but at the same time, you’d also have two fronts (side fronts). After all, what defines the front of a person—if not their eyes?
Moreover, while in most other animals that I can now think of, the eyes are so planted as imperceptibly to blend their visual power, so as to produce one picture and not two to the brain; the peculiar position of the whale’s eyes, effectually divided as they are by many cubic feet of solid head, which towers between them like a great mountain separating two lakes in valleys; this, of course, must wholly separate the impressions which each independent organ imparts. The whale, therefore, must see one distinct picture on this side, and another distinct picture on that side; while all between must be profound darkness and nothingness to him. Man may, in effect, be said to look out on the world from a sentry-box with two joined sashes for his window. But with the whale, these two sashes are separately inserted, making two distinct windows, but sadly impairing the view. This peculiarity of the whale’s eyes is a thing always to be borne in mind in the fishery; and to be remembered by the reader in some subsequent scenes.
In most other animals I can think of, the eyes are positioned in a way that their visual fields blend together seamlessly, creating a single image for the brain rather than two separate ones. However, the unique placement of the whale's eyes—separated by many cubic feet of solid skull that rises between them like a massive mountain dividing two lakes in separate valleys—completely isolates the visual input from each eye. As a result, the whale must see one distinct image on one side and another distinct image on the other side, with total darkness and emptiness in the space between. Humans, on the other hand, can be described as viewing the world from a guard post with two connected panes of glass forming a single window. For whales, though, these panes of glass are fixed separately, creating two independent windows that considerably limit their field of vision. This odd feature of a whale's vision is something to always keep in mind during whaling, and it's something readers should remember for certain upcoming scenes.
A curious and most puzzling question might be started concerning this visual matter as touching the Leviathan. But I must be content with a hint. So long as a man’s eyes are open in the light, the act of seeing is involuntary; that is, he cannot then help mechanically seeing whatever objects are before him. Nevertheless, any one’s experience will teach him, that though he can take in an undiscriminating sweep of things at one glance, it is quite impossible for him, attentively, and completely, to examine any two things—however large or however small—at one and the same instant of time; never mind if they lie side by side and touch each other. But if you now come to separate these two objects, and surround each by a circle of profound darkness; then, in order to see one of them, in such a manner as to bring your mind to bear on it, the other will be utterly excluded from your contemporary consciousness. How is it, then, with the whale? True, both his eyes, in themselves, must simultaneously act; but is his brain so much more comprehensive, combining, and subtle than man’s, that he can at the same moment of time attentively examine two distinct prospects, one on one side of him, and the other in an exactly opposite direction? If he can, then is it as marvellous a thing in him, as if a man were able simultaneously to go through the demonstrations of two distinct problems in Euclid. Nor, strictly investigated, is there any incongruity in this comparison.
A fascinating and tricky question could arise about this visual topic concerning the whale. But I’ll settle for just a hint. As long as a person’s eyes are open in the light, seeing happens automatically; in other words, he can’t help but mechanically notice whatever objects are in front of him. However, anyone’s experience will show that, while it’s possible to take in a sweeping view of things at a glance, it’s absolutely impossible to carefully and fully examine two things—no matter how big or small—at the exact same moment, even if they’re side by side and touching each other. But if you separate these two objects and surround each one with complete darkness, then to focus on one and bring your mind to bear on it, the other will be entirely excluded from your awareness. So, how does this apply to the whale? Sure, both of his eyes must work simultaneously, but is his brain so much more advanced, coordinated, and sophisticated than a human’s that he can closely study two different views at the same time—one on each side of him, even though they’re in opposite directions? If he can, it’s as amazing in him as if a person could work through two separate mathematical problems from Euclid at the same time. And, upon closer examination, there’s nothing inconsistent about this comparison.
It may be but an idle whim, but it has always seemed to me, that the extraordinary vacillations of movement displayed by some whales when beset by three or four boats; the timidity and liability to queer frights, so common to such whales; I think that all this indirectly proceeds from the helpless perplexity of volition, in which their divided and diametrically opposite powers of vision must involve them.
It might just be a random idea, but it has always seemed to me that the wild movements some whales show when surrounded by three or four boats—their nervousness and tendency to sudden, strange panic—come indirectly from the confusion caused by their split and completely opposite fields of vision.
But the ear of the whale is full as curious as the eye. If you are an entire stranger to their race, you might hunt over these two heads for hours, and never discover that organ. The ear has no external leaf whatever; and into the hole itself you can hardly insert a quill, so wondrously minute is it. It is lodged a little behind the eye. With respect to their ears, this important difference is to be observed between the sperm whale and the right. While the ear of the former has an external opening, that of the latter is entirely and evenly covered over with a membrane, so as to be quite imperceptible from without.
The ear of the whale is just as fascinating as its eye. If you're completely unfamiliar with whales, you could examine these two heads for hours and still miss finding the ear. The ear has no external flap at all, and the opening is so tiny that you can barely fit a quill into it. It’s located just a bit behind the eye. When it comes to their ears, there's an important difference to note between the sperm whale and the right whale. The sperm whale’s ear has an external opening, while the right whale’s ear is completely sealed with a membrane, making it invisible from the outside.
Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare’s? But if his eyes were broad as the lens of Herschel’s great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing? Not at all.—Why then do you try to “enlarge” your mind? Subtilize it.
Isn't it strange that such a massive creature like the whale views the world through such a tiny eye and hears thunder through an ear smaller than a rabbit's? But if his eyes were as wide as the lens of Herschel's great telescope, and his ears as vast as the entrances of cathedrals, would that make his vision any sharper or his hearing any better? Not at all. So why do you try to "expand" your mind? Refine it.
Let us now with whatever levers and steam-engines we have at hand, cant over the sperm whale’s head, that it may lie bottom up; then, ascending by a ladder to the summit, have a peep down the mouth; and were it not that the body is now completely separated from it, with a lantern we might descend into the great Kentucky Mammoth Cave of his stomach. But let us hold on here by this tooth, and look about us where we are. What a really beautiful and chaste-looking mouth! from floor to ceiling, lined, or rather papered with a glistening white membrane, glossy as bridal satins.
Let’s now use whatever tools or machinery we have to flip the sperm whale’s head so it’s upside down. Then, climbing up a ladder to the top, we can take a look down into its mouth. If the body weren’t completely detached from the head, we could even use a lantern to explore what would feel like the great Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, deep in its stomach. But for now, let’s hang onto this tooth and take in our surroundings. What an absolutely stunning and pristine-looking mouth! From floor to ceiling, it’s lined—or more like wallpapered—with a sleek, white membrane, shiny as bridal satin.
But come out now, and look at this portentous lower jaw, which seems like the long narrow lid of an immense snuff-box, with the hinge at one end, instead of one side. If you pry it up, so as to get it overhead, and expose its rows of teeth, it seems a terrific portcullis; and such, alas! it proves to many a poor wight in the fishery, upon whom these spikes fall with impaling force. But far more terrible is it to behold, when fathoms down in the sea, you see some sulky whale, floating there suspended, with his prodigious jaw, some fifteen feet long, hanging straight down at right-angles with his body, for all the world like a ship’s jib-boom. This whale is not dead; he is only dispirited; out of sorts, perhaps; hypochondriac; and so supine, that the hinges of his jaw have relaxed, leaving him there in that ungainly sort of plight, a reproach to all his tribe, who must, no doubt, imprecate lock-jaws upon him.
Come out now and take a look at this massive lower jaw, which looks like the long, narrow lid of a giant snuffbox, with the hinge at one end instead of along the side. If you lift it up overhead and reveal its rows of teeth, it looks like a terrifying portcullis—and, unfortunately, that's exactly what it turns out to be for many unlucky souls in the fishing trade, as those spikes come crashing down with deadly force. But far more horrifying is the sight of a sulking whale deep underwater, floating there with its enormous jaw—about fifteen feet long—hanging straight down at a right angle to its body, looking for all the world like the jib boom of a ship. This whale isn’t dead; it’s just out of sorts, maybe feeling depressed or under the weather, so much so that the hinges of its jaw have gone slack, leaving it dangling there in this awkward state—a disgrace to its species, who have probably all wished a case of lockjaw upon it.
In most cases this lower jaw—being easily unhinged by a practised artist—is disengaged and hoisted on deck for the purpose of extracting the ivory teeth, and furnishing a supply of that hard white whalebone with which the fishermen fashion all sorts of curious articles, including canes, umbrella-stocks, and handles to riding-whips.
In most cases, this lower jaw—easily detached by a skilled worker—is removed and brought on deck to extract the ivory teeth and provide a supply of that hard white whalebone, which the fishermen use to craft all kinds of unique items, such as canes, umbrella handles, and riding whip handles.
With a long, weary hoist the jaw is dragged on board, as if it were an anchor; and when the proper time comes—some few days after the other work—Queequeg, Daggoo, and Tashtego, being all accomplished dentists, are set to drawing teeth. With a keen cutting-spade, Queequeg lances the gums; then the jaw is lashed down to ringbolts, and a tackle being rigged from aloft, they drag out these teeth, as Michigan oxen drag stumps of old oaks out of wild wood lands. There are generally forty-two teeth in all; in old whales, much worn down, but undecayed; nor filled after our artificial fashion. The jaw is afterwards sawn into slabs, and piled away like joists for building houses.
With a long, exhausting pull, the jaw is hauled on board, almost like an anchor. After a few days, once other tasks are done, Queequeg, Daggoo, and Tashtego—all skilled at pulling teeth—get to work. Using a sharp cutting tool, Queequeg slices through the gums. Then the jaw is secured to ringbolts, and with a rigged pulley from above, they yank out the teeth, much like Michigan oxen hauling stumps of old oak trees from the wilderness. There are usually forty-two teeth in total; in older whales, they are worn down but still intact, without the fillings we use in human dentistry. Afterward, the jaw is cut into slabs and stacked neatly like lumber for building houses.
CHAPTER 75. The Right Whale’s Head—Contrasted View.
Crossing the deck, let us now have a good long look at the Right Whale’s head.
Crossing the deck, let's take a good, long look at the Right Whale's head.
As in general shape the noble Sperm Whale’s head may be compared to a Roman war-chariot (especially in front, where it is so broadly rounded); so, at a broad view, the Right Whale’s head bears a rather inelegant resemblance to a gigantic galliot-toed shoe. Two hundred years ago an old Dutch voyager likened its shape to that of a shoemaker’s last. And in this same last or shoe, that old woman of the nursery tale, with the swarming brood, might very comfortably be lodged, she and all her progeny.
The majestic Sperm Whale’s head, in overall shape, could be compared to a Roman war chariot (especially the front, with its wide, rounded form). Similarly, the Right Whale’s head, when viewed broadly, has a somewhat awkward resemblance to a massive, shoe with a rounded, upturned toe. About two hundred years ago, an old Dutch explorer compared its shape to a shoemaker’s last. And in that same last—or shoe—the old woman from the nursery rhyme, along with her many children, could easily find a cozy place to live.
But as you come nearer to this great head it begins to assume different aspects, according to your point of view. If you stand on its summit and look at these two F-shaped spoutholes, you would take the whole head for an enormous bass-viol, and these spiracles, the apertures in its sounding-board. Then, again, if you fix your eye upon this strange, crested, comb-like incrustation on the top of the mass—this green, barnacled thing, which the Greenlanders call the “crown,” and the Southern fishers the “bonnet” of the Right Whale; fixing your eyes solely on this, you would take the head for the trunk of some huge oak, with a bird’s nest in its crotch. At any rate, when you watch those live crabs that nestle here on this bonnet, such an idea will be almost sure to occur to you; unless, indeed, your fancy has been fixed by the technical term “crown” also bestowed upon it; in which case you will take great interest in thinking how this mighty monster is actually a diademed king of the sea, whose green crown has been put together for him in this marvellous manner. But if this whale be a king, he is a very sulky looking fellow to grace a diadem. Look at that hanging lower lip! what a huge sulk and pout is there! a sulk and pout, by carpenter’s measurement, about twenty feet long and five feet deep; a sulk and pout that will yield you some 500 gallons of oil and more.
As you get closer to this massive head, it starts to look different depending on your perspective. If you stand on top of it and look at the two F-shaped blowholes, you might think the entire head resembles a gigantic bass fiddle, with the blowholes as the openings in its sounding board. Then, if you focus on the strange, crested, comb-like crust on top of the head—covered in green barnacles—that the Greenlanders call the "crown" and Southern fishermen refer to as the "bonnet" of the Right Whale, it might instead remind you of the trunk of a colossal oak tree with a bird's nest wedged in its branches. In fact, once you see the live crabs crawling around on this "bonnet," it's almost impossible not to get that image in your mind—unless, of course, you're fixated on the label "crown," which could lead you to imagine this enormous creature as the crowned king of the sea, wearing a green diadem assembled in this amazing way. Still, if this whale is a king, he certainly looks like a moody one. Just check out that drooping lower lip! What an enormous sulk and pout it displays—a sulk and pout measuring about twenty feet long and five feet deep. That sulk and pout alone could get you around 500 gallons of oil, if not more.
A great pity, now, that this unfortunate whale should be hare-lipped. The fissure is about a foot across. Probably the mother during an important interval was sailing down the Peruvian coast, when earthquakes caused the beach to gape. Over this lip, as over a slippery threshold, we now slide into the mouth. Upon my word were I at Mackinaw, I should take this to be the inside of an Indian wigwam. Good Lord! is this the road that Jonah went? The roof is about twelve feet high, and runs to a pretty sharp angle, as if there were a regular ridge-pole there; while these ribbed, arched, hairy sides, present us with those wondrous, half vertical, scimetar-shaped slats of whalebone, say three hundred on a side, which depending from the upper part of the head or crown bone, form those Venetian blinds which have elsewhere been cursorily mentioned. The edges of these bones are fringed with hairy fibres, through which the Right Whale strains the water, and in whose intricacies he retains the small fish, when openmouthed he goes through the seas of brit in feeding time. In the central blinds of bone, as they stand in their natural order, there are certain curious marks, curves, hollows, and ridges, whereby some whalemen calculate the creature’s age, as the age of an oak by its circular rings. Though the certainty of this criterion is far from demonstrable, yet it has the savor of analogical probability. At any rate, if we yield to it, we must grant a far greater age to the Right Whale than at first glance will seem reasonable.
It’s really a shame that this poor whale has a harelip. The split is about a foot wide. Maybe the mother, at a crucial moment, was swimming along the Peruvian coast when an earthquake caused the beach to crack open. Over this split, like a slippery doorstep, we now slide into the whale’s mouth. Honestly, if I were in Mackinaw, I’d think this was the inside of a Native American wigwam. Good Lord! Is this the path Jonah took? The roof is about twelve feet high and comes to a sharp angle, almost as if it had a proper ridgepole; and these ribbed, arching, hairy walls reveal those amazing, almost vertical, scimitar-shaped plates of whalebone—about three hundred on each side. These dangle from the upper part of the head or skull and form those Venetian blinds I casually mentioned earlier. The edges of these plates are fringed with hairy fibers, through which the Right Whale filters water and traps small fish when it plows through swarms of brit during feeding time. In the middle bands of these bones, arranged in their natural order, there are peculiar marks, curves, hollows, and ridges, which some whalemen use to estimate the creature’s age, much like how you determine the age of an oak tree by its rings. Though this method isn’t entirely reliable, it seems analogically probable. Either way, if we go by it, we’d have to admit the Right Whale lives to a much older age than seems believable at first glance.
In old times, there seem to have prevailed the most curious fancies concerning these blinds. One voyager in Purchas calls them the wondrous “whiskers” inside of the whale’s mouth;* another, “hogs’ bristles”; a third old gentleman in Hackluyt uses the following elegant language: “There are about two hundred and fifty fins growing on each side of his upper chop, which arch over his tongue on each side of his mouth.”
In the past, people had some very peculiar ideas about these blinds. One traveler in Purchas referred to them as the astonishing “whiskers” inside the whale’s mouth; another called them “hogs’ bristles.” Yet another old gentleman in Hackluyt described them with this refined phrasing: “There are about two hundred and fifty fins growing on each side of his upper jaw, which curve over his tongue on each side of his mouth.”
*This reminds us that the Right Whale really has a sort of whisker, or rather a moustache, consisting of a few scattered white hairs on the upper part of the outer end of the lower jaw. Sometimes these tufts impart a rather brigandish expression to his otherwise solemn countenance.
This reminds us that the Right Whale actually has something like whiskers, or more like a mustache, made up of a few scattered white hairs on the upper part of the outer end of its lower jaw. Sometimes these tufts give it a slightly rogue-like look to its otherwise serious face.
As every one knows, these same “hogs’ bristles,” “fins,” “whiskers,” “blinds,” or whatever you please, furnish to the ladies their busks and other stiffening contrivances. But in this particular, the demand has long been on the decline. It was in Queen Anne’s time that the bone was in its glory, the farthingale being then all the fashion. And as those ancient dames moved about gaily, though in the jaws of the whale, as you may say; even so, in a shower, with the like thoughtlessness, do we nowadays fly under the same jaws for protection; the umbrella being a tent spread over the same bone.
As everyone knows, these same "hogs' bristles," "fins," "whiskers," "blinds," or whatever you want to call them, are used by women for their corsets and other stiffening devices. However, the demand for these has been decreasing for quite some time. Back in Queen Anne's era, whale bone was at its peak, with the farthingale being all the rage. And just as those old-time ladies moved gracefully, though figuratively in the jaws of the whale, we nowadays, with similar lack of concern, seek protection under those same jaws during a rainstorm—the umbrella being essentially a tent stretched over the same type of bone.
But now forget all about blinds and whiskers for a moment, and, standing in the Right Whale’s mouth, look around you afresh. Seeing all these colonnades of bone so methodically ranged about, would you not think you were inside of the great Haarlem organ, and gazing upon its thousand pipes? For a carpet to the organ we have a rug of the softest Turkey—the tongue, which is glued, as it were, to the floor of the mouth. It is very fat and tender, and apt to tear in pieces in hoisting it on deck. This particular tongue now before us; at a passing glance I should say it was a six-barreler; that is, it will yield you about that amount of oil.
But now, forget about blinds and whiskers for a second, and, standing in the Right Whale’s mouth, look around with fresh eyes. Seeing all these rows of bone so neatly arranged, wouldn’t you think you were inside the great Haarlem organ, staring at its thousand pipes? For the organ’s carpet, we’ve got a soft Turkey rug—the tongue, which is almost glued to the floor of the mouth. It’s very thick and tender and often tears apart when it’s hoisted onto the deck. This particular tongue in front of us; at a quick glance, I’d say it’s a six-barreler—meaning it will give you about that much oil.
Ere this, you must have plainly seen the truth of what I started with—that the Sperm Whale and the Right Whale have almost entirely different heads. To sum up, then: in the Right Whale’s there is no great well of sperm; no ivory teeth at all; no long, slender mandible of a lower jaw, like the Sperm Whale’s. Nor in the Sperm Whale are there any of those blinds of bone; no huge lower lip; and scarcely anything of a tongue. Again, the Right Whale has two external spout-holes, the Sperm Whale only one.
By now, you must have clearly seen the truth of what I began with—that the Sperm Whale and the Right Whale have completely different heads. To sum it up: the Right Whale doesn’t have a large reservoir of sperm, no ivory teeth, and no long, slender lower jaw like the Sperm Whale. On the other hand, the Sperm Whale doesn’t have those bony blinds, no massive lower lip, and almost no tongue. Also, the Right Whale has two external spout-holes, while the Sperm Whale only has one.
Look your last, now, on these venerable hooded heads, while they yet lie together; for one will soon sink, unrecorded, in the sea; the other will not be very long in following.
Take one last look at these aged, hooded heads while they still rest together; soon, one will disappear into the sea, unmarked, and the other won't be far behind.
Can you catch the expression of the Sperm Whale’s there? It is the same he died with, only some of the longer wrinkles in the forehead seem now faded away. I think his broad brow to be full of a prairie-like placidity, born of a speculative indifference as to death. But mark the other head’s expression. See that amazing lower lip, pressed by accident against the vessel’s side, so as firmly to embrace the jaw. Does not this whole head seem to speak of an enormous practical resolution in facing death? This Right Whale I take to have been a Stoic; the Sperm Whale, a Platonian, who might have taken up Spinoza in his latter years.
Can you see the expression on the Sperm Whale's face there? It's the same one he died with, except some of the deeper wrinkles on his forehead now seem to have smoothed out. I think his broad forehead radiates a calm, prairie-like serenity, born from a philosophical indifference to death. But take a look at the expression on the other head. Notice that remarkable lower lip, pressed accidentally against the side of the ship, gripping the jaw firmly. Doesn't the whole head seem to convey an immense practical determination in the face of death? I imagine this Right Whale was a Stoic; the Sperm Whale, more of a Platonist, someone who might have embraced Spinoza's philosophy in his later years.
CHAPTER 76. The Battering-Ram.
Ere quitting, for the nonce, the Sperm Whale’s head, I would have you, as a sensible physiologist, simply—particularly remark its front aspect, in all its compacted collectedness. I would have you investigate it now with the sole view of forming to yourself some unexaggerated, intelligent estimate of whatever battering-ram power may be lodged there. Here is a vital point; for you must either satisfactorily settle this matter with yourself, or for ever remain an infidel as to one of the most appalling, but not the less true events, perhaps anywhere to be found in all recorded history.
Before leaving the Sperm Whale's head for a moment, I want you, as a thoughtful observer, to carefully focus on its front view in all its solid and compact form. Take a closer look now with the specific goal of forming a realistic, rational understanding of the immense battering-ram strength contained within it. This is crucial because you must either confidently resolve this question for yourself or remain forever skeptical about one of the most astonishing—and yet completely true—events ever documented in history.
You observe that in the ordinary swimming position of the Sperm Whale, the front of his head presents an almost wholly vertical plane to the water; you observe that the lower part of that front slopes considerably backwards, so as to furnish more of a retreat for the long socket which receives the boom-like lower jaw; you observe that the mouth is entirely under the head, much in the same way, indeed, as though your own mouth were entirely under your chin. Moreover you observe that the whale has no external nose; and that what nose he has—his spout hole—is on the top of his head; you observe that his eyes and ears are at the sides of his head, nearly one third of his entire length from the front. Wherefore, you must now have perceived that the front of the Sperm Whale’s head is a dead, blind wall, without a single organ or tender prominence of any sort whatsoever. Furthermore, you are now to consider that only in the extreme, lower, backward sloping part of the front of the head, is there the slightest vestige of bone; and not till you get near twenty feet from the forehead do you come to the full cranial development. So that this whole enormous boneless mass is as one wad. Finally, though, as will soon be revealed, its contents partly comprise the most delicate oil; yet, you are now to be apprised of the nature of the substance which so impregnably invests all that apparent effeminacy. In some previous place I have described to you how the blubber wraps the body of the whale, as the rind wraps an orange. Just so with the head; but with this difference: about the head this envelope, though not so thick, is of a boneless toughness, inestimable by any man who has not handled it. The severest pointed harpoon, the sharpest lance darted by the strongest human arm, impotently rebounds from it. It is as though the forehead of the Sperm Whale were paved with horses’ hoofs. I do not think that any sensation lurks in it.
In the usual swimming position of the sperm whale, you’ll notice that the front of its head forms an almost completely vertical surface against the water. The lower section of this front slopes significantly backward, creating more space for the long socket that holds its huge, boom-like lower jaw. You’ll also notice that the whale’s mouth is located entirely underneath its head—almost as if your own mouth were positioned under your chin. Additionally, the whale has no external nose; the nose it does have, its blowhole, is located on top of its head. Its eyes and ears sit on the sides of its head, about a third of the way back from the front. From these observations, it becomes clear that the front of the sperm whale’s head is like a solid, blind wall, completely devoid of any organs or delicate features of any kind. Furthermore, only the lower, backward-sloping part of the front contains even the slightest bit of bone, and not until about twenty feet back from the forehead does the full cranial structure appear. This means that the front of the head is one massive section of boneless flesh. While the interior does contain some of the most refined oil, you should know about the material that encases it all. I’ve previously explained how the blubber wraps around the whale’s body like the peel of an orange. It’s the same with the head, except here, the covering is thinner but incredibly tough—so tough that no human can fully grasp its strength without handling it firsthand. Even the sharpest harpoon or the hardest-thrown lance simply bounces off it. It’s as if the sperm whale’s forehead is made of horses’ hooves. I don’t believe it has any sensation at all in that area.
Bethink yourself also of another thing. When two large, loaded Indiamen chance to crowd and crush towards each other in the docks, what do the sailors do? They do not suspend between them, at the point of coming contact, any merely hard substance, like iron or wood. No, they hold there a large, round wad of tow and cork, enveloped in the thickest and toughest of ox-hide. That bravely and uninjured takes the jam which would have snapped all their oaken handspikes and iron crow-bars. By itself this sufficiently illustrates the obvious fact I drive at. But supplementary to this, it has hypothetically occurred to me, that as ordinary fish possess what is called a swimming bladder in them, capable, at will, of distension or contraction; and as the Sperm Whale, as far as I know, has no such provision in him; considering, too, the otherwise inexplicable manner in which he now depresses his head altogether beneath the surface, and anon swims with it high elevated out of the water; considering the unobstructed elasticity of its envelope; considering the unique interior of his head; it has hypothetically occurred to me, I say, that those mystical lung-celled honeycombs there may possibly have some hitherto unknown and unsuspected connexion with the outer air, so as to be susceptible to atmospheric distension and contraction. If this be so, fancy the irresistibleness of that might, to which the most impalpable and destructive of all elements contributes.
Think about something else. When two big, loaded ships from India happen to press and crush against each other in the docks, what do the sailors do? They don’t stick a hard material, like iron or wood, between them at the point of contact. No, they position a large, round wad of tow and cork, wrapped in the thickest and toughest ox-hide. That cushion takes the pressure bravely and without damage, which would have broken all their wooden poles and iron crowbars. This alone clearly illustrates the point I’m making. But beyond that, I’ve also wondered if, because regular fish have what’s called a swim bladder that can expand or contract at will, while the Sperm Whale, as far as I know, doesn’t have such a feature, and considering how the whale can lower its head completely underwater and then later raise it far above the surface; considering the flexible structure of its outer skin; and considering the unusual interior of its head; I’ve imagined that those mysterious, lung-like honeycomb structures inside might have some unknown and unexpected connection to the outside air, allowing them to expand and contract with atmospheric pressure. If that’s the case, imagine how unstoppable that power would be, with the most intangible and destructive of all forces contributing to it.
Now, mark. Unerringly impelling this dead, impregnable, uninjurable wall, and this most buoyant thing within; there swims behind it all a mass of tremendous life, only to be adequately estimated as piled wood is—by the cord; and all obedient to one volition, as the smallest insect. So that when I shall hereafter detail to you all the specialities and concentrations of potency everywhere lurking in this expansive monster; when I shall show you some of his more inconsiderable braining feats; I trust you will have renounced all ignorant incredulity, and be ready to abide by this; that though the Sperm Whale stove a passage through the Isthmus of Darien, and mixed the Atlantic with the Pacific, you would not elevate one hair of your eye-brow. For unless you own the whale, you are but a provincial and sentimentalist in Truth. But clear Truth is a thing for salamander giants only to encounter; how small the chances for the provincials then? What befell the weakling youth lifting the dread goddess’s veil at Lais?
Now, listen closely. Powerfully driving this massive, unbreakable, and indestructible wall, along with the most buoyant being inside it, there moves behind it an immense force of life that can only be properly measured like stacked wood—by the cord; and all of it follows a single will as precisely as the tiniest insect does. So, when I later describe all the unique features and concentrated power hidden within this vast creature; when I show you some of his seemingly minor but incredible actions, I hope you’ll let go of any ignorant disbelief and be prepared to accept this: that even if the Sperm Whale smashed through the Isthmus of Darien, mixing the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, you wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow. Because if you can’t grasp the whale for what it truly is, you’re just a narrow-minded sentimentalist when it comes to Truth. But pure Truth is something only the bravest and strongest can face; what hope is there, then, for the narrow-minded? Remember what happened to the weak young man who dared to lift the veil of the fearsome goddess at Lais?
CHAPTER 77. The Great Heidelburgh Tun.
Now comes the Baling of the Case. But to comprehend it aright, you must know something of the curious internal structure of the thing operated upon.
Now comes the wrapping up of the case. But to understand it properly, you need to know something about the strange internal structure of the object being dealt with.
Regarding the Sperm Whale’s head as a solid oblong, you may, on an inclined plane, sideways divide it into two quoins,* whereof the lower is the bony structure, forming the cranium and jaws, and the upper an unctuous mass wholly free from bones; its broad forward end forming the expanded vertical apparent forehead of the whale. At the middle of the forehead horizontally subdivide this upper quoin, and then you have two almost equal parts, which before were naturally divided by an internal wall of a thick tendinous substance.
Looking at the Sperm Whale's head as a solid rectangular shape, you can imagine splitting it sideways on a slanted plane into two sections: the lower part is the bony structure that forms the skull and jaws, while the upper part is a fatty mass with no bones. The front of this upper part creates the wide, vertical area that looks like the whale’s forehead. If you then horizontally divide this upper section in the middle of the forehead, you’ll have two almost equal halves, which were originally separated by a thick, tendon-like internal wall.
*Quoin is not a Euclidean term. It belongs to the pure nautical mathematics. I know not that it has been defined before. A quoin is a solid which differs from a wedge in having its sharp end formed by the steep inclination of one side, instead of the mutual tapering of both sides.
*Quoin isn't a term from Euclidean geometry. It's part of pure nautical mathematics. As far as I know, it hasn't been defined until now. A quoin is a solid shape that differs from a wedge because its sharp end is created by the steep slope of one side, rather than both sides narrowing together.
The lower subdivided part, called the junk, is one immense honeycomb of oil, formed by the crossing and recrossing, into ten thousand infiltrated cells, of tough elastic white fibres throughout its whole extent. The upper part, known as the Case, may be regarded as the great Heidelburgh Tun of the Sperm Whale. And as that famous great tierce is mystically carved in front, so the whale’s vast plaited forehead forms innumerable strange devices for the emblematical adornment of his wondrous tun. Moreover, as that of Heidelburgh was always replenished with the most excellent of the wines of the Rhenish valleys, so the tun of the whale contains by far the most precious of all his oily vintages; namely, the highly-prized spermaceti, in its absolutely pure, limpid, and odoriferous state. Nor is this precious substance found unalloyed in any other part of the creature. Though in life it remains perfectly fluid, yet, upon exposure to the air, after death, it soon begins to concrete; sending forth beautiful crystalline shoots, as when the first thin delicate ice is just forming in water. A large whale’s case generally yields about five hundred gallons of sperm, though from unavoidable circumstances, considerable of it is spilled, leaks, and dribbles away, or is otherwise irrevocably lost in the ticklish business of securing what you can.
The lower subdivided part, called the junk, is essentially one huge honeycomb of oil, created by the intricate crisscrossing of tough, elastic white fibers throughout its entirety. The upper part, known as the Case, can be thought of as the Sperm Whale's equivalent of the great Heidelburg Tun. Just as that famous large cask is artistically carved on its front, the whale’s massive, folded forehead features countless strange patterns, seemingly decorative, to beautify its extraordinary "cask." Furthermore, similar to how the Heidelburg Tun was always filled with the finest wines from the Rhine valleys, the whale's tun holds the most valuable of all its oil reserves: the highly prized spermaceti, in its pure, clear, and fragrant form. This precious substance isn’t found in such an untainted state in any other part of the whale. While liquid during the whale's lifetime, it quickly begins to solidify when exposed to air after death, forming beautiful crystalline formations, much like the delicate first layer of ice forming on water. A large whale's case typically holds about five hundred gallons of sperm oil, though due to unavoidable issues, a considerable amount spills, leaks, or is otherwise irretrievably lost in the tricky process of collecting what can be salvaged.
I know not with what fine and costly material the Heidelburgh Tun was coated within, but in superlative richness that coating could not possibly have compared with the silken pearl-coloured membrane, like the lining of a fine pelisse, forming the inner surface of the Sperm Whale’s case.
I don’t know what fancy and expensive material the Heidelburgh Tun was lined with on the inside, but no matter how rich it was, it couldn’t possibly compare to the silky, pearl-colored membrane, like the lining of a luxurious coat, that makes up the inner surface of the Sperm Whale’s case.
It will have been seen that the Heidelburgh Tun of the Sperm Whale embraces the entire length of the entire top of the head; and since—as has been elsewhere set forth—the head embraces one third of the whole length of the creature, then setting that length down at eighty feet for a good sized whale, you have more than twenty-six feet for the depth of the tun, when it is lengthwise hoisted up and down against a ship’s side.
It’s been shown that the Heidelburgh Tun of the Sperm Whale covers the entire length of the top of its head. Since—as mentioned elsewhere—the head makes up a third of the whale’s total length, and estimating that length to be about eighty feet for a large whale, the tun would measure over twenty-six feet deep when it’s hoisted vertically alongside a ship.
As in decapitating the whale, the operator’s instrument is brought close to the spot where an entrance is subsequently forced into the spermaceti magazine; he has, therefore, to be uncommonly heedful, lest a careless, untimely stroke should invade the sanctuary and wastingly let out its invaluable contents. It is this decapitated end of the head, also, which is at last elevated out of the water, and retained in that position by the enormous cutting tackles, whose hempen combinations, on one side, make quite a wilderness of ropes in that quarter.
When cutting off the whale's head, the tool is brought near the spot where an opening is later made into the spermaceti reservoir. The operator has to be extremely careful since a careless or poorly timed strike could damage the area and cause the precious contents to spill out and be wasted. Eventually, this severed end of the head is lifted out of the water and held in place by massive cutting gear, with the thick ropes on one side creating a tangled mess of lines in that area.
Thus much being said, attend now, I pray you, to that marvellous and—in this particular instance—almost fatal operation whereby the Sperm Whale’s great Heidelburgh Tun is tapped.
Having said that, listen closely now, please, to the astonishing and—in this particular case—nearly disastrous process by which the Sperm Whale’s massive Heidelburgh Tun is tapped.
CHAPTER 78. Cistern and Buckets.
Nimble as a cat, Tashtego mounts aloft; and without altering his erect posture, runs straight out upon the overhanging mainyard-arm, to the part where it exactly projects over the hoisted Tun. He has carried with him a light tackle called a whip, consisting of only two parts, travelling through a single-sheaved block. Securing this block, so that it hangs down from the yard-arm, he swings one end of the rope, till it is caught and firmly held by a hand on deck. Then, hand-over-hand, down the other part, the Indian drops through the air, till dexterously he lands on the summit of the head. There—still high elevated above the rest of the company, to whom he vivaciously cries—he seems some Turkish Muezzin calling the good people to prayers from the top of a tower. A short-handled sharp spade being sent up to him, he diligently searches for the proper place to begin breaking into the Tun. In this business he proceeds very heedfully, like a treasure-hunter in some old house, sounding the walls to find where the gold is masoned in. By the time this cautious search is over, a stout iron-bound bucket, precisely like a well-bucket, has been attached to one end of the whip; while the other end, being stretched across the deck, is there held by two or three alert hands. These last now hoist the bucket within grasp of the Indian, to whom another person has reached up a very long pole. Inserting this pole into the bucket, Tashtego downward guides the bucket into the Tun, till it entirely disappears; then giving the word to the seamen at the whip, up comes the bucket again, all bubbling like a dairy-maid’s pail of new milk. Carefully lowered from its height, the full-freighted vessel is caught by an appointed hand, and quickly emptied into a large tub. Then remounting aloft, it again goes through the same round until the deep cistern will yield no more. Towards the end, Tashtego has to ram his long pole harder and harder, and deeper and deeper into the Tun, until some twenty feet of the pole have gone down.
Quick and agile like a cat, Tashtego climbs up and, without changing his upright posture, walks straight out onto the overhanging mainyard-arm, to the spot directly above the hoisted barrel. He carries with him a light pulley system called a whip, made of just two parts running through a single small block. He secures this block so it dangles from the yard-arm, then swings one end of the rope down until someone on the deck catches and holds it firmly. Hand-over-hand, Tashtego slides down the other part of the rope through midair until he skillfully lands on top of the barrel. There—still standing high above everyone else, and shouting enthusiastically to the crew below—he looks like a Turkish Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from the top of a tower. A short, sharp spade is sent up to him, and he carefully searches for the right spot to start breaking into the barrel. He works cautiously, like a treasure hunter tapping old walls to find where gold might be hidden. By the time his careful search is done, a sturdy iron-bound bucket, much like a well bucket, is tied to one end of the whip, while the other end is stretched across the deck and held by two or three alert crew members. They hoist the bucket up until Tashtego can grab it, while another crewman hands him a very long pole. Tashtego fits the pole into the bucket and then guides it down into the barrel until the bucket disappears completely. When he gives the signal, the crew at the whip pulls the bucket back up, bubbling over like a milkmaid’s pail of fresh milk. Carefully lowered back down, the loaded bucket is caught by someone appointed to empty it into a large tub. Then, Tashtego climbs back up, starting the process all over again, repeating the cycle until the deep barrel is emptied. Towards the end, he has to push the long pole harder and farther down, going deeper into the barrel until nearly twenty feet of the pole are submerged.
Now, the people of the Pequod had been baling some time in this way; several tubs had been filled with the fragrant sperm; when all at once a queer accident happened. Whether it was that Tashtego, that wild Indian, was so heedless and reckless as to let go for a moment his one-handed hold on the great cabled tackles suspending the head; or whether the place where he stood was so treacherous and oozy; or whether the Evil One himself would have it to fall out so, without stating his particular reasons; how it was exactly, there is no telling now; but, on a sudden, as the eightieth or ninetieth bucket came suckingly up—my God! poor Tashtego—like the twin reciprocating bucket in a veritable well, dropped head-foremost down into this great Tun of Heidelburgh, and with a horrible oily gurgling, went clean out of sight!
The crew of the Pequod had been scooping up sperm oil this way for a while; several tubs were already filled with the fragrant stuff when, all of a sudden, a strange accident took place. Maybe Tashtego, that wild Native American, was so careless and reckless that he momentarily let go of his one-handed grip on the thick tackle suspending the whale's head. Or maybe the spot where he was standing was too slippery and unstable. Or perhaps some devilish force decided it should happen for reasons unknown. Whatever caused it, nobody can say for sure now. But suddenly, as the 80th or 90th bucket got pulled up with a sucking sound—oh my God! Poor Tashtego—like the other bucket in an actual old-fashioned well, he plunged headfirst into the massive Heidelberg Tun of whale oil, and with a horrible oily gurgle, disappeared completely!
“Man overboard!” cried Daggoo, who amid the general consternation first came to his senses. “Swing the bucket this way!” and putting one foot into it, so as the better to secure his slippery hand-hold on the whip itself, the hoisters ran him high up to the top of the head, almost before Tashtego could have reached its interior bottom. Meantime, there was a terrible tumult. Looking over the side, they saw the before lifeless head throbbing and heaving just below the surface of the sea, as if that moment seized with some momentous idea; whereas it was only the poor Indian unconsciously revealing by those struggles the perilous depth to which he had sunk.
"Man overboard!" shouted Daggoo, who was the first to snap out of the general panic. "Swing the bucket this way!" He planted one foot into it to get a better grip on the slippery rope, and the crew hoisted him quickly to the top of the whale's head, almost before Tashtego could have reached the bottom of its interior. Meanwhile, chaos erupted. Looking over the side, they saw the previously lifeless head pulsing and lifting just beneath the water's surface, as though it had suddenly been hit with some monumental idea. In reality, it was only the poor Indian, unconsciously revealing through his struggles the dangerous depth to which he had sunk.
At this instant, while Daggoo, on the summit of the head, was clearing the whip—which had somehow got foul of the great cutting tackles—a sharp cracking noise was heard; and to the unspeakable horror of all, one of the two enormous hooks suspending the head tore out, and with a vast vibration the enormous mass sideways swung, till the drunk ship reeled and shook as if smitten by an iceberg. The one remaining hook, upon which the entire strain now depended, seemed every instant to be on the point of giving way; an event still more likely from the violent motions of the head.
At that moment, while Daggoo was on top of the head untangling the whip, which had somehow gotten caught in the heavy cutting tackles, a sharp cracking sound echoed. To everyone's utter horror, one of the massive hooks holding up the head ripped loose, and with a huge shudder, the giant mass swung sideways, making the unsteady ship lurch and shake as if it had been hit by an iceberg. The entire weight now rested on the one remaining hook, which looked like it could snap at any second, especially because of the violent swinging of the head.
“Come down, come down!” yelled the seamen to Daggoo, but with one hand holding on to the heavy tackles, so that if the head should drop, he would still remain suspended; the negro having cleared the foul line, rammed down the bucket into the now collapsed well, meaning that the buried harpooneer should grasp it, and so be hoisted out.
"Come down, come down!" shouted the sailors to Daggoo. But with one hand gripping the heavy ropes to stay hanging if the head fell, Daggoo, after fixing the tangled line, shoved the bucket deep into the now-collapsed well, intending for the trapped harpooneer to grab it and be pulled out.
“In heaven’s name, man,” cried Stubb, “are you ramming home a cartridge there?—Avast! How will that help him; jamming that iron-bound bucket on top of his head? Avast, will ye!”
"In the name of heaven, man," shouted Stubb, "are you loading a gun there?—Stop! How is that going to help him, shoving that iron-bound bucket on his head? Stop, will you!"
“Stand clear of the tackle!” cried a voice like the bursting of a rocket.
"Get out of the way of the tackle!" shouted a voice, loud and explosive like a rocket going off.
Almost in the same instant, with a thunder-boom, the enormous mass dropped into the sea, like Niagara’s Table-Rock into the whirlpool; the suddenly relieved hull rolled away from it, to far down her glittering copper; and all caught their breath, as half swinging—now over the sailors’ heads, and now over the water—Daggoo, through a thick mist of spray, was dimly beheld clinging to the pendulous tackles, while poor, buried-alive Tashtego was sinking utterly down to the bottom of the sea! But hardly had the blinding vapor cleared away, when a naked figure with a boarding-sword in his hand, was for one swift moment seen hovering over the bulwarks. The next, a loud splash announced that my brave Queequeg had dived to the rescue. One packed rush was made to the side, and every eye counted every ripple, as moment followed moment, and no sign of either the sinker or the diver could be seen. Some hands now jumped into a boat alongside, and pushed a little off from the ship.
Almost instantly, with a deafening crash, the massive chunk plunged into the sea, like Niagara’s Table Rock collapsing into the whirlpool. The ship, suddenly freed from the weight, lurched away, exposing more of its shining copper hull, and everyone held their breath. Swinging half in the air—sometimes above the sailors’ heads, sometimes above the water—Daggoo could just barely be seen through the thick mist of spray, clinging to the dangling rigging. Meanwhile, poor Tashtego, trapped as if buried alive, was sinking straight to the ocean floor! But before the blinding mist could completely clear, a naked figure holding a boarding sword appeared for just a brief moment, perched over the ship's railing. In the next instant, a loud splash announced that the brave Queequeg had dived in to save him. Everyone rushed to the side of the ship, their eyes glued to the water, counting every ripple as the moments passed with no sign of either the sinking Tashtego or the diving Queequeg. A few of the crew jumped into a nearby boat and pushed away from the ship to assist in the rescue.
“Ha! ha!” cried Daggoo, all at once, from his now quiet, swinging perch overhead; and looking further off from the side, we saw an arm thrust upright from the blue waves; a sight strange to see, as an arm thrust forth from the grass over a grave.
"Ha! Ha!" shouted Daggoo suddenly from his now calm, swaying perch overhead. Looking farther out from the side, we saw an arm sticking straight up from the blue waves—a strange sight, like an arm reaching out from the grass over a grave.
“Both! both!—it is both!”—cried Daggoo again with a joyful shout; and soon after, Queequeg was seen boldly striking out with one hand, and with the other clutching the long hair of the Indian. Drawn into the waiting boat, they were quickly brought to the deck; but Tashtego was long in coming to, and Queequeg did not look very brisk.
"Both! Both! It's both!" shouted Daggoo excitedly. Soon after, Queequeg was spotted swimming boldly with one hand while gripping the Indian's long hair with the other. Pulled into the waiting boat, they were swiftly brought back to the deck. However, Tashtego took a long time to regain consciousness, and Queequeg didn’t look very lively.
Now, how had this noble rescue been accomplished? Why, diving after the slowly descending head, Queequeg with his keen sword had made side lunges near its bottom, so as to scuttle a large hole there; then dropping his sword, had thrust his long arm far inwards and upwards, and so hauled out poor Tash by the head. He averred, that upon first thrusting in for him, a leg was presented; but well knowing that that was not as it ought to be, and might occasion great trouble;—he had thrust back the leg, and by a dexterous heave and toss, had wrought a somerset upon the Indian; so that with the next trial, he came forth in the good old way—head foremost. As for the great head itself, that was doing as well as could be expected.
So, how was this heroic rescue pulled off? Well, Queequeg had dived after the slowly sinking head and used his sharp sword to make sideways cuts near the bottom, carving out a big hole. Then, dropping his sword, he reached his long arm deep inside and upward, pulling poor Tash out by his head. He claimed that when he first reached in, he grabbed a leg, but knowing that wasn't right and could cause trouble, he pushed the leg back in. With a skillful lift and twist, he managed to flip Tash around, so on the next attempt, Tash emerged properly—headfirst. As for the big head itself, it was doing about as well as could be expected.
And thus, through the courage and great skill in obstetrics of Queequeg, the deliverance, or rather, delivery of Tashtego, was successfully accomplished, in the teeth, too, of the most untoward and apparently hopeless impediments; which is a lesson by no means to be forgotten. Midwifery should be taught in the same course with fencing and boxing, riding and rowing.
And so, thanks to Queequeg's bravery and impressive skill in delivering babies, Tashtego's rescue—or rather, his delivery—was successfully achieved, despite the most unfavorable and seemingly impossible obstacles. This is a lesson that should never be forgotten. Midwifery should be taught alongside fencing, boxing, riding, and rowing.
I know that this queer adventure of the Gay-Header’s will be sure to seem incredible to some landsmen, though they themselves may have either seen or heard of some one’s falling into a cistern ashore; an accident which not seldom happens, and with much less reason too than the Indian’s, considering the exceeding slipperiness of the curb of the Sperm Whale’s well.
I know this strange adventure of the Gay-Header’s will probably seem unbelievable to some people on land, even though they might have seen or heard of someone falling into a cistern onshore—an accident that happens fairly often and with much less justification than the Indian’s, given how incredibly slippery the edge of the Sperm Whale’s well is.
But, peradventure, it may be sagaciously urged, how is this? We thought the tissued, infiltrated head of the Sperm Whale, was the lightest and most corky part about him; and yet thou makest it sink in an element of a far greater specific gravity than itself. We have thee there. Not at all, but I have ye; for at the time poor Tash fell in, the case had been nearly emptied of its lighter contents, leaving little but the dense tendinous wall of the well—a double welded, hammered substance, as I have before said, much heavier than the sea water, and a lump of which sinks in it like lead almost. But the tendency to rapid sinking in this substance was in the present instance materially counteracted by the other parts of the head remaining undetached from it, so that it sank very slowly and deliberately indeed, affording Queequeg a fair chance for performing his agile obstetrics on the run, as you may say. Yes, it was a running delivery, so it was.
But maybe you'll cleverly ask, how can this be? We thought the porous, infiltrated head of the Sperm Whale was the lightest and most buoyant part of it, and yet you claim it sank in water that’s much denser than itself. Gotcha, right? Not at all—I've got *you*. When poor Tash fell in, the case had already been almost completely emptied of its lighter contents, leaving mostly the dense, tendinous wall of the head—a tough, compressed, hammered substance, as I’ve mentioned before, that’s much heavier than seawater. A chunk of it sinks in the ocean almost like lead. However, in this case, the tendency of that material to sink quickly was partially offset by other parts of the head still being attached to it, so it sank very slowly and steadily, giving Queequeg plenty of time to perform his quick and skillful rescue, or as you might say, a kind of impromptu “on-the-move” delivery. Yes, it was a moving delivery—literally.
Now, had Tashtego perished in that head, it had been a very precious perishing; smothered in the very whitest and daintiest of fragrant spermaceti; coffined, hearsed, and tombed in the secret inner chamber and sanctum sanctorum of the whale. Only one sweeter end can readily be recalled—the delicious death of an Ohio honey-hunter, who seeking honey in the crotch of a hollow tree, found such exceeding store of it, that leaning too far over, it sucked him in, so that he died embalmed. How many, think ye, have likewise fallen into Plato’s honey head, and sweetly perished there?
If Tashtego had died inside that head, it would have been a truly remarkable way to go—smothered in the purest, most fragrant spermaceti; laid to rest in the sacred innermost chamber, the very holy of holies, of the whale. There’s only one death more exquisite that comes to mind—the sweet demise of an Ohio honey-hunter who, searching for honey in the hollow of a tree, found such an incredible stash that he leaned too far in and got swallowed up, dying completely preserved in honey. How many, do you think, have similarly fallen into Plato’s “honeyed” ideas and blissfully met their end there?
CHAPTER 79. The Prairie.
To scan the lines of his face, or feel the bumps on the head of this Leviathan; this is a thing which no Physiognomist or Phrenologist has as yet undertaken. Such an enterprise would seem almost as hopeful as for Lavater to have scrutinized the wrinkles on the Rock of Gibraltar, or for Gall to have mounted a ladder and manipulated the Dome of the Pantheon. Still, in that famous work of his, Lavater not only treats of the various faces of men, but also attentively studies the faces of horses, birds, serpents, and fish; and dwells in detail upon the modifications of expression discernible therein. Nor have Gall and his disciple Spurzheim failed to throw out some hints touching the phrenological characteristics of other beings than man. Therefore, though I am but ill qualified for a pioneer, in the application of these two semi-sciences to the whale, I will do my endeavor. I try all things; I achieve what I can.
To examine the features of his face or feel the contours of the head of this Leviathan—no Physiognomist or Phrenologist has attempted such a task yet. Such an effort would seem about as promising as Lavater analyzing the cracks on the Rock of Gibraltar or Gall climbing a ladder to examine the curves of the Pantheon’s dome. Still, in his renowned work, Lavater not only discusses the different faces of men but also carefully studies the faces of horses, birds, snakes, and fish, going into detail about the variations in expression he observes. Similarly, Gall and his follower Spurzheim have hinted at the phrenological traits of beings other than humans. So, while I might not be the best-suited trailblazer for applying these two partial sciences to the whale, I will do my best. I attempt everything; I accomplish what I can.
Physiognomically regarded, the Sperm Whale is an anomalous creature. He has no proper nose. And since the nose is the central and most conspicuous of the features; and since it perhaps most modifies and finally controls their combined expression; hence it would seem that its entire absence, as an external appendage, must very largely affect the countenance of the whale. For as in landscape gardening, a spire, cupola, monument, or tower of some sort, is deemed almost indispensable to the completion of the scene; so no face can be physiognomically in keeping without the elevated open-work belfry of the nose. Dash the nose from Phidias’s marble Jove, and what a sorry remainder! Nevertheless, Leviathan is of so mighty a magnitude, all his proportions are so stately, that the same deficiency which in the sculptured Jove were hideous, in him is no blemish at all. Nay, it is an added grandeur. A nose to the whale would have been impertinent. As on your physiognomical voyage you sail round his vast head in your jolly-boat, your noble conceptions of him are never insulted by the reflection that he has a nose to be pulled. A pestilent conceit, which so often will insist upon obtruding even when beholding the mightiest royal beadle on his throne.
From a facial perspective, the Sperm Whale is quite an unusual creature. He doesn’t have a real nose. And since the nose is the most central and noticeable feature of a face, and since it arguably has the most influence on and ultimately defines a face’s overall expression, its complete absence as an external feature must significantly affect the whale’s appearance. Just as a spire, dome, monument, or tower is considered essential to the design of a landscape, a face seems incomplete without the elevated centerpiece of a nose. Break the nose off Phidias’s marble figure of Zeus, and what a pitiful result remains! However, the whale is so massive and majestic, his proportions so grand, that what would be grotesque in the sculpture of Zeus is not a flaw in the whale at all. In fact, it adds to his majesty. A nose on a whale would be out of place. As you row around his enormous head in your small boat, your awe of him is never diminished by the thought of him having a nose that could be yanked. It’s a pesky idea—a mental intrusion—that tends to creep in even when observing the most powerful figures sitting regally on their thrones.
In some particulars, perhaps the most imposing physiognomical view to be had of the Sperm Whale, is that of the full front of his head. This aspect is sublime.
In some ways, perhaps the most striking view of the Sperm Whale's appearance is the full-frontal view of its head. This perspective is awe-inspiring.
In thought, a fine human brow is like the East when troubled with the morning. In the repose of the pasture, the curled brow of the bull has a touch of the grand in it. Pushing heavy cannon up mountain defiles, the elephant’s brow is majestic. Human or animal, the mystical brow is as that great golden seal affixed by the German emperors to their decrees. It signifies—“God: done this day by my hand.” But in most creatures, nay in man himself, very often the brow is but a mere strip of alpine land lying along the snow line. Few are the foreheads which like Shakespeare’s or Melancthon’s rise so high, and descend so low, that the eyes themselves seem clear, eternal, tideless mountain lakes; and all above them in the forehead’s wrinkles, you seem to track the antlered thoughts descending there to drink, as the Highland hunters track the snow prints of the deer. But in the great Sperm Whale, this high and mighty god-like dignity inherent in the brow is so immensely amplified, that gazing on it, in that full front view, you feel the Deity and the dread powers more forcibly than in beholding any other object in living nature. For you see no one point precisely; not one distinct feature is revealed; no nose, eyes, ears, or mouth; no face; he has none, proper; nothing but that one broad firmament of a forehead, pleated with riddles; dumbly lowering with the doom of boats, and ships, and men. Nor, in profile, does this wondrous brow diminish; though that way viewed its grandeur does not domineer upon you so. In profile, you plainly perceive that horizontal, semi-crescentic depression in the forehead’s middle, which, in man, is Lavater’s mark of genius.
When you think about it, a noble human forehead is like the eastern sky at dawn, full of meaning yet uneasy. In the quiet of a pasture, the arched brow of a bull has a certain grand quality. When elephants haul heavy cannons through narrow mountain passes, their foreheads look majestic. Whether human or animal, the symbolic brow is like the golden seal that German emperors used on their decrees, signifying: “By the grace of God, achieved by my hand today.” But for most beings—humans included—the brow is often just a narrow strip of rugged land along the snow cap of the mind. Rare are the foreheads, like those of Shakespeare or Melancthon, that rise so high and stretch so low that the eyes seem like clear, timeless mountain lakes. Above them, the forehead’s creases resemble trails where majestic thoughts descend to drink, much like Highland hunters follow deer tracks in the snow. But in the immense Sperm Whale, this grand, almost divine dignity in the brow is amplified beyond imagination. Looking straight at it, in full view, you feel an overwhelming sense of divine presence and a deep awe that surpasses anything else in the natural world. You can’t pinpoint a single feature—there are no visible eyes, nose, ears, or mouth; no recognizable face at all. Instead, there is only a vast, firm forehead, lined with mysteries, ominously shadowing the fates of boats, ships, and the men aboard them. Even in profile, this extraordinary brow loses none of its impact; though its grandeur feels less imposing, it still captivates. From the side, you can clearly see the horizontal, crescent-shaped depression in the middle of the forehead, which, in humans, Lavater identified as the hallmark of genius.
But how? Genius in the Sperm Whale? Has the Sperm Whale ever written a book, spoken a speech? No, his great genius is declared in his doing nothing particular to prove it. It is moreover declared in his pyramidical silence. And this reminds me that had the great Sperm Whale been known to the young Orient World, he would have been deified by their child-magian thoughts. They deified the crocodile of the Nile, because the crocodile is tongueless; and the Sperm Whale has no tongue, or at least it is so exceedingly small, as to be incapable of protrusion. If hereafter any highly cultured, poetical nation shall lure back to their birth-right, the merry May-day gods of old; and livingly enthrone them again in the now egotistical sky; in the now unhaunted hill; then be sure, exalted to Jove’s high seat, the great Sperm Whale shall lord it.
But how? Genius in the Sperm Whale? Has the Sperm Whale ever written a book or given a speech? No, its great genius is shown by doing nothing specific to prove it. It’s also shown in its towering silence. This makes me think that if the great Sperm Whale had been known to the ancient Eastern world, they would have worshipped it with their imaginative, mystical beliefs. They worshipped the crocodile of the Nile because it’s tongueless; and the Sperm Whale has no tongue—or at least it’s so small that it can’t stick it out. If, in the future, any highly cultured, poetic nation decides to reclaim their origins and bring back the playful gods of old May Days, and if they again give life to the now self-centered sky and the now barren hills, then you can bet that the great Sperm Whale will be exalted to Jove’s throne, ruling over all.
Champollion deciphered the wrinkled granite hieroglyphics. But there is no Champollion to decipher the Egypt of every man’s and every being’s face. Physiognomy, like every other human science, is but a passing fable. If then, Sir William Jones, who read in thirty languages, could not read the simplest peasant’s face in its profounder and more subtle meanings, how may unlettered Ishmael hope to read the awful Chaldee of the Sperm Whale’s brow? I but put that brow before you. Read it if you can.
Champollion unraveled the ancient hieroglyphics carved into wrinkled granite. But there’s no Champollion to decode the deeper meanings written on the face of every person and every creature. Physiognomy, like any other human science, is just a temporary illusion. So, if Sir William Jones, who mastered thirty languages, couldn’t interpret the deeper and more subtle expressions of a simple peasant’s face, how can uneducated Ishmael hope to make sense of the mysterious script on the forehead of the Sperm Whale? I simply present that forehead to you. Interpret it if you’re able.
CHAPTER 80. The Nut.
If the Sperm Whale be physiognomically a Sphinx, to the phrenologist his brain seems that geometrical circle which it is impossible to square.
If the Sperm Whale is like a Sphinx in appearance, to the phrenologist its brain seems like that perfect circle which can’t be squared.
In the full-grown creature the skull will measure at least twenty feet in length. Unhinge the lower jaw, and the side view of this skull is as the side of a moderately inclined plane resting throughout on a level base. But in life—as we have elsewhere seen—this inclined plane is angularly filled up, and almost squared by the enormous superincumbent mass of the junk and sperm. At the high end the skull forms a crater to bed that part of the mass; while under the long floor of this crater—in another cavity seldom exceeding ten inches in length and as many in depth—reposes the mere handful of this monster’s brain. The brain is at least twenty feet from his apparent forehead in life; it is hidden away behind its vast outworks, like the innermost citadel within the amplified fortifications of Quebec. So like a choice casket is it secreted in him, that I have known some whalemen who peremptorily deny that the Sperm Whale has any other brain than that palpable semblance of one formed by the cubic-yards of his sperm magazine. Lying in strange folds, courses, and convolutions, to their apprehensions, it seems more in keeping with the idea of his general might to regard that mystic part of him as the seat of his intelligence.
In a fully grown whale, the skull will be at least twenty feet long. If you unhinge the lower jaw, the side view of the skull looks like a slightly slanted plane resting on a flat base. But in life—as we’ve seen elsewhere—this slanted plane is filled in and nearly squared by the massive weight of the junk and sperm above it. At the higher end, the skull forms a crater that holds part of this mass; while beneath the long floor of this crater—in a small cavity rarely more than ten inches long and ten inches deep—rests the small brain of this giant creature. The brain is located about twenty feet away from its apparent forehead in life, hidden behind an impressive structure, like a secret fortress buried deep within the towering defenses of Quebec. It’s so well-hidden, like a prized treasure in a secret compartment, that I’ve met some whalers who outright refuse to believe the Sperm Whale has any brain other than the visible mass of its sperm reservoir. Twisting and folding in strange patterns, to them this mysterious part of the whale seems a fitting place for its intelligence to reside, as it aligns better with their perception of its immense power.
It is plain, then, that phrenologically the head of this Leviathan, in the creature’s living intact state, is an entire delusion. As for his true brain, you can then see no indications of it, nor feel any. The whale, like all things that are mighty, wears a false brow to the common world.
It’s clear, then, that from a phrenology perspective, the head of this Leviathan in its living, whole state is completely misleading. As for its actual brain, you can’t see any signs of it, nor can you feel it. The whale, like all powerful things, presents a deceptive front to the ordinary world.
If you unload his skull of its spermy heaps and then take a rear view of its rear end, which is the high end, you will be struck by its resemblance to the human skull, beheld in the same situation, and from the same point of view. Indeed, place this reversed skull (scaled down to the human magnitude) among a plate of men’s skulls, and you would involuntarily confound it with them; and remarking the depressions on one part of its summit, in phrenological phrase you would say—This man had no self-esteem, and no veneration. And by those negations, considered along with the affirmative fact of his prodigious bulk and power, you can best form to yourself the truest, though not the most exhilarating conception of what the most exalted potency is.
If you clear out the contents of his skull and look at the back—the higher end—you’ll notice how much it resembles a human skull when seen from the same angle. In fact, if you took this reversed skull (scaled down to human size) and placed it among a collection of human skulls, you might accidentally mistake it for one of them. Observing the indents on the top, using the language of phrenology, you might say, "This person lacked self-esteem and veneration." Considering those traits, along with the undeniable fact of his massive size and strength, you can get the clearest, though not the most uplifting, idea of what ultimate power truly looks like.
But if from the comparative dimensions of the whale’s proper brain, you deem it incapable of being adequately charted, then I have another idea for you. If you attentively regard almost any quadruped’s spine, you will be struck with the resemblance of its vertebræ to a strung necklace of dwarfed skulls, all bearing rudimental resemblance to the skull proper. It is a German conceit, that the vertebræ are absolutely undeveloped skulls. But the curious external resemblance, I take it the Germans were not the first men to perceive. A foreign friend once pointed it out to me, in the skeleton of a foe he had slain, and with the vertebræ of which he was inlaying, in a sort of basso-relievo, the beaked prow of his canoe. Now, I consider that the phrenologists have omitted an important thing in not pushing their investigations from the cerebellum through the spinal canal. For I believe that much of a man’s character will be found betokened in his backbone. I would rather feel your spine than your skull, whoever you are. A thin joist of a spine never yet upheld a full and noble soul. I rejoice in my spine, as in the firm audacious staff of that flag which I fling half out to the world.
But if you think the whale's brain is too small to map out properly, I've got another suggestion for you. Take a good look at the spine of almost any four-legged animal, and you'll notice how the vertebrae look like a string of mini skulls, all vaguely resembling an actual skull. There's this German theory that vertebrae are just undeveloped skulls. But I doubt the Germans were the first to notice the striking resemblance. A friend from another country once pointed this out to me when he showed me the skeleton of an enemy he had killed. He was using the vertebrae to decorate the carved prow of his canoe, like in a kind of 3D relief art. I think the phrenologists overlooked something important by not tracing their studies from the brain down through the spinal column. I believe a lot about a person’s character can be understood from their backbone. Honestly, I’d rather feel your spine than your skull, whoever you are. A flimsy, weak spine has never supported a strong and noble soul. I take pride in my own spine—it's like the solid and daring pole of the flag I wave boldly to the world.
Apply this spinal branch of phrenology to the Sperm Whale. His cranial cavity is continuous with the first neck-vertebra; and in that vertebra the bottom of the spinal canal will measure ten inches across, being eight in height, and of a triangular figure with the base downwards. As it passes through the remaining vertebræ the canal tapers in size, but for a considerable distance remains of large capacity. Now, of course, this canal is filled with much the same strangely fibrous substance—the spinal cord—as the brain; and directly communicates with the brain. And what is still more, for many feet after emerging from the brain’s cavity, the spinal cord remains of an undecreasing girth, almost equal to that of the brain. Under all these circumstances, would it be unreasonable to survey and map out the whale’s spine phrenologically? For, viewed in this light, the wonderful comparative smallness of his brain proper is more than compensated by the wonderful comparative magnitude of his spinal cord.
Apply this spinal branch of phrenology to the Sperm Whale. Its cranial cavity connects directly to the first neck vertebra, where the base of the spinal canal measures ten inches wide, eight inches tall, and has a triangular shape with the base pointing downward. As the canal extends through the remaining vertebrae, it gradually narrows, though it remains significantly large for quite a distance. Naturally, this canal is filled with a similar fibrous substance—the spinal cord—as the brain itself, and it directly connects to the brain. What’s even more remarkable is that for many feet after leaving the brain’s cavity, the spinal cord maintains nearly the same thickness as the brain. Considering all of this, wouldn’t it make sense to analyze and map out the whale’s spine phrenologically? When viewed this way, the relatively small size of its brain is more than balanced by the extraordinary size of its spinal cord.
But leaving this hint to operate as it may with the phrenologists, I would merely assume the spinal theory for a moment, in reference to the Sperm Whale’s hump. This august hump, if I mistake not, rises over one of the larger vertebræ, and is, therefore, in some sort, the outer convex mould of it. From its relative situation then, I should call this high hump the organ of firmness or indomitableness in the Sperm Whale. And that the great monster is indomitable, you will yet have reason to know.
Leaving this suggestion for the phrenologists to think about, I’ll just temporarily adopt the spinal theory when it comes to the Sperm Whale’s hump. This impressive hump, if I’m not mistaken, sits above one of the larger vertebrae, making it, in a way, the outer curved shape of that bone. Given its position, I’d call this prominent hump the organ of determination or indomitable will in the Sperm Whale. And you’ll soon have plenty of reasons to see why this massive creature is truly unstoppable.
CHAPTER 81. The Pequod Meets The Virgin.
The predestinated day arrived, and we duly met the ship Jungfrau, Derick De Deer, master, of Bremen.
The appointed day came, and we met the ship Jungfrau, captained by Derick De Deer from Bremen.
At one time the greatest whaling people in the world, the Dutch and Germans are now among the least; but here and there at very wide intervals of latitude and longitude, you still occasionally meet with their flag in the Pacific.
Once the most prominent whaling nations in the world, the Dutch and Germans are now among the least active; however, every now and then, scattered across vast stretches of latitude and longitude, you might still spot their flag in the Pacific.
For some reason, the Jungfrau seemed quite eager to pay her respects. While yet some distance from the Pequod, she rounded to, and dropping a boat, her captain was impelled towards us, impatiently standing in the bows instead of the stern.
For some reason, the Jungfrau seemed really eager to show her respect. While still a bit away from the Pequod, she turned around and dropped a boat. Her captain, standing impatiently at the front instead of the back, was driven toward us.
“What has he in his hand there?” cried Starbuck, pointing to something wavingly held by the German. “Impossible!—a lamp-feeder!”
"What’s that in his hand?" shouted Starbuck, pointing at something the German was waving around. "No way—a lamp filler!"
“Not that,” said Stubb, “no, no, it’s a coffee-pot, Mr. Starbuck; he’s coming off to make us our coffee, is the Yarman; don’t you see that big tin can there alongside of him?—that’s his boiling water. Oh! he’s all right, is the Yarman.”
"Not that," said Stubb, "no, no, it's a coffee pot, Mr. Starbuck. The German guy's coming over to make us coffee. Don’t you see that big tin can next to him? That’s his boiling water. Oh, he’s fine, the German guy."
“Go along with you,” cried Flask, “it’s a lamp-feeder and an oil-can. He’s out of oil, and has come a-begging.”
"Get out of here," shouted Flask, "it's a lamp-feeder and an oil can. He's out of oil and has come begging."
However curious it may seem for an oil-ship to be borrowing oil on the whale-ground, and however much it may invertedly contradict the old proverb about carrying coals to Newcastle, yet sometimes such a thing really happens; and in the present case Captain Derick De Deer did indubitably conduct a lamp-feeder as Flask did declare.
Strangely enough, even though it sounds odd for an oil ship to borrow oil while out on the whaling grounds—and even though it goes completely against the old saying about bringing coals to Newcastle—such things do happen occasionally. And in this particular case, Captain Derick De Deer really did borrow oil for a lamp, just as Flask claimed.
As he mounted the deck, Ahab abruptly accosted him, without at all heeding what he had in his hand; but in his broken lingo, the German soon evinced his complete ignorance of the White Whale; immediately turning the conversation to his lamp-feeder and oil can, with some remarks touching his having to turn into his hammock at night in profound darkness—his last drop of Bremen oil being gone, and not a single flying-fish yet captured to supply the deficiency; concluding by hinting that his ship was indeed what in the Fishery is technically called a clean one (that is, an empty one), well deserving the name of Jungfrau or the Virgin.
As he stepped onto the deck, Ahab abruptly confronted him, completely ignoring what the man was holding. Speaking in his broken English, the German quickly made it clear he had no knowledge of the White Whale. He immediately shifted the conversation to his lamp-feeder and oil can, making a few comments about having to go to bed in total darkness each night since he'd run out of Bremen oil and hadn't caught a single flying fish to make up for it. He wrapped up by suggesting that his ship was, in fact, what whalers call a clean one (meaning empty), which made its name Jungfrau, or the Virgin, very fitting.
His necessities supplied, Derick departed; but he had not gained his ship’s side, when whales were almost simultaneously raised from the mast-heads of both vessels; and so eager for the chase was Derick, that without pausing to put his oil-can and lamp-feeder aboard, he slewed round his boat and made after the leviathan lamp-feeders.
With his needs taken care of, Derick left; but he hadn’t even reached his ship when whales were spotted almost at the same time from the mastheads of both vessels. So eager for the chase was Derick that, without stopping to return his oil can and lamp feeder to the ship, he quickly turned his boat around and went after the giant creatures.
Now, the game having risen to leeward, he and the other three German boats that soon followed him, had considerably the start of the Pequod’s keels. There were eight whales, an average pod. Aware of their danger, they were going all abreast with great speed straight before the wind, rubbing their flanks as closely as so many spans of horses in harness. They left a great, wide wake, as though continually unrolling a great wide parchment upon the sea.
Now, with the whales moving downwind, he and the other three German boats that soon joined him had a significant lead over the Pequod’s keels. There were eight whales, an average-sized pod. Sensing the danger, they swam side by side at full speed directly with the wind, their flanks so close together they seemed like a team of horses in harness. They left a massive, wide wake behind them, as if they were constantly unrolling a huge sheet of parchment across the sea.
Full in this rapid wake, and many fathoms in the rear, swam a huge, humped old bull, which by his comparatively slow progress, as well as by the unusual yellowish incrustations overgrowing him, seemed afflicted with the jaundice, or some other infirmity. Whether this whale belonged to the pod in advance, seemed questionable; for it is not customary for such venerable leviathans to be at all social. Nevertheless, he stuck to their wake, though indeed their back water must have retarded him, because the white-bone or swell at his broad muzzle was a dashed one, like the swell formed when two hostile currents meet. His spout was short, slow, and laborious; coming forth with a choking sort of gush, and spending itself in torn shreds, followed by strange subterranean commotions in him, which seemed to have egress at his other buried extremity, causing the waters behind him to upbubble.
Close behind the fast-moving group, and many fathoms back, swam a massive, humped old bull whale. His slower pace and the unusual yellowish crust covering him made him look like he was suffering from jaundice or some other illness. It was unclear if this whale was part of the pod up ahead, as whales of his age and size usually aren’t very sociable. Still, he followed their trail, though the currents they left behind seemed to slow him down. The waves around his broad snout clashed and churned, like the turbulence created when two opposing currents collide. His spout was short, slow, and strained, erupting in a choking gush and breaking apart into shredded mist. This was followed by strange, deep rumblings inside him, which seemed to escape from his submerged rear, causing the water behind him to bubble up.
“Who’s got some paregoric?” said Stubb, “he has the stomach-ache, I’m afraid. Lord, think of having half an acre of stomach-ache! Adverse winds are holding mad Christmas in him, boys. It’s the first foul wind I ever knew to blow from astern; but look, did ever whale yaw so before? it must be, he’s lost his tiller.”
"Who’s got some paregoric?" said Stubb. "I think he’s got a stomachache. Man, imagine having that much stomachache! Rough winds are throwing a crazy Christmas party inside him, guys. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a bad wind blowing from behind; but look, has a whale ever swerved like that before? He must’ve lost his rudder."
As an overladen Indiaman bearing down the Hindostan coast with a deck load of frightened horses, careens, buries, rolls, and wallows on her way; so did this old whale heave his aged bulk, and now and then partly turning over on his cumbrous rib-ends, expose the cause of his devious wake in the unnatural stump of his starboard fin. Whether he had lost that fin in battle, or had been born without it, it were hard to say.
Like an overloaded cargo ship struggling down the coast of India with a deck full of panicked horses—tilting, plunging, rolling, and lurching along—so did this old whale move his massive body. Every now and then, he would partly roll onto his heavy, bony side, revealing the reason for his erratic path: the unnatural stump of his right fin. Whether he had lost it in a fight or had been born without it was hard to tell.
“Only wait a bit, old chap, and I’ll give ye a sling for that wounded arm,” cried cruel Flask, pointing to the whale-line near him.
"Just wait a moment, old buddy, and I’ll get you a sling for that injured arm," shouted the ruthless Flask, pointing to the whale line nearby.
“Mind he don’t sling thee with it,” cried Starbuck. “Give way, or the German will have him.”
"Watch out he doesn’t hit you with it," yelled Starbuck. "Move it, or the German will get him!"
With one intent all the combined rival boats were pointed for this one fish, because not only was he the largest, and therefore the most valuable whale, but he was nearest to them, and the other whales were going with such great velocity, moreover, as almost to defy pursuit for the time. At this juncture the Pequod’s keels had shot by the three German boats last lowered; but from the great start he had had, Derick’s boat still led the chase, though every moment neared by his foreign rivals. The only thing they feared, was, that from being already so nigh to his mark, he would be enabled to dart his iron before they could completely overtake and pass him. As for Derick, he seemed quite confident that this would be the case, and occasionally with a deriding gesture shook his lamp-feeder at the other boats.
All the rival boats were focused on this one fish with the same goal in mind, because not only was it the largest and most valuable whale, but it was also the closest to them. The other whales were moving so fast that chasing them seemed impossible for the time being. At this point, the Pequod's keels had overtaken the three German boats that had been lowered earlier. However, because of the head start he had gotten, Derick's boat was still leading the chase, though his foreign rivals were closing in on him with every moment. Their only worry was that Derick, being so close to his target, might manage to throw his harpoon before they could catch up and pass him. Derick, on the other hand, seemed completely sure that he would succeed and occasionally mocked the other boats by shaking his lamp-feeder at them.
“The ungracious and ungrateful dog!” cried Starbuck; “he mocks and dares me with the very poor-box I filled for him not five minutes ago!”—then in his old intense whisper—“Give way, greyhounds! Dog to it!”
"The ungrateful and rude dog!" shouted Starbuck. "He's mocking and daring me with the very donation box I just filled for him five minutes ago!" Then, in his usual intense whisper, "Pull harder, greyhounds! Chase him down!"
“I tell ye what it is, men”—cried Stubb to his crew—“it’s against my religion to get mad; but I’d like to eat that villainous Yarman—Pull—won’t ye? Are ye going to let that rascal beat ye? Do ye love brandy? A hogshead of brandy, then, to the best man. Come, why don’t some of ye burst a blood-vessel? Who’s that been dropping an anchor overboard—we don’t budge an inch—we’re becalmed. Halloo, here’s grass growing in the boat’s bottom—and by the Lord, the mast there’s budding. This won’t do, boys. Look at that Yarman! The short and long of it is, men, will ye spit fire or not?”
"I’m telling you, guys," shouted Stubb to his crew, "it’s against my beliefs to lose my temper, but I’d love to take a bite out of that nasty German—Row, won’t you? Are you really going to let that scoundrel beat you? Do you like brandy? A whole barrel of brandy to the best man. Come on, why doesn’t one of you push yourself to the limit? Who’s the one dropping an anchor overboard—we’re not moving an inch—we’re stuck. Hey, there’s grass growing at the bottom of the boat—and look, the mast is starting to sprout leaves. This isn’t going to cut it, guys. Look at that German! The bottom line is, are you going to fight or not?"
“Oh! see the suds he makes!” cried Flask, dancing up and down—“What a hump—Oh, do pile on the beef—lays like a log! Oh! my lads, do spring—slap-jacks and quahogs for supper, you know, my lads—baked clams and muffins—oh, do, do, spring,—he’s a hundred barreller—don’t lose him now—don’t oh, don’t!—see that Yarman—Oh, won’t ye pull for your duff, my lads—such a sog! such a sogger! Don’t ye love sperm? There goes three thousand dollars, men!—a bank!—a whole bank! The bank of England!—Oh, do, do, do!—What’s that Yarman about now?”
"Oh! Look at those suds he’s making!" yelled Flask, jumping up and down. "What a hump—oh, *come on*, pile on the muscle—he’s lying there like a log! Oh! My guys, *let’s go*—slapjacks and quahogs for dinner tonight, you know—baked clams and muffins—oh, *let’s move*, *let’s move*—he’s a hundred-barrel catch—don’t lose him now—don’t, oh, *don’t*! Look at that German guy—oh, come on, pull like your life depends on it, guys—such a beast! What a bruiser! Don’t you love sperm whales? That’s three thousand dollars right there!—a fortune!—a whole fortune! Like the Bank of England!—oh, *let’s go*, *let’s go*, *let’s go*! What’s that German guy doing now?"
At this moment Derick was in the act of pitching his lamp-feeder at the advancing boats, and also his oil-can; perhaps with the double view of retarding his rivals’ way, and at the same time economically accelerating his own by the momentary impetus of the backward toss.
At that moment, Derick was throwing his lamp-feeder at the boats coming toward him, along with his oil can—maybe aiming both to slow down his competitors and to give himself a quick boost forward with the backward toss.
“The unmannerly Dutch dogger!” cried Stubb. “Pull now, men, like fifty thousand line-of-battle-ship loads of red-haired devils. What d’ye say, Tashtego; are you the man to snap your spine in two-and-twenty pieces for the honor of old Gayhead? What d’ye say?”
"The rude Dutch fishing boat!" yelled Stubb. "Row now, men, like fifty thousand warship loads of red-haired demons. What do you say, Tashtego; are you ready to break your back into twenty-two pieces for the pride of old Gayhead? What do you say?"
“I say, pull like god-dam,”—cried the Indian.
"I said, pull like hell!" shouted the Native American.
Fiercely, but evenly incited by the taunts of the German, the Pequod’s three boats now began ranging almost abreast; and, so disposed, momentarily neared him. In that fine, loose, chivalrous attitude of the headsman when drawing near to his prey, the three mates stood up proudly, occasionally backing the after oarsman with an exhilarating cry of, “There she slides, now! Hurrah for the white-ash breeze! Down with the Yarman! Sail over him!”
Fired up but staying focused by the German's taunts, the three boats from the Pequod started moving nearly side by side, gradually closing in on him. In that bold, relaxed, yet gallant stance of a harpooner approaching their target, the three mates stood tall, occasionally urging on the rowers behind them with spirited shouts: "There she goes now! Hooray for the white-ash breeze! Take him down! Sail right over him!"
But so decided an original start had Derick had, that spite of all their gallantry, he would have proved the victor in this race, had not a righteous judgment descended upon him in a crab which caught the blade of his midship oarsman. While this clumsy lubber was striving to free his white-ash, and while, in consequence, Derick’s boat was nigh to capsizing, and he thundering away at his men in a mighty rage;—that was a good time for Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask. With a shout, they took a mortal start forwards, and slantingly ranged up on the German’s quarter. An instant more, and all four boats were diagonically in the whale’s immediate wake, while stretching from them, on both sides, was the foaming swell that he made.
Derick had such a strong and bold start that, despite all their determination, he would have won the race if not for a well-deserved setback. A crab snagged the oar of his midship rower, and while this clumsy sailor struggled to free the oar, Derick’s boat nearly tipped over. Derick exploded in a furious rage at his crew, but in the meantime, Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask saw their chance. With a shout, they surged ahead, veering up alongside the German’s boat. In no time, all four boats were lined up diagonally, directly in the whale’s path, cutting through the frothy waves that churned on either side from the whale’s movements.
It was a terrific, most pitiable, and maddening sight. The whale was now going head out, and sending his spout before him in a continual tormented jet; while his one poor fin beat his side in an agony of fright. Now to this hand, now to that, he yawed in his faltering flight, and still at every billow that he broke, he spasmodically sank in the sea, or sideways rolled towards the sky his one beating fin. So have I seen a bird with clipped wing making affrighted broken circles in the air, vainly striving to escape the piratical hawks. But the bird has a voice, and with plaintive cries will make known her fear; but the fear of this vast dumb brute of the sea, was chained up and enchanted in him; he had no voice, save that choking respiration through his spiracle, and this made the sight of him unspeakably pitiable; while still, in his amazing bulk, portcullis jaw, and omnipotent tail, there was enough to appal the stoutest man who so pitied.
It was a horrifying, heartbreaking, and maddening sight. The whale was now swimming with his head out of the water, spewing his spout in a constant, tortured stream, while his one helpless fin slapped against his side in panic. He swerved erratically, now one way, now the other, in his desperate, unsteady flight, and with every wave he crashed through, he either sank spasmodically into the sea or rolled sideways, exposing his single flailing fin toward the sky. It reminded me of a bird with clipped wings frantically circling in the air, desperately trying to escape attacking hawks. But a bird can cry out, its plaintive calls expressing its terror; this massive, mute creature of the sea had no voice, except for the harsh, choking breaths forced through his blowhole, which made his suffering even more agonizing to watch. Yet, despite his enormous size, his iron-like jaws, and his powerful tail, which could still inspire fear in the bravest soul, his plight was profoundly pitiful.
Seeing now that but a very few moments more would give the Pequod’s boats the advantage, and rather than be thus foiled of his game, Derick chose to hazard what to him must have seemed a most unusually long dart, ere the last chance would for ever escape.
Realizing that in just a few more moments the Pequod’s boats would have the upper hand, and not wanting to lose his target, Derick decided to take what must have seemed to him like an extremely risky long throw before his last opportunity slipped away forever.
But no sooner did his harpooneer stand up for the stroke, than all three tigers—Queequeg, Tashtego, Daggoo—instinctively sprang to their feet, and standing in a diagonal row, simultaneously pointed their barbs; and darted over the head of the German harpooneer, their three Nantucket irons entered the whale. Blinding vapors of foam and white-fire! The three boats, in the first fury of the whale’s headlong rush, bumped the German’s aside with such force, that both Derick and his baffled harpooneer were spilled out, and sailed over by the three flying keels.
No sooner did his harpooneer prepare to strike than all three hunters—Queequeg, Tashtego, and Daggoo—instinctively jumped to their feet. Standing in a diagonal line, they all aimed their harpoons at the same time and hurled them over the German harpooneer’s head, driving their three Nantucket harpoons into the whale. Blinding sprays of foam and flashes of white fire erupted! In the chaos of the whale’s frantic charge, the three boats collided with the German’s boat so hard that both Derick and his harpooneer were thrown out and left floating as the three speeding keels flew past them.
“Don’t be afraid, my butter-boxes,” cried Stubb, casting a passing glance upon them as he shot by; “ye’ll be picked up presently—all right—I saw some sharks astern—St. Bernard’s dogs, you know—relieve distressed travellers. Hurrah! this is the way to sail now. Every keel a sunbeam! Hurrah!—Here we go like three tin kettles at the tail of a mad cougar! This puts me in mind of fastening to an elephant in a tilbury on a plain—makes the wheel-spokes fly, boys, when you fasten to him that way; and there’s danger of being pitched out too, when you strike a hill. Hurrah! this is the way a fellow feels when he’s going to Davy Jones—all a rush down an endless inclined plane! Hurrah! this whale carries the everlasting mail!”
"Don’t worry, my butter-boxes," shouted Stubb, throwing a quick look their way as he sped past. "You’ll be rescued soon—it’s all good—I saw some sharks behind us—like St. Bernard dogs, you know—helping out stranded travelers. Let’s go! This is how you sail now. Every keel shining like a sunbeam! Let’s do this!—We’re moving like three tin cans tied to the tail of a wild cougar! Reminds me of hitching a ride to an elephant with a cart on a flat plain—it really makes the wheels spin, guys, when you hook onto him like that; and there’s a good chance you’ll go flying out, too, when you hit a hill. Let’s go! This is how it feels when you’re heading to Davy Jones’ locker—racing down an endless slide! Let’s go! This whale’s delivering the eternal mail!"
But the monster’s run was a brief one. Giving a sudden gasp, he tumultuously sounded. With a grating rush, the three lines flew round the loggerheads with such a force as to gouge deep grooves in them; while so fearful were the harpooneers that this rapid sounding would soon exhaust the lines, that using all their dexterous might, they caught repeated smoking turns with the rope to hold on; till at last—owing to the perpendicular strain from the lead-lined chocks of the boats, whence the three ropes went straight down into the blue—the gunwales of the bows were almost even with the water, while the three sterns tilted high in the air. And the whale soon ceasing to sound, for some time they remained in that attitude, fearful of expending more line, though the position was a little ticklish. But though boats have been taken down and lost in this way, yet it is this “holding on,” as it is called; this hooking up by the sharp barbs of his live flesh from the back; this it is that often torments the Leviathan into soon rising again to meet the sharp lance of his foes. Yet not to speak of the peril of the thing, it is to be doubted whether this course is always the best; for it is but reasonable to presume, that the longer the stricken whale stays under water, the more he is exhausted. Because, owing to the enormous surface of him—in a full grown sperm whale something less than 2000 square feet—the pressure of the water is immense. We all know what an astonishing atmospheric weight we ourselves stand up under; even here, above-ground, in the air; how vast, then, the burden of a whale, bearing on his back a column of two hundred fathoms of ocean! It must at least equal the weight of fifty atmospheres. One whaleman has estimated it at the weight of twenty line-of-battle ships, with all their guns, and stores, and men on board.
But the whale’s escape was short-lived. With a sudden gasp, it dove downward in a frenzy. The three lines whipped around the loggerheads with such force that they carved deep grooves into the wood. The harpooners, fearing the rapid dive would quickly use up all the lines, worked skillfully, taking repeated smoking turns with the ropes to hold the pressure. Eventually, due to the sheer pull from the lead-lined chocks of the boats, where the ropes plunged straight down into the deep blue sea, the bows of the boats were nearly level with the water, while their sterns tilted high into the air. When the whale finally stopped diving, the boats remained in that precarious position for a while, reluctant to let out more line, though it was a risky stance. Boats have been dragged under and lost in such situations, but it’s this “holding on,” as they call it—keeping the line attached to the hooked flesh of the whale’s back—that often provokes the creature into surfacing again, only to face the sharp lance of the hunters. However, despite the danger, it’s questionable whether this is always the best tactic. It seems reasonable to believe that the longer the wounded whale stays under, the more it tires. Considering the massive surface area of a full-grown sperm whale—nearly 2,000 square feet—the water pressure it endures is enormous. We all know the incredible weight of the atmosphere we withstand on land; now imagine the burden of a whale submerged under a column of water two hundred fathoms deep. The pressure must be equal to at least fifty times that of the atmosphere. One whaler even estimated it as equivalent to the weight of twenty warships, fully loaded with guns, supplies, and crew.
As the three boats lay there on that gently rolling sea, gazing down into its eternal blue noon; and as not a single groan or cry of any sort, nay, not so much as a ripple or a bubble came up from its depths; what landsman would have thought, that beneath all that silence and placidity, the utmost monster of the seas was writhing and wrenching in agony! Not eight inches of perpendicular rope were visible at the bows. Seems it credible that by three such thin threads the great Leviathan was suspended like the big weight to an eight day clock. Suspended? and to what? To three bits of board. Is this the creature of whom it was once so triumphantly said—“Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons? or his head with fish-spears? The sword of him that layeth at him cannot hold, the spear, the dart, nor the habergeon: he esteemeth iron as straw; the arrow cannot make him flee; darts are counted as stubble; he laugheth at the shaking of a spear!” This the creature? this he? Oh! that unfulfilments should follow the prophets. For with the strength of a thousand thighs in his tail, Leviathan had run his head under the mountains of the sea, to hide him from the Pequod’s fish-spears!
As the three boats floated there on the calm, gently rolling sea, staring down into its endless blue expanse at noon, and as not a single groan, cry, ripple, or even a bubble came up from its depths, who, being unfamiliar with the ocean, would have imagined that beneath all that silence and calm, the greatest monster of the seas was thrashing and twisting in pain? Not even eight inches of rope could be seen at the bows. Could it really be believed that such a massive creature was held by three delicate lines, like a heavy weight suspended by the strings of an old clock? Suspended? And by what? By three small pieces of wood. Is this the same creature about which it was proudly proclaimed—“Can you pierce his skin with harpoons, or his head with fishing spears? The sword that strikes him cannot hold, nor can the spear, the dart, or the armor. He regards iron like straw; arrows do not make him flee; darts are as worthless as stubble; he laughs at the shaking of a spear!” Is this the creature? Him? Oh, how the words of the prophets falter when unfulfilled. For even with the strength of a thousand powerful legs in his tail, Leviathan had buried his head under the mountains of the sea, hiding from the Pequod’s harpoons!
In that sloping afternoon sunlight, the shadows that the three boats sent down beneath the surface, must have been long enough and broad enough to shade half Xerxes’ army. Who can tell how appalling to the wounded whale must have been such huge phantoms flitting over his head!
In the slanting light of the afternoon, the shadows cast by the three boats beneath the surface must have been so long and wide that they could have shaded half of Xerxes’ army. Who can say how terrifying such massive shapes drifting above must have seemed to the injured whale?
“Stand by, men; he stirs,” cried Starbuck, as the three lines suddenly vibrated in the water, distinctly conducting upwards to them, as by magnetic wires, the life and death throbs of the whale, so that every oarsman felt them in his seat. The next moment, relieved in great part from the downward strain at the bows, the boats gave a sudden bounce upwards, as a small icefield will, when a dense herd of white bears are scared from it into the sea.
"Hold steady, men; he's moving," shouted Starbuck, as the three lines suddenly vibrated in the water, transmitting the whale's life-and-death struggles to them like electric wires, so that every rower could feel it in their seat. The next moment, with much of the downward pull at the bows released, the boats suddenly shot upward, like a small ice field does when a dense pack of polar bears leaps off into the sea.
“Haul in! Haul in!” cried Starbuck again; “he’s rising.”
"Pull it in! Pull it in!" Starbuck shouted again. "He's coming up."
The lines, of which, hardly an instant before, not one hand’s breadth could have been gained, were now in long quick coils flung back all dripping into the boats, and soon the whale broke water within two ship’s lengths of the hunters.
The lines, which just a moment earlier couldn’t have been pulled in even a hand’s width, were now quickly coiling back into the boats, dripping wet, and soon the whale surfaced within two ship lengths of the hunters.
His motions plainly denoted his extreme exhaustion. In most land animals there are certain valves or flood-gates in many of their veins, whereby when wounded, the blood is in some degree at least instantly shut off in certain directions. Not so with the whale; one of whose peculiarities it is to have an entire non-valvular structure of the blood-vessels, so that when pierced even by so small a point as a harpoon, a deadly drain is at once begun upon his whole arterial system; and when this is heightened by the extraordinary pressure of water at a great distance below the surface, his life may be said to pour from him in incessant streams. Yet so vast is the quantity of blood in him, and so distant and numerous its interior fountains, that he will keep thus bleeding and bleeding for a considerable period; even as in a drought a river will flow, whose source is in the well-springs of far-off and undiscernible hills. Even now, when the boats pulled upon this whale, and perilously drew over his swaying flukes, and the lances were darted into him, they were followed by steady jets from the new made wound, which kept continually playing, while the natural spout-hole in his head was only at intervals, however rapid, sending its affrighted moisture into the air. From this last vent no blood yet came, because no vital part of him had thus far been struck. His life, as they significantly call it, was untouched.
His movements clearly showed how exhausted he was. Most land animals have certain valves or gates in their veins that, when wounded, can immediately stop blood flow in certain areas to some degree. But that's not the case with whales. One unique feature of the whale is its blood vessels lack valves entirely. This means that when it's pierced, even by something as small as a harpoon, a fatal bleed starts immediately throughout its entire circulatory system. This is made even worse by the extreme water pressure deep below the surface, causing its life to flow out in constant streams. Yet, the amount of blood in its body is so immense, and its internal reserves so plentiful and spread out, that it can keep bleeding for quite a long time—much like how a river can keep flowing during a drought when its source is far away in hidden hills. Even now, as the boats closed in on the whale and dangerously passed over its thrashing tail, the lances stabbed into its body, releasing steady streams of blood from the freshly made wounds, which sprayed continuously. Yet, the natural blowhole on its head only spouted moisture in rapid intervals, untainted by blood. No critical organ had been hit yet, so its "life," as they call it, remained untouched.
As the boats now more closely surrounded him, the whole upper part of his form, with much of it that is ordinarily submerged, was plainly revealed. His eyes, or rather the places where his eyes had been, were beheld. As strange misgrown masses gather in the knot-holes of the noblest oaks when prostrate, so from the points which the whale’s eyes had once occupied, now protruded blind bulbs, horribly pitiable to see. But pity there was none. For all his old age, and his one arm, and his blind eyes, he must die the death and be murdered, in order to light the gay bridals and other merry-makings of men, and also to illuminate the solemn churches that preach unconditional inoffensiveness by all to all. Still rolling in his blood, at last he partially disclosed a strangely discoloured bunch or protuberance, the size of a bushel, low down on the flank.
As the boats closed in around him, most of his upper body, along with much that was usually underwater, became clearly visible. His eyes—or rather, the places where his eyes had once been—could be seen. Just as strange, warped growths can appear in the knot-holes of fallen noble oaks, the spots where the whale’s eyes had once been now bulged with sightless lumps, painfully pitiful to look at. But there was no pity. Despite his old age, his missing arm, and his blind eyes, he had to die—to be killed—to bring light to joyful weddings and other celebrations of humanity, as well as to illuminate solemn churches that preach universal peace and nonviolence. Still writhing in his own blood, he finally revealed a strangely discolored lump or swelling, about the size of a bushel, low on his side.
“A nice spot,” cried Flask; “just let me prick him there once.”
"A nice spot," shouted Flask. "Let me poke him there just once."
“Avast!” cried Starbuck, “there’s no need of that!”
"Stop!" yelled Starbuck. "There's no need for that!"
But humane Starbuck was too late. At the instant of the dart an ulcerous jet shot from this cruel wound, and goaded by it into more than sufferable anguish, the whale now spouting thick blood, with swift fury blindly darted at the craft, bespattering them and their glorying crews all over with showers of gore, capsizing Flask’s boat and marring the bows. It was his death stroke. For, by this time, so spent was he by loss of blood, that he helplessly rolled away from the wreck he had made; lay panting on his side, impotently flapped with his stumped fin, then over and over slowly revolved like a waning world; turned up the white secrets of his belly; lay like a log, and died. It was most piteous, that last expiring spout. As when by unseen hands the water is gradually drawn off from some mighty fountain, and with half-stifled melancholy gurglings the spray-column lowers and lowers to the ground—so the last long dying spout of the whale.
But compassionate Starbuck was too late. Just as the harpoon struck, a diseased jet of blood shot out from the vicious wound, and driven into unbearable agony by the pain, the whale, now spewing thick blood, furiously and blindly charged at the boat. It drenched the crew and their exultant glory with a shower of blood, capsized Flask’s boat, and damaged the bow. It was the whale’s death blow. By now, so weakened from blood loss, it helplessly drifted away from the destruction it had caused, lay gasping on its side, weakly flapping its mutilated fin, then slowly rolled over and over like a dying planet, exposing the pale secrets of its underside. It floated like a lifeless log—and died. That final spout was heartbreakingly pitiful. Like when unseen hands slowly drain the water from a massive fountain, and the column of spray sinks lower and lower with sorrowful, muffled gurgles, so was the whale’s last long, dying spout.
Soon, while the crews were awaiting the arrival of the ship, the body showed symptoms of sinking with all its treasures unrifled. Immediately, by Starbuck’s orders, lines were secured to it at different points, so that ere long every boat was a buoy; the sunken whale being suspended a few inches beneath them by the cords. By very heedful management, when the ship drew nigh, the whale was transferred to her side, and was strongly secured there by the stiffest fluke-chains, for it was plain that unless artificially upheld, the body would at once sink to the bottom.
Soon, as the crews waited for the ship to arrive, the whale's body began showing signs of sinking, with all its treasures still untouched. Starbuck immediately ordered lines to be secured at various points on the body, and before long, every boat acted as a buoy, holding the sunken whale just a few inches beneath them with the ropes. With careful handling, as the ship approached, the whale was brought alongside and firmly secured using the strongest fluke-chains, since it was clear that without support, the body would sink straight to the bottom.
It so chanced that almost upon first cutting into him with the spade, the entire length of a corroded harpoon was found imbedded in his flesh, on the lower part of the bunch before described. But as the stumps of harpoons are frequently found in the dead bodies of captured whales, with the flesh perfectly healed around them, and no prominence of any kind to denote their place; therefore, there must needs have been some other unknown reason in the present case fully to account for the ulceration alluded to. But still more curious was the fact of a lance-head of stone being found in him, not far from the buried iron, the flesh perfectly firm about it. Who had darted that stone lance? And when? It might have been darted by some Nor’ West Indian long before America was discovered.
By chance, almost as soon as they started cutting into him with the spade, they found the full length of a rusted harpoon buried in his flesh, in the lower part of the hump previously mentioned. However, since broken-off harpoons are often found in the bodies of dead whales, with the flesh completely healed around them and no visible indication of their location, there had to be some other unknown reason to fully explain the ulceration mentioned earlier. Even more intriguing was the discovery of a stone lance head inside him, not far from the buried iron, with the flesh around it completely firm. Who had thrown that stone lance? And when? It could have been thrown by some Nor’ West Indian long before America was even discovered.
What other marvels might have been rummaged out of this monstrous cabinet there is no telling. But a sudden stop was put to further discoveries, by the ship’s being unprecedentedly dragged over sideways to the sea, owing to the body’s immensely increasing tendency to sink. However, Starbuck, who had the ordering of affairs, hung on to it to the last; hung on to it so resolutely, indeed, that when at length the ship would have been capsized, if still persisting in locking arms with the body; then, when the command was given to break clear from it, such was the immovable strain upon the timber-heads to which the fluke-chains and cables were fastened, that it was impossible to cast them off. Meantime everything in the Pequod was aslant. To cross to the other side of the deck was like walking up the steep gabled roof of a house. The ship groaned and gasped. Many of the ivory inlayings of her bulwarks and cabins were started from their places, by the unnatural dislocation. In vain handspikes and crows were brought to bear upon the immovable fluke-chains, to pry them adrift from the timberheads; and so low had the whale now settled that the submerged ends could not be at all approached, while every moment whole tons of ponderosity seemed added to the sinking bulk, and the ship seemed on the point of going over.
Who knows what other wonders might have been found in that monstrous cabinet, but further discoveries were abruptly halted when the ship was suddenly dragged sideways towards the sea because the body’s weight was pulling it down at an alarming rate. Starbuck, who was in charge of the situation, held on to the body until the very last moment—so fiercely, in fact, that when it became clear the ship would capsize if they kept holding on, the order was given to let go. However, the strain on the timber-heads, where the fluke-chains and cables were secured, was so immense that it was impossible to cast them off. Meanwhile, everything on the Pequod tilted sharply. Crossing the deck was like walking up the steep slope of a gabled rooftop. The ship groaned and creaked. Many of the ivory decorations on her sides and cabins were torn from their fixtures by the unnatural twisting. Handspikes and crowbars were brought out to try to pry the stubborn fluke-chains free from the timber-heads, but it was no use. The whale had sunk so low that the submerged ends couldn’t be reached, and with every moment, its weight seemed to grow heavier as it sank, leaving the ship on the brink of capsizing.
“Hold on, hold on, won’t ye?” cried Stubb to the body, “don’t be in such a devil of a hurry to sink! By thunder, men, we must do something or go for it. No use prying there; avast, I say with your handspikes, and run one of ye for a prayer book and a pen-knife, and cut the big chains.”
"Wait, wait, will you?" shouted Stubb to the body. "Don’t be in such a damn rush to sink! By thunder, guys, we need to do something or we’re done for. No point messing around there; stop, I said, with those handspikes, and one of you go grab a prayer book and a pocketknife, and cut the big chains."
“Knife? Aye, aye,” cried Queequeg, and seizing the carpenter’s heavy hatchet, he leaned out of a porthole, and steel to iron, began slashing at the largest fluke-chains. But a few strokes, full of sparks, were given, when the exceeding strain effected the rest. With a terrific snap, every fastening went adrift; the ship righted, the carcase sank.
"Knife? Yeah, yeah," shouted Queequeg. Grabbing the carpenter's heavy hatchet, he leaned out of a porthole and started hacking at the thickest fluke-chains, steel against iron. He delivered just a few spark-filled swings before the intense strain did the rest. With a massive snap, all the fastenings broke loose; the ship stabilized, and the carcass sank.
Now, this occasional inevitable sinking of the recently killed Sperm Whale is a very curious thing; nor has any fisherman yet adequately accounted for it. Usually the dead Sperm Whale floats with great buoyancy, with its side or belly considerably elevated above the surface. If the only whales that thus sank were old, meagre, and broken-hearted creatures, their pads of lard diminished and all their bones heavy and rheumatic; then you might with some reason assert that this sinking is caused by an uncommon specific gravity in the fish so sinking, consequent upon this absence of buoyant matter in him. But it is not so. For young whales, in the highest health, and swelling with noble aspirations, prematurely cut off in the warm flush and May of life, with all their panting lard about them; even these brawny, buoyant heroes do sometimes sink.
This occasional and unavoidable sinking of a recently killed sperm whale is quite mysterious, and no fisherman has been able to fully explain it. Normally, a dead sperm whale floats effortlessly, with its side or belly lifted high above the water's surface. If the only whales that sank were old, frail, and dejected, with their layers of fat depleted and their bones heavy and worn out, you could reasonably argue that their sinking was due to an unusually high specific gravity caused by a lack of buoyant fat. But that's not the case. Even young, healthy whales, full of vitality and brimming with ambition, cut down in the prime of their lives, with their bodies still packed with fat, sometimes sink despite their robust and buoyant build.
Be it said, however, that the Sperm Whale is far less liable to this accident than any other species. Where one of that sort go down, twenty Right Whales do. This difference in the species is no doubt imputable in no small degree to the greater quantity of bone in the Right Whale; his Venetian blinds alone sometimes weighing more than a ton; from this incumbrance the Sperm Whale is wholly free. But there are instances where, after the lapse of many hours or several days, the sunken whale again rises, more buoyant than in life. But the reason of this is obvious. Gases are generated in him; he swells to a prodigious magnitude; becomes a sort of animal balloon. A line-of-battle ship could hardly keep him under then. In the Shore Whaling, on soundings, among the Bays of New Zealand, when a Right Whale gives token of sinking, they fasten buoys to him, with plenty of rope; so that when the body has gone down, they know where to look for it when it shall have ascended again.
Let it be noted, however, that the Sperm Whale is much less likely to encounter this accident compared to other species. For every one Sperm Whale that sinks, twenty Right Whales do. This difference between the species is undoubtedly due, at least in part, to the larger amount of bone in the Right Whale; its baleen plates alone can sometimes weigh more than a ton. The Sperm Whale, on the other hand, is completely free of this burden. Still, there are cases where, after several hours or even days, a sunken whale resurfaces, more buoyant than it was when alive. The reason for this is simple: gases form inside the whale, causing it to bloat to an enormous size, turning it into something like an animal balloon. At that point, even a massive warship would struggle to keep it submerged. In shore whaling, particularly in the shallow waters of the bays around New Zealand, when a Right Whale is about to sink, they attach buoys to it with plenty of rope. That way, once the body sinks, they know where to find it when it eventually floats back to the surface.
It was not long after the sinking of the body that a cry was heard from the Pequod’s mast-heads, announcing that the Jungfrau was again lowering her boats; though the only spout in sight was that of a Fin-Back, belonging to the species of uncapturable whales, because of its incredible power of swimming. Nevertheless, the Fin-Back’s spout is so similar to the Sperm Whale’s, that by unskilful fishermen it is often mistaken for it. And consequently Derick and all his host were now in valiant chase of this unnearable brute. The Virgin crowding all sail, made after her four young keels, and thus they all disappeared far to leeward, still in bold, hopeful chase.
It wasn’t long after the body sank that a shout came from the Pequod’s mastheads, announcing that the Jungfrau was lowering her boats again—even though the only spout in sight belonged to a Fin-Back whale, a species of whale that can’t be caught due to its incredible swimming speed. Still, the Fin-Back’s spout looks so much like that of a Sperm Whale that inexperienced fishermen often mistake one for the other. As a result, Derick and his whole crew were now courageously chasing this untouchable creature. The Virgin, with all sails set, followed her four young boats, and together they disappeared far downwind, still chasing with bold determination and hope.
Oh! many are the Fin-Backs, and many are the Dericks, my friend.
Oh! There are plenty of Fin-Backs, and plenty of Dericks, my friend.
CHAPTER 82. The Honor and Glory of Whaling.
There are some enterprises in which a careful disorderliness is the true method.
Some tasks are best done with a deliberate sense of chaos as the right approach.
The more I dive into this matter of whaling, and push my researches up to the very spring-head of it so much the more am I impressed with its great honorableness and antiquity; and especially when I find so many great demi-gods and heroes, prophets of all sorts, who one way or other have shed distinction upon it, I am transported with the reflection that I myself belong, though but subordinately, to so emblazoned a fraternity.
The deeper I dive into the subject of whaling and trace my research back to its very origins, the more I’m struck by its great dignity and ancient roots. And when I discover so many legendary demi-gods, heroes, and prophets of all kinds who, in one way or another, have brought honor to it, I’m overwhelmed with pride at the thought that I, though in a modest way, am part of such a distinguished brotherhood.
The gallant Perseus, a son of Jupiter, was the first whaleman; and to the eternal honor of our calling be it said, that the first whale attacked by our brotherhood was not killed with any sordid intent. Those were the knightly days of our profession, when we only bore arms to succor the distressed, and not to fill men’s lamp-feeders. Every one knows the fine story of Perseus and Andromeda; how the lovely Andromeda, the daughter of a king, was tied to a rock on the sea-coast, and as Leviathan was in the very act of carrying her off, Perseus, the prince of whalemen, intrepidly advancing, harpooned the monster, and delivered and married the maid. It was an admirable artistic exploit, rarely achieved by the best harpooneers of the present day; inasmuch as this Leviathan was slain at the very first dart. And let no man doubt this Arkite story; for in the ancient Joppa, now Jaffa, on the Syrian coast, in one of the Pagan temples, there stood for many ages the vast skeleton of a whale, which the city’s legends and all the inhabitants asserted to be the identical bones of the monster that Perseus slew. When the Romans took Joppa, the same skeleton was carried to Italy in triumph. What seems most singular and suggestively important in this story, is this: it was from Joppa that Jonah set sail.
The brave Perseus, a son of Jupiter, was the first whaleman; and to the everlasting credit of our trade, it should be noted that the first whale attacked by our group wasn’t hunted with any greedy intentions. Those were the noble days of our profession, when we took up arms only to help those in distress, not just to provide oil for lamps. Everyone knows the famous story of Perseus and Andromeda: how the beautiful Andromeda, a king’s daughter, was chained to a rock by the coast, and just as a sea monster was about to take her away, Perseus, the leader of whalemen, boldly stepped in, speared the creature, saved Andromeda, and then married her. It was an impressive feat, rarely matched even by the best harpooners of today, especially since the monster was killed on the very first strike. And let no one doubt this ancient tale, for in the old city of Joppa, now called Jaffa on the Syrian coast, there stood for many generations a massive whale skeleton, which local legends and all the townspeople claimed were the exact remains of the monster Perseus killed. When the Romans conquered Joppa, that same skeleton was taken to Italy in triumph. What’s most striking and worth noting about this story is this: Joppa was the very place where Jonah set sail.
Akin to the adventure of Perseus and Andromeda—indeed, by some supposed to be indirectly derived from it—is that famous story of St. George and the Dragon; which dragon I maintain to have been a whale; for in many old chronicles whales and dragons are strangely jumbled together, and often stand for each other. “Thou art as a lion of the waters, and as a dragon of the sea,” saith Ezekiel; hereby, plainly meaning a whale; in truth, some versions of the Bible use that word itself. Besides, it would much subtract from the glory of the exploit had St. George but encountered a crawling reptile of the land, instead of doing battle with the great monster of the deep. Any man may kill a snake, but only a Perseus, a St. George, a Coffin, have the heart in them to march boldly up to a whale.
Similar to the adventure of Perseus and Andromeda—actually, some people think it was indirectly inspired by it—is the famous story of St. George and the Dragon. I argue that the dragon was actually a whale, because in many old records, whales and dragons are oddly mixed up and often seen as interchangeable. "You are like a lion of the waters, and a dragon of the sea," says Ezekiel, clearly referring to a whale; in fact, some versions of the Bible use the word "whale" directly. Besides, the achievement would lose much of its glory if St. George had only faced a land-dwelling snake instead of battling a massive sea creature. Anyone can kill a snake, but it takes someone like Perseus, St. George, or Coffin to have the courage to face a whale head-on.
Let not the modern paintings of this scene mislead us; for though the creature encountered by that valiant whaleman of old is vaguely represented of a griffin-like shape, and though the battle is depicted on land and the saint on horseback, yet considering the great ignorance of those times, when the true form of the whale was unknown to artists; and considering that as in Perseus’ case, St. George’s whale might have crawled up out of the sea on the beach; and considering that the animal ridden by St. George might have been only a large seal, or sea-horse; bearing all this in mind, it will not appear altogether incompatible with the sacred legend and the ancientest draughts of the scene, to hold this so-called dragon no other than the great Leviathan himself. In fact, placed before the strict and piercing truth, this whole story will fare like that fish, flesh, and fowl idol of the Philistines, Dagon by name; who being planted before the ark of Israel, his horse’s head and both the palms of his hands fell off from him, and only the stump or fishy part of him remained. Thus, then, one of our own noble stamp, even a whaleman, is the tutelary guardian of England; and by good rights, we harpooneers of Nantucket should be enrolled in the most noble order of St. George. And therefore, let not the knights of that honorable company (none of whom, I venture to say, have ever had to do with a whale like their great patron), let them never eye a Nantucketer with disdain, since even in our woollen frocks and tarred trowsers we are much better entitled to St. George’s decoration than they.
Let’s not be misled by modern depictions of this scene. Even though the creature faced by that brave whaleman of the past is loosely shown as having a griffin-like shape, and the battle is set on land with the saint on horseback, we should remember the great ignorance of those times. Back then, artists didn’t know what a whale really looked like. And considering that, as in the story of Perseus, St. George’s “whale” might have dragged itself out of the sea onto the beach, and that the creature St. George was riding might have just been a giant seal or a sea-horse, it’s not entirely incompatible with the sacred legend and the oldest depictions of the event to think that this so-called dragon was actually the great Leviathan itself. In fact, when you look at the story with sharp, objective truth, it’s like the old Philistine idol Dagon—when placed before the Ark of Israel, Dagon’s head and hands fell off, leaving only the stump or fishy part. So, in the same way, one of our own kind—yes, a whaleman—is England’s guardian saint. By all rights, we harpooneers of Nantucket should be included in the prestigious order of St. George. Therefore, let the knights of that honorable society (none of whom, I’d venture to say, have ever dealt with a whale like their great patron did) never look down on a Nantucketer. Even in our woolen gear and tar-stained trousers, we’re far more deserving of St. George’s honor than they are.
Whether to admit Hercules among us or not, concerning this I long remained dubious: for though according to the Greek mythologies, that antique Crockett and Kit Carson—that brawny doer of rejoicing good deeds, was swallowed down and thrown up by a whale; still, whether that strictly makes a whaleman of him, that might be mooted. It nowhere appears that he ever actually harpooned his fish, unless, indeed, from the inside. Nevertheless, he may be deemed a sort of involuntary whaleman; at any rate the whale caught him, if he did not the whale. I claim him for one of our clan.
Whether or not to include Hercules among us, I debated this for a long time. According to Greek myths, that old-time version of Crockett or Kit Carson—that strongman who loved doing good deeds—was swallowed and later spat out by a whale. But does that really qualify him as a whaleman? That’s up for debate. There’s no evidence he ever actually harpooned a whale—unless, of course, you count from the inside. Still, he could be considered a kind of accidental whaleman. Either way, the whale caught him, even if he didn’t catch the whale. So, I claim him as one of our own.
But, by the best contradictory authorities, this Grecian story of Hercules and the whale is considered to be derived from the still more ancient Hebrew story of Jonah and the whale; and vice versâ; certainly they are very similar. If I claim the demi-god then, why not the prophet?
But according to the most conflicting sources, this Greek story of Hercules and the whale is thought to have originated from the even older Hebrew story of Jonah and the whale; and vice versa. They’re certainly very similar. If I can lay claim to the demi-god, then why not the prophet too?
Nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order. Our grand master is still to be named; for like royal kings of old times, we find the head waters of our fraternity in nothing short of the great gods themselves. That wondrous oriental story is now to be rehearsed from the Shaster, which gives us the dread Vishnoo, one of the three persons in the godhead of the Hindoos; gives us this divine Vishnoo himself for our Lord;—Vishnoo, who, by the first of his ten earthly incarnations, has for ever set apart and sanctified the whale. When Brahma, or the God of Gods, saith the Shaster, resolved to recreate the world after one of its periodical dissolutions, he gave birth to Vishnoo, to preside over the work; but the Vedas, or mystical books, whose perusal would seem to have been indispensable to Vishnoo before beginning the creation, and which therefore must have contained something in the shape of practical hints to young architects, these Vedas were lying at the bottom of the waters; so Vishnoo became incarnate in a whale, and sounding down in him to the uttermost depths, rescued the sacred volumes. Was not this Vishnoo a whaleman, then? even as a man who rides a horse is called a horseman?
Heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets aren’t the only ones who make up the ranks of our order. Our ultimate leader is still to be introduced; for, like ancient kings, the origins of our fraternity go back to none other than the great gods themselves. The remarkable tale from the Shaster is about to be retold, the one that reveals the mighty Vishnu, one of the three divine figures in the Hindu trinity, as our patron. Vishnu, who, through the first of his ten earthly incarnations, forever blessed and sanctified the whale. According to the Shaster, when Brahma, the supreme god, decided to recreate the world after one of its cyclical destructions, he brought Vishnu into existence to oversee the task. However, the Vedas—sacred and mystical texts containing vital guidance—were hidden at the bottom of the ocean, making it essential for Vishnu to retrieve them before starting creation. To accomplish this, Vishnu took the form of a whale, dove to the deepest depths, and recovered the sacred books. Doesn’t that make Vishnu a whaleman? Just as someone who rides a horse is called a horseman?
Perseus, St. George, Hercules, Jonah, and Vishnoo! there’s a member-roll for you! What club but the whaleman’s can head off like that?
Perseus, St. George, Hercules, Jonah, and Vishnu! What a lineup for you! What club besides the whaleman’s can boast members like that?
CHAPTER 83. Jonah Historically Regarded.
Reference was made to the historical story of Jonah and the whale in the preceding chapter. Now some Nantucketers rather distrust this historical story of Jonah and the whale. But then there were some sceptical Greeks and Romans, who, standing out from the orthodox pagans of their times, equally doubted the story of Hercules and the whale, and Arion and the dolphin; and yet their doubting those traditions did not make those traditions one whit the less facts, for all that.
The historical story of Jonah and the whale was mentioned in the previous chapter. Some people from Nantucket are a bit skeptical about this story. But just as there were skeptical Greeks and Romans who went against the beliefs of most pagans of their time, doubting the stories of Hercules and the whale or Arion and the dolphin, their skepticism didn’t make those stories any less factual.
One old Sag-Harbor whaleman’s chief reason for questioning the Hebrew story was this:—He had one of those quaint old-fashioned Bibles, embellished with curious, unscientific plates; one of which represented Jonah’s whale with two spouts in his head—a peculiarity only true with respect to a species of the Leviathan (the Right Whale, and the varieties of that order), concerning which the fishermen have this saying, “A penny roll would choke him”; his swallow is so very small. But, to this, Bishop Jebb’s anticipative answer is ready. It is not necessary, hints the Bishop, that we consider Jonah as tombed in the whale’s belly, but as temporarily lodged in some part of his mouth. And this seems reasonable enough in the good Bishop. For truly, the Right Whale’s mouth would accommodate a couple of whist-tables, and comfortably seat all the players. Possibly, too, Jonah might have ensconced himself in a hollow tooth; but, on second thoughts, the Right Whale is toothless.
One old whaler from Sag Harbor had his doubts about the biblical story for this reason: he owned one of those quirky old Bibles with odd, outdated illustrations. One of the illustrations showed Jonah's whale with two blowholes on its head—a feature true only of a specific type of whale (the Right Whale and its kind). Fishermen have a saying about this species: "A dinner roll could choke him," because its throat is so small. However, Bishop Jebb had an answer ready for this objection. The Bishop suggested it wasn’t necessary to think of Jonah being stuck in the whale’s stomach but rather lodged somewhere in its mouth. That seems reasonable enough coming from the good Bishop, since the Right Whale's mouth is large enough to hold a couple of card tables and seat all the players comfortably. Perhaps Jonah could have tucked himself into a hollow tooth—though, on second thought, the Right Whale doesn’t have teeth.
Another reason which Sag-Harbor (he went by that name) urged for his want of faith in this matter of the prophet, was something obscurely in reference to his incarcerated body and the whale’s gastric juices. But this objection likewise falls to the ground, because a German exegetist supposes that Jonah must have taken refuge in the floating body of a dead whale—even as the French soldiers in the Russian campaign turned their dead horses into tents, and crawled into them. Besides, it has been divined by other continental commentators, that when Jonah was thrown overboard from the Joppa ship, he straightway effected his escape to another vessel near by, some vessel with a whale for a figure-head; and, I would add, possibly called “The Whale,” as some craft are nowadays christened the “Shark,” the “Gull,” the “Eagle.” Nor have there been wanting learned exegetists who have opined that the whale mentioned in the book of Jonah merely meant a life-preserver—an inflated bag of wind—which the endangered prophet swam to, and so was saved from a watery doom. Poor Sag-Harbor, therefore, seems worsted all round. But he had still another reason for his want of faith. It was this, if I remember right: Jonah was swallowed by the whale in the Mediterranean Sea, and after three days he was vomited up somewhere within three days’ journey of Nineveh, a city on the Tigris, very much more than three days’ journey across from the nearest point of the Mediterranean coast. How is that?
Another reason Sag-Harbor (that’s what he went by) doubted the story of the prophet had something vaguely to do with his body being trapped and the whale’s stomach acids. But this argument doesn’t hold up either, since a German scholar suggested Jonah might have sought shelter inside the floating carcass of a *dead* whale—just like the French soldiers during the Russian campaign used their dead horses as makeshift tents by crawling inside them. Moreover, other scholars from Europe theorized that when Jonah was tossed overboard from the ship at Joppa, he quickly made his way onto another nearby ship, perhaps one with a whale figurehead; and, I’d add, maybe even named “The Whale,” just like modern ships are named “The Shark,” “The Gull,” or “The Eagle.” In fact, there are scholars who have even proposed that the whale in the book of Jonah was actually just a life-preserver—an air-filled device that Jonah swam to, saving him from drowning. Poor Sag-Harbor, it seems, gets defeated on all fronts. But he did have one more reason for his skepticism. As I recall, it was this: Jonah was swallowed by the whale in the Mediterranean, and after three days, he was spit out somewhere that was supposedly within a three-day journey to Nineveh, a city by the Tigris River, which is far more than a three-day journey from the closest point on the Mediterranean coastline. How does that add up?
But was there no other way for the whale to land the prophet within that short distance of Nineveh? Yes. He might have carried him round by the way of the Cape of Good Hope. But not to speak of the passage through the whole length of the Mediterranean, and another passage up the Persian Gulf and Red Sea, such a supposition would involve the complete circumnavigation of all Africa in three days, not to speak of the Tigris waters, near the site of Nineveh, being too shallow for any whale to swim in. Besides, this idea of Jonah’s weathering the Cape of Good Hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of that great headland from Bartholomew Diaz, its reputed discoverer, and so make modern history a liar.
But was there no other way for the whale to drop off the prophet close to Nineveh? Sure, there was. The whale could have taken him around via the Cape of Good Hope. But that would mean traveling the entire length of the Mediterranean, then going through the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea—and assuming that, it would require circling all of Africa in just three days. Not to mention, the Tigris near Nineveh would’ve been way too shallow for a whale to swim in. Plus, the idea of Jonah rounding the Cape of Good Hope at such an early time would steal the credit for discovering that major headland away from Bartholomew Diaz, its supposed discoverer, and turn modern history into a liar.
But all these foolish arguments of old Sag-Harbor only evinced his foolish pride of reason—a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing that he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the sun and the sea. I say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and abominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy. For by a Portuguese Catholic priest, this very idea of Jonah’s going to Nineveh via the Cape of Good Hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the general miracle. And so it was. Besides, to this day, the highly enlightened Turks devoutly believe in the historical story of Jonah. And some three centuries ago, an English traveller in old Harris’s Voyages, speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, in which Mosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil.
But all these ridiculous arguments from old Sag-Harbor only revealed his silly pride in his own reasoning—a trait even more blameworthy in him, considering he had little knowledge beyond what he had gathered from the sun and the sea. I'm saying it simply shows his foolish, disrespectful arrogance and wicked, rebellious attitude toward the esteemed clergy. After all, a Portuguese Catholic priest had presented this very idea of Jonah traveling to Nineveh via the Cape of Good Hope as a remarkable expansion of the overall miracle. And it truly was. Moreover, even today, the very sophisticated Turks faithfully believe in the historical account of Jonah. About three centuries ago, an English traveler, as mentioned in old Harris’s Voyages, described a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, where there was a miraculous lamp that burned without any oil.
CHAPTER 84. Pitchpoling.
To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft’s bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to some particular presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the event.
To make them run smoothly and quickly, carriage axles are greased; and for pretty much the same reason, some whalers do a similar thing to their boats—they grease the bottom. It’s hard to argue that, since this process can’t hurt, it might actually offer some worthwhile benefits—considering that oil and water don’t mix, oil is slippery, and the goal is to make the boat glide easily. Queequeg was a firm believer in greasing his boat, and one morning, not long after the German ship Jungfrau vanished, he put extra effort into the task. He crawled under the bottom of the boat, which hung over the side, and carefully rubbed in the grease as if he were trying to grow hair on the vessel’s bare keel. It looked like he was following some kind of instinct. And as it turned out, he wasn’t wrong.
Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra’s barges from Actium.
Around noon, whales were spotted, but as soon as the ship approached them, they turned and fled rapidly, in a chaotic retreat, like Cleopatra’s barges fleeing from Actium.
Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb’s was foremost. By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal flight, with added fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious. What then remained?
Still, the boats chased on, with Stubb’s in the lead. After a lot of effort, Tashtego finally managed to drive one harpoon into the whale. But the injured whale, instead of diving deep, kept racing forward faster than ever. The constant tension on the harpoon was bound to pull it out sooner or later. It became crucial to lance the whale as it swam, or they’d have to accept losing it. But pulling the boat up alongside the whale was out of the question—he was swimming too fast and wildly. So what could they do?
Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced, none exceed that fine manœuvre with the lance called pitchpoling. Small sword, or broad sword, in all its exercises boasts nothing like it. It is only indispensable with an inveterate running whale; its grand fact and feature is the wonderful distance to which the long lance is accurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat, under extreme headway. Steel and wood included, the entire spear is some ten or twelve feet in length; the staff is much slighter than that of the harpoon, and also of a lighter material—pine. It is furnished with a small rope called a warp, of considerable length, by which it can be hauled back to the hand after darting.
Out of all the amazing tricks and skills, the sleight of hand and countless techniques that an experienced whaler often has to rely on, none surpass the clever maneuver with the lance known as pitchpoling. No small sword or broadsword exercise comes close to matching it. It’s only absolutely necessary when dealing with a particularly determined, fast-moving whale. The key aspect of pitchpoling is the incredible distance the long lance can be thrown with precision from a boat that’s violently rocking and jerking at full speed. Including both the steel and the wood, the spear is about ten to twelve feet long. Its shaft is thinner and made of lighter material than the harpoon, typically pine. It’s also equipped with a small rope called a warp, which is quite long and allows the user to pull it back after throwing it.
But before going further, it is important to mention here, that though the harpoon may be pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet it is seldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful, on account of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoon as compared with the lance, which in effect become serious drawbacks. As a general thing, therefore, you must first get fast to a whale, before any pitchpoling comes into play.
Before moving on, it’s important to point out that while the harpoon can technically be thrown like the lance, it’s rarely done, and when it is, it’s even less likely to succeed. This is due to the harpoon being heavier and shorter than the lance, which creates significant disadvantages. So generally speaking, you need to secure the harpoon to a whale first before any throwing comes into play.
Look now at Stubb; a man who from his humorous, deliberate coolness and equanimity in the direst emergencies, was specially qualified to excel in pitchpoling. Look at him; he stands upright in the tossed bow of the flying boat; wrapt in fleecy foam, the towing whale is forty feet ahead. Handling the long lance lightly, glancing twice or thrice along its length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlingly gathers up the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to secure its free end in his grasp, leaving the rest unobstructed. Then holding the lance full before his waistband’s middle, he levels it at the whale; when, covering him with it, he steadily depresses the butt-end in his hand, thereby elevating the point till the weapon stands fairly balanced upon his palm, fifteen feet in the air. He minds you somewhat of a juggler, balancing a long staff on his chin. Next moment with a rapid, nameless impulse, in a superb lofty arch the bright steel spans the foaming distance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale. Instead of sparkling water, he now spouts red blood.
Take a look at Stubb—a man whose humor, calm determination, and steady composure in the most intense situations made him perfect for the art of pitchpoling. Look at him now, standing tall in the rocking bow of the speeding boat, wrapped in swirling foam, with the towing whale just forty feet ahead. Casually handling the long lance, he glances down its length a couple of times to make sure it's perfectly straight. With a whistle, he gathers the coil of the rope in one hand, securing the loose end while keeping the rest free to move. Then, holding the lance squarely at his waist, he aims it directly at the whale. Steadily tilting the handle downward in his grip, he raises the tip of the lance until it balances perfectly on his palm, towering fifteen feet into the air. He almost looks like a performer, balancing a tall staff on his chin. In the next instant, with a swift, indescribable motion, the lance arcs high through the air like a flawless curve of steel. It flashes through the roaring foam and pierces the vital spot of the whale. The water, once sparkling, now sprays red with blood.
“That drove the spigot out of him!” cried Stubb. “’Tis July’s immortal Fourth; all fountains must run wine today! Would now, it were old Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakable old Monongahela! Then, Tashtego, lad, I’d have ye hold a canakin to the jet, and we’d drink round it! Yea, verily, hearts alive, we’d brew choice punch in the spread of his spout-hole there, and from that live punch-bowl quaff the living stuff.”
"That knocked the plug right out of him!" shouted Stubb. "It’s the Fourth of July—everything’s gotta flow like wine today! Oh, if only it were some old Orleans whiskey, or some classic Ohio, or that legendary Monongahela! Then, Tashtego, my boy, I’d have you hold a cup to the stream, and we’d drink straight from it! Yeah, absolutely, with spirits high, we’d mix up a fine punch in the spray from his spout there, and drink the real thing straight from the living punch bowl."
Again and again to such gamesome talk, the dexterous dart is repeated, the spear returning to its master like a greyhound held in skilful leash. The agonized whale goes into his flurry; the tow-line is slackened, and the pitchpoler dropping astern, folds his hands, and mutely watches the monster die.
Again and again, during this playful chatter, the skilled throw of the spear is repeated, the weapon returning to its owner like a well-trained greyhound on a controlled leash. The tortured whale enters its final struggle; the towline loosens, and the spearman, drifting back, folds his hands and silently watches the creature die.
CHAPTER 85. The Fountain.
That for six thousand years—and no one knows how many millions of ages before—the great whales should have been spouting all over the sea, and sprinkling and mistifying the gardens of the deep, as with so many sprinkling or mistifying pots; and that for some centuries back, thousands of hunters should have been close by the fountain of the whale, watching these sprinklings and spoutings—that all this should be, and yet, that down to this blessed minute (fifteen and a quarter minutes past one o’clock P.M. of this sixteenth day of December, A.D. 1851), it should still remain a problem, whether these spoutings are, after all, really water, or nothing but vapor—this is surely a noteworthy thing.
For six thousand years—and who knows how many millions of ages before that—great whales have been spouting all over the sea, spraying and misting the depths like countless sprinklers or mist machines. And for several centuries now, thousands of hunters have been right there near the whale's fountain, observing these sprays and spouts. That all of this has been happening, and yet, even up to this very moment (1:15 PM on December 16, 1851), it’s still a mystery whether these spouts are truly water or just vapor—that’s definitely something remarkable.
Let us, then, look at this matter, along with some interesting items contingent. Every one knows that by the peculiar cunning of their gills, the finny tribes in general breathe the air which at all times is combined with the element in which they swim; hence, a herring or a cod might live a century, and never once raise its head above the surface. But owing to his marked internal structure which gives him regular lungs, like a human being’s, the whale can only live by inhaling the disengaged air in the open atmosphere. Wherefore the necessity for his periodical visits to the upper world. But he cannot in any degree breathe through his mouth, for, in his ordinary attitude, the Sperm Whale’s mouth is buried at least eight feet beneath the surface; and what is still more, his windpipe has no connexion with his mouth. No, he breathes through his spiracle alone; and this is on the top of his head.
Let’s take a look at this issue along with some interesting related details. Everyone knows that fish, thanks to the unique design of their gills, breathe the air that’s always mixed in with the water they swim in. Because of this, a herring or a cod might live for a hundred years without ever needing to lift its head above the surface. However, due to the whale’s distinct internal structure, which gives it lungs like a human’s, it can only survive by breathing the free air of the open atmosphere. That’s why it has to come up to the surface regularly. But the whale can’t breathe through its mouth at all, because normally, the Sperm Whale’s mouth stays at least eight feet under the water. Even more interesting, its windpipe isn’t connected to its mouth. No, it breathes solely through its blowhole, which is located on the top of its head.
If I say, that in any creature breathing is only a function indispensable to vitality, inasmuch as it withdraws from the air a certain element, which being subsequently brought into contact with the blood imparts to the blood its vivifying principle, I do not think I shall err; though I may possibly use some superfluous scientific words. Assume it, and it follows that if all the blood in a man could be aerated with one breath, he might then seal up his nostrils and not fetch another for a considerable time. That is to say, he would then live without breathing. Anomalous as it may seem, this is precisely the case with the whale, who systematically lives, by intervals, his full hour and more (when at the bottom) without drawing a single breath, or so much as in any way inhaling a particle of air; for, remember, he has no gills. How is this? Between his ribs and on each side of his spine he is supplied with a remarkable involved Cretan labyrinth of vermicelli-like vessels, which vessels, when he quits the surface, are completely distended with oxygenated blood. So that for an hour or more, a thousand fathoms in the sea, he carries a surplus stock of vitality in him, just as the camel crossing the waterless desert carries a surplus supply of drink for future use in its four supplementary stomachs. The anatomical fact of this labyrinth is indisputable; and that the supposition founded upon it is reasonable and true, seems the more cogent to me, when I consider the otherwise inexplicable obstinacy of that leviathan in having his spoutings out, as the fishermen phrase it. This is what I mean. If unmolested, upon rising to the surface, the Sperm Whale will continue there for a period of time exactly uniform with all his other unmolested risings. Say he stays eleven minutes, and jets seventy times, that is, respires seventy breaths; then whenever he rises again, he will be sure to have his seventy breaths over again, to a minute. Now, if after he fetches a few breaths you alarm him, so that he sounds, he will be always dodging up again to make good his regular allowance of air. And not till those seventy breaths are told, will he finally go down to stay out his full term below. Remark, however, that in different individuals these rates are different; but in any one they are alike. Now, why should the whale thus insist upon having his spoutings out, unless it be to replenish his reservoir of air, ere descending for good? How obvious is it, too, that this necessity for the whale’s rising exposes him to all the fatal hazards of the chase. For not by hook or by net could this vast leviathan be caught, when sailing a thousand fathoms beneath the sunlight. Not so much thy skill, then, O hunter, as the great necessities that strike the victory to thee!
If I say that in any living creature, breathing is simply an essential function of staying alive because it draws a certain element from the air that, when mixed with the blood, provides it with life-giving energy, I don’t think I’ll be wrong—although I may use a little too much scientific jargon. Assuming this is true, it follows that if all the blood in a person could be oxygenated with one breath, they could seal their nostrils and go without another breath for quite a while. In other words, they could live without breathing for a time. Strange as it sounds, this is exactly how the whale lives: it spends over an hour (when deep underwater) without taking a single breath or inhaling even the tiniest bit of air, because, remember, it doesn’t have gills. How does it manage? Inside its body, between its ribs and along each side of its spine, it has an intricate maze of vessels resembling tiny, thread-like tubes, which become completely filled with oxygenated blood when it surfaces to breathe. This allows the whale to dive a thousand fathoms deep and stay underwater for over an hour, carrying a reserve of life-sustaining oxygen, much like a camel crossing the barren desert carries extra water in its multiple stomachs. The existence of this unique system in the whale’s anatomy is a fact, and it seems entirely logical to me that its purpose supports the whale’s ability to hold its breath for such long durations. This belief becomes even more convincing when I consider the otherwise baffling behavior of the whale during what fishermen call “having his spoutings out.” Here’s what I mean: If undisturbed, a Sperm Whale surfaces and stays there for a consistent amount of time at each rise. Say it surfaces for eleven minutes and blows out jets of air seventy times, meaning it takes seventy breaths. Whenever it rises again, it will always take those seventy breaths in the same amount of time. But if you scare the whale right after it has taken just a few breaths, forcing it to dive, it will keep coming back up frequently, trying to complete its usual number of breaths. It won’t fully dive again or stay submerged long until those seventy breaths are done. This pattern may vary between individual whales, but for any single whale, it remains consistent. So, why does the whale insist on completing its “spoutings” before it dives back down? It’s clearly to refill its oxygen supply before its next long descent. And it’s this need to surface for air that exposes the whale to the dangers of hunters. Without this necessity, no hook or net could reach this colossal creature when it’s swimming a thousand fathoms deep. Thus, it’s not so much the hunter’s skill as it is the whale’s fundamental need to breathe that gives the hunter their triumph!
In man, breathing is incessantly going on—one breath only serving for two or three pulsations; so that whatever other business he has to attend to, waking or sleeping, breathe he must, or die he will. But the Sperm Whale only breathes about one seventh or Sunday of his time.
In humans, breathing happens constantly—each breath lasting for only two or three heartbeats; no matter what else he’s doing, awake or asleep, he has to keep breathing or he’ll die. But the Sperm Whale only breathes for about one-seventh of its time, like taking a rest on Sundays.
It has been said that the whale only breathes through his spout-hole; if it could truthfully be added that his spouts are mixed with water, then I opine we should be furnished with the reason why his sense of smell seems obliterated in him; for the only thing about him that at all answers to his nose is that identical spout-hole; and being so clogged with two elements, it could not be expected to have the power of smelling. But owing to the mystery of the spout—whether it be water or whether it be vapor—no absolute certainty can as yet be arrived at on this head. Sure it is, nevertheless, that the Sperm Whale has no proper olfactories. But what does he want of them? No roses, no violets, no Cologne-water in the sea.
It's been said that the whale only breathes through its blowhole. If it could also be proven that its spouts contain water, then I think we’d have an explanation for why its sense of smell seems to be missing; because the only part of the whale that resembles a nose is the blowhole, and since it's clogged with two elements, you wouldn’t expect it to have the ability to smell. However, due to the mystery of the spout—whether it's water or vapor—there’s still no definitive answer. What is certain is that the Sperm Whale has no proper sense of smell. But does it really need one? There are no roses, violets, or perfume in the ocean.
Furthermore, as his windpipe solely opens into the tube of his spouting canal, and as that long canal—like the grand Erie Canal—is furnished with a sort of locks (that open and shut) for the downward retention of air or the upward exclusion of water, therefore the whale has no voice; unless you insult him by saying, that when he so strangely rumbles, he talks through his nose. But then again, what has the whale to say? Seldom have I known any profound being that had anything to say to this world, unless forced to stammer out something by way of getting a living. Oh! happy that the world is such an excellent listener!
Moreover, since his windpipe only connects to the tube of his spouting canal, and because that long canal—much like the Erie Canal—is equipped with a kind of locks (which open and close) to keep air in or water out, the whale doesn’t have a voice. Unless, of course, you want to insult him by claiming that his strange rumbling is just him talking through his nose. But then again, what does the whale even need to say? I’ve rarely seen any deep, profound being that had much to say to the world, unless they were forced to mutter a few words just to make a living. Oh, how lucky we are that the world is such a great listener!
Now, the spouting canal of the Sperm Whale, chiefly intended as it is for the conveyance of air, and for several feet laid along, horizontally, just beneath the upper surface of his head, and a little to one side; this curious canal is very much like a gas-pipe laid down in a city on one side of a street. But the question returns whether this gas-pipe is also a water-pipe; in other words, whether the spout of the Sperm Whale is the mere vapor of the exhaled breath, or whether that exhaled breath is mixed with water taken in at the mouth, and discharged through the spiracle. It is certain that the mouth indirectly communicates with the spouting canal; but it cannot be proved that this is for the purpose of discharging water through the spiracle. Because the greatest necessity for so doing would seem to be, when in feeding he accidentally takes in water. But the Sperm Whale’s food is far beneath the surface, and there he cannot spout even if he would. Besides, if you regard him very closely, and time him with your watch, you will find that when unmolested, there is an undeviating rhyme between the periods of his jets and the ordinary periods of respiration.
The spouting canal of the sperm whale, mainly designed to carry air, runs horizontally for several feet just under the surface of his head and slightly off to one side. This strange canal is very similar to a gas pipe installed along one side of a city street. But the question remains: is this gas pipe also a water pipe? In other words, is the whale’s spout just vapor from exhaled breath, or is it a mix of exhaled breath and water that the whale takes in through its mouth and expels through the blowhole? While it’s clear that the mouth is indirectly connected to the spouting canal, there’s no proof that it’s meant to discharge water through the blowhole. The main reason for doing so would likely only arise when the whale accidentally takes in water while feeding. But since the sperm whale’s food is far below the surface, where it can’t spout even if it wanted to, this doesn’t seem likely. Moreover, if you watch the whale closely and measure its intervals with a watch, you’ll notice that, when undisturbed, the timing of its spouts matches perfectly with its normal breathing patterns.
But why pester one with all this reasoning on the subject? Speak out! You have seen him spout; then declare what the spout is; can you not tell water from air? My dear sir, in this world it is not so easy to settle these plain things. I have ever found your plain things the knottiest of all. And as for this whale spout, you might almost stand in it, and yet be undecided as to what it is precisely.
Why bother with all this reasoning on the topic? Just say it! You've seen him spout; then explain what the spout is—can't you tell water from air? My dear sir, in this world, it's not so easy to figure out these straightforward things. I've always found the simplest things to be the most complicated. And when it comes to this whale spout, you could almost stand right in it and still not be sure exactly what it is.
The central body of it is hidden in the snowy sparkling mist enveloping it; and how can you certainly tell whether any water falls from it, when, always, when you are close enough to a whale to get a close view of his spout, he is in a prodigious commotion, the water cascading all around him. And if at such times you should think that you really perceived drops of moisture in the spout, how do you know that they are not merely condensed from its vapor; or how do you know that they are not those identical drops superficially lodged in the spout-hole fissure, which is countersunk into the summit of the whale’s head? For even when tranquilly swimming through the mid-day sea in a calm, with his elevated hump sun-dried as a dromedary’s in the desert; even then, the whale always carries a small basin of water on his head, as under a blazing sun you will sometimes see a cavity in a rock filled up with rain.
The main part of it is hidden in the shimmering snowy mist surrounding it, so how can you be sure if any water is actually falling from it? Whenever you're close enough to a whale to really see its spout, everything around it is so chaotic, with water splashing everywhere. And even if, in those moments, you think you see actual drops of water in the spout, how can you be certain they're not just condensed vapor? Or, how do you know they aren't just tiny drops that were already stuck in the spout-hole, which is recessed into the top of the whale’s head? Even when the whale is calmly swimming through the calm midday sea, with its hump dried out by the sun like a dromedary's in the desert, it always has a small pool of water on its head—just like how you can sometimes see a hollowed rock filled with rainwater under the blazing sun.
Nor is it at all prudent for the hunter to be over curious touching the precise nature of the whale spout. It will not do for him to be peering into it, and putting his face in it. You cannot go with your pitcher to this fountain and fill it, and bring it away. For even when coming into slight contact with the outer, vapory shreds of the jet, which will often happen, your skin will feverishly smart, from the acridness of the thing so touching it. And I know one, who coming into still closer contact with the spout, whether with some scientific object in view, or otherwise, I cannot say, the skin peeled off from his cheek and arm. Wherefore, among whalemen, the spout is deemed poisonous; they try to evade it. Another thing; I have heard it said, and I do not much doubt it, that if the jet is fairly spouted into your eyes, it will blind you. The wisest thing the investigator can do then, it seems to me, is to let this deadly spout alone.
It's not a good idea for a hunter to get too curious about the exact nature of the whale's spout. You shouldn't be staring into it or sticking your face near it. You can't just treat it like a fountain, filling up a pitcher and carrying it away. Even brushing against the outer, misty edges of the spray—something that happens often—can cause your skin to sting painfully because of its sharp, acrid quality. In fact, I know someone who got even closer to the spout—whether for some scientific reason or not, I don’t know—and the skin on his cheek and arm peeled right off. That’s why whalers believe the spout is poisonous, and they do their best to avoid it. Another thing I’ve heard, and I don't doubt it much, is that if the spray gets directly into your eyes, it can blind you. So, in my opinion, the smartest thing an investigator can do is to stay far away from this dangerous spout.
Still, we can hypothesize, even if we cannot prove and establish. My hypothesis is this: that the spout is nothing but mist. And besides other reasons, to this conclusion I am impelled, by considerations touching the great inherent dignity and sublimity of the Sperm Whale; I account him no common, shallow being, inasmuch as it is an undisputed fact that he is never found on soundings, or near shores; all other whales sometimes are. He is both ponderous and profound. And I am convinced that from the heads of all ponderous profound beings, such as Plato, Pyrrho, the Devil, Jupiter, Dante, and so on, there always goes up a certain semi-visible steam, while in the act of thinking deep thoughts. While composing a little treatise on Eternity, I had the curiosity to place a mirror before me; and ere long saw reflected there, a curious involved worming and undulation in the atmosphere over my head. The invariable moisture of my hair, while plunged in deep thought, after six cups of hot tea in my thin shingled attic, of an August noon; this seems an additional argument for the above supposition.
Still, we can make guesses, even if we can't prove or confirm them. My guess is this: the spout is nothing but mist. And for several reasons, I’m led to this conclusion by considering the great inherent dignity and grandeur of the Sperm Whale. I don’t see him as some ordinary, shallow creature, especially since it’s an undisputed fact that he’s never found in shallow waters or near shores, unlike other whales. He is both massive and profound. And I’m convinced that from the heads of all massive, profound beings—like Plato, Pyrrho, the Devil, Jupiter, Dante, and so on—there always rises a certain faint, almost invisible mist when they’re deep in thought. While writing a small treatise on Eternity, I got curious and placed a mirror in front of me; before long, I noticed a strange, swirling motion in the air above my head. The constant moisture in my hair when I’m lost in deep thought, after drinking six cups of hot tea in my thinly-roofed attic on an August afternoon, seems like further evidence for this idea.
And how nobly it raises our conceit of the mighty, misty monster, to behold him solemnly sailing through a calm tropical sea; his vast, mild head overhung by a canopy of vapor, engendered by his incommunicable contemplations, and that vapor—as you will sometimes see it—glorified by a rainbow, as if Heaven itself had put its seal upon his thoughts. For, d’ye see, rainbows do not visit the clear air; they only irradiate vapor. And so, through all the thick mists of the dim doubts in my mind, divine intuitions now and then shoot, enkindling my fog with a heavenly ray. And for this I thank God; for all have doubts; many deny; but doubts or denials, few along with them, have intuitions. Doubts of all things earthly, and intuitions of some things heavenly; this combination makes neither believer nor infidel, but makes a man who regards them both with equal eye.
And how it lifts our admiration for the powerful, mysterious creature to see him calmly moving through a serene tropical sea; his massive, gentle head covered by a veil of mist, formed by his silent reflections, and that mist—sometimes illuminated by a rainbow, as if Heaven itself had marked his thoughts with approval. See, rainbows don’t appear in clear skies; they only light up mist. And in the same way, through all the heavy fog of uncertainty in my mind, divine insights occasionally break through, lighting up my confusion with a heavenly glow. And for that, I thank God; because everyone has doubts. Many people deny, but few, along with their doubts or denials, experience moments of clarity. Doubts about everything on earth, and glimpses of something beyond—this mix doesn't make someone a believer or a skeptic, but someone who views both with equal perspective.
CHAPTER 86. The Tail.
Other poets have warbled the praises of the soft eye of the antelope, and the lovely plumage of the bird that never alights; less celestial, I celebrate a tail.
Other poets have sung about the gentle eyes of the antelope and the beautiful feathers of the bird that never lands; less heavenly, I’m here to honor a tail.
Reckoning the largest sized Sperm Whale’s tail to begin at that point of the trunk where it tapers to about the girth of a man, it comprises upon its upper surface alone, an area of at least fifty square feet. The compact round body of its root expands into two broad, firm, flat palms or flukes, gradually shoaling away to less than an inch in thickness. At the crotch or junction, these flukes slightly overlap, then sideways recede from each other like wings, leaving a wide vacancy between. In no living thing are the lines of beauty more exquisitely defined than in the crescentic borders of these flukes. At its utmost expansion in the full grown whale, the tail will considerably exceed twenty feet across.
Estimating the size of a large sperm whale's tail, starting from the point where the body narrows to about the width of a man's torso, it covers an area of at least fifty square feet on its upper surface alone. The thick, rounded base of the tail widens into two broad, sturdy, flat sections called flukes that taper down to less than an inch thick. At the center where the flukes meet, they slightly overlap and then spread outward like wings, leaving a wide gap in between. There’s no other living creature where the lines of beauty are as perfectly shaped as in the curved edges of these flukes. When fully spread in a fully-grown whale, the tail spans more than twenty feet across.
The entire member seems a dense webbed bed of welded sinews; but cut into it, and you find that three distinct strata compose it:—upper, middle, and lower. The fibres in the upper and lower layers, are long and horizontal; those of the middle one, very short, and running crosswise between the outside layers. This triune structure, as much as anything else, imparts power to the tail. To the student of old Roman walls, the middle layer will furnish a curious parallel to the thin course of tiles always alternating with the stone in those wonderful relics of the antique, and which undoubtedly contribute so much to the great strength of the masonry.
The whole tail looks like a dense, woven bed of fused sinews, but if you cut into it, you'll find it's made of three distinct layers: upper, middle, and lower. The fibers in the upper and lower layers are long and run horizontally, while those in the middle layer are very short and run crosswise between the outer layers. This three-layered structure is one of the key features that gives the tail its strength. For anyone familiar with old Roman walls, the middle layer might remind you of the thin courses of tiles that alternate with stone in those incredible ancient constructions, which undoubtedly add to their remarkable durability.
But as if this vast local power in the tendinous tail were not enough, the whole bulk of the leviathan is knit over with a warp and woof of muscular fibres and filaments, which passing on either side the loins and running down into the flukes, insensibly blend with them, and largely contribute to their might; so that in the tail the confluent measureless force of the whole whale seems concentrated to a point. Could annihilation occur to matter, this were the thing to do it.
As if the massive strength in the whale's tendinous tail wasn't enough, the entire body of the leviathan is covered with a network of muscle fibers and strands. These run along both sides of its loins, extend down into the flukes, and seamlessly merge with them, adding greatly to their power. It's as if the immeasurable force of the entire whale focuses itself in the tail. If matter could be completely destroyed, this would be the power to do it.
Nor does this—its amazing strength, at all tend to cripple the graceful flexion of its motions; where infantileness of ease undulates through a Titanism of power. On the contrary, those motions derive their most appalling beauty from it. Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it; and in everything imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic. Take away the tied tendons that all over seem bursting from the marble in the carved Hercules, and its charm would be gone. As devout Eckerman lifted the linen sheet from the naked corpse of Goethe, he was overwhelmed with the massive chest of the man, that seemed as a Roman triumphal arch. When Angelo paints even God the Father in human form, mark what robustness is there. And whatever they may reveal of the divine love in the Son, the soft, curled, hermaphroditical Italian pictures, in which his idea has been most successfully embodied; these pictures, so destitute as they are of all brawniness, hint nothing of any power, but the mere negative, feminine one of submission and endurance, which on all hands it is conceded, form the peculiar practical virtues of his teachings.
Nor does its incredible strength weaken the graceful flow of its movements; instead, there’s a childlike ease that weaves through its immense power. In fact, those movements gain their most terrifying beauty from this combination. True strength never diminishes beauty or harmony—instead, it often enhances it. In everything strikingly beautiful, strength plays a major role in the enchantment. Remove the prominent tendons, seemingly ready to burst from the marble of a sculpted Hercules, and its allure would vanish. When the devout Eckerman lifted the linen sheet from Goethe’s lifeless body, he was awestruck by the man’s massive chest, resembling a Roman triumphal arch. Even when Michelangelo paints God the Father in human form, notice the sheer strength depicted there. And as for the softer, curled, androgynous Italian paintings that most successfully embody the image of the Son—however much they convey the divine love—they lack any hint of true power. Instead, they suggest a passive, feminine quality of submission and endurance, which, as universally agreed, represent the central practical virtues of his teachings.
Such is the subtle elasticity of the organ I treat of, that whether wielded in sport, or in earnest, or in anger, whatever be the mood it be in, its flexions are invariably marked by exceeding grace. Therein no fairy’s arm can transcend it.
The organ I’m discussing is so subtly flexible that whether it's used playfully, seriously, or in anger, no matter the mood, its movements are always incredibly graceful. No fairy's arm could surpass it.
Five great motions are peculiar to it. First, when used as a fin for progression; Second, when used as a mace in battle; Third, in sweeping; Fourth, in lobtailing; Fifth, in peaking flukes.
Five main movements are unique to it. First, when it's used as a fin for moving forward; second, when it's used as a weapon in fights; third, for sweeping; fourth, for lobtailing; and fifth, for raising the flukes upright.
First: Being horizontal in its position, the Leviathan’s tail acts in a different manner from the tails of all other sea creatures. It never wriggles. In man or fish, wriggling is a sign of inferiority. To the whale, his tail is the sole means of propulsion. Scroll-wise coiled forwards beneath the body, and then rapidly sprung backwards, it is this which gives that singular darting, leaping motion to the monster when furiously swimming. His side-fins only serve to steer by.
First: Because it lies horizontally, the Leviathan’s tail moves differently from the tails of all other sea creatures. It never wiggles. In humans or fish, wiggling signals weakness. For the whale, its tail is the only way it propels itself. Coiled forward like a scroll under its body and then quickly snapped back, this motion gives the creature its powerful, darting, leaping movement when swimming at full speed. Its side fins are used only for steering.
Second: It is a little significant, that while one sperm whale only fights another sperm whale with his head and jaw, nevertheless, in his conflicts with man, he chiefly and contemptuously uses his tail. In striking at a boat, he swiftly curves away his flukes from it, and the blow is only inflicted by the recoil. If it be made in the unobstructed air, especially if it descend to its mark, the stroke is then simply irresistible. No ribs of man or boat can withstand it. Your only salvation lies in eluding it; but if it comes sideways through the opposing water, then partly owing to the light buoyancy of the whale-boat, and the elasticity of its materials, a cracked rib or a dashed plank or two, a sort of stitch in the side, is generally the most serious result. These submerged side blows are so often received in the fishery, that they are accounted mere child’s play. Some one strips off a frock, and the hole is stopped.
Second: It's worth noting that while one sperm whale only fights another sperm whale using its head and jaw, when it comes to battling humans, it mostly and disdainfully uses its tail. When striking at a boat, it sharply curves its tail fins away before the blow lands, and the strike is delivered through the recoil. If the hit comes down unobstructed in the open air, especially if it lands directly, the force is absolutely unstoppable. No human ribs or boat structure can withstand it. Your only chance for survival is to avoid it; but if the blow comes from the side through the water, then, thanks to the light buoyancy of the whaleboat and the flexibility of its materials, the worst outcome is usually just a cracked rib or a broken plank—like a temporary stitch in the side. These underwater side blows happen so often in whaling that they're considered no big deal. Someone pulls off their jacket, and the hole is patched up.
Third: I cannot demonstrate it, but it seems to me, that in the whale the sense of touch is concentrated in the tail; for in this respect there is a delicacy in it only equalled by the daintiness of the elephant’s trunk. This delicacy is chiefly evinced in the action of sweeping, when in maidenly gentleness the whale with a certain soft slowness moves his immense flukes from side to side upon the surface of the sea; and if he feel but a sailor’s whisker, woe to that sailor, whiskers and all. What tenderness there is in that preliminary touch! Had this tail any prehensile power, I should straightway bethink me of Darmonodes’ elephant that so frequented the flower-market, and with low salutations presented nosegays to damsels, and then caressed their zones. On more accounts than one, a pity it is that the whale does not possess this prehensile virtue in his tail; for I have heard of yet another elephant, that when wounded in the fight, curved round his trunk and extracted the dart.
Third: I can't prove it, but it seems to me that in the whale, the sense of touch is concentrated in its tail; in this way, it shows a level of sensitivity that can only be compared to the precision of an elephant's trunk. This sensitivity is mainly shown in the sweeping motion, where the whale moves its enormous tail gently and slowly from side to side on the surface of the ocean; and if it so much as brushes against a sailor's whisker, that sailor is in trouble—whiskers and all. There's such tenderness in that first touch! If the tail had the ability to grasp, I would immediately think of Darmonodes’ elephant, which used to frequent the flower market, bow politely, offer bouquets to young women, and then gently caress their belts. For more than one reason, it's a shame the whale doesn’t have this ability to grip with its tail; I’ve even heard of another elephant that, when injured in battle, used its trunk to pull out the dart that wounded it.
Fourth: Stealing unawares upon the whale in the fancied security of the middle of solitary seas, you find him unbent from the vast corpulence of his dignity, and kitten-like, he plays on the ocean as if it were a hearth. But still you see his power in his play. The broad palms of his tail are flirted high into the air; then smiting the surface, the thunderous concussion resounds for miles. You would almost think a great gun had been discharged; and if you noticed the light wreath of vapor from the spiracle at his other extremity, you would think that that was the smoke from the touch-hole.
Fourth: Sneaking up on the whale in the assumed safety of the lonely ocean, you catch him relaxed from the overwhelming grandeur of his majesty, playing on the water like a kitten by a fireplace. Yet even in his play, you can see his sheer power. The wide fins of his tail are flung high into the air, then come crashing down, and the booming impact echoes for miles. You might almost think a massive cannon had been fired; and if you noticed the faint puff of mist from the blowhole at the other end, you might assume it was smoke from the firing.
Fifth: As in the ordinary floating posture of the leviathan the flukes lie considerably below the level of his back, they are then completely out of sight beneath the surface; but when he is about to plunge into the deeps, his entire flukes with at least thirty feet of his body are tossed erect in the air, and so remain vibrating a moment, till they downwards shoot out of view. Excepting the sublime breach—somewhere else to be described—this peaking of the whale’s flukes is perhaps the grandest sight to be seen in all animated nature. Out of the bottomless profundities the gigantic tail seems spasmodically snatching at the highest heaven. So in dreams, have I seen majestic Satan thrusting forth his tormented colossal claw from the flame Baltic of Hell. But in gazing at such scenes, it is all in all what mood you are in; if in the Dantean, the devils will occur to you; if in that of Isaiah, the archangels. Standing at the mast-head of my ship during a sunrise that crimsoned sky and sea, I once saw a large herd of whales in the east, all heading towards the sun, and for a moment vibrating in concert with peaked flukes. As it seemed to me at the time, such a grand embodiment of adoration of the gods was never beheld, even in Persia, the home of the fire worshippers. As Ptolemy Philopater testified of the African elephant, I then testified of the whale, pronouncing him the most devout of all beings. For according to King Juba, the military elephants of antiquity often hailed the morning with their trunks uplifted in the profoundest silence.
Fifth: When the whale is floating normally, its tail fins lie far below the level of its back, completely hidden beneath the surface. But when it's about to dive into the depths, its entire tail, along with at least thirty feet of its body, rises straight into the air and stays poised, trembling for a moment, before plunging out of sight. Aside from the awe-inspiring breach — described elsewhere — this sight of the whale's tail rising is arguably one of the grandest spectacles in all of nature. From the endless depths, the massive tail seems to lunge up toward the heavens as if in a frenzied grasp. In dreams, I’ve seen this same majesty, like a tormented Satan thrusting a colossal claw from the blazing fires of Hell. But how you perceive these moments depends entirely on your mood; in a somber, Dante-like state, devils might come to mind, while in a more blessed, Isaiah-like state, you might think of archangels. Once, while I stood at the masthead of my ship at sunrise, with the sky and sea painted crimson, I spotted a large pod of whales in the east, all moving towards the sun, their tails raised in unison. In that instant, they seemed to embody divine worship, a more profound display of adoration than anything imagined in Persia — the land of the fire-worshippers. As Ptolemy Philopater praised the African elephant, I declared the whale to be the most devout of all creatures. For, according to King Juba, the war elephants of the ancient world often greeted the morning silently with their trunks lifted high.
The chance comparison in this chapter, between the whale and the elephant, so far as some aspects of the tail of the one and the trunk of the other are concerned, should not tend to place those two opposite organs on an equality, much less the creatures to which they respectively belong. For as the mightiest elephant is but a terrier to Leviathan, so, compared with Leviathan’s tail, his trunk is but the stalk of a lily. The most direful blow from the elephant’s trunk were as the playful tap of a fan, compared with the measureless crush and crash of the sperm whale’s ponderous flukes, which in repeated instances have one after the other hurled entire boats with all their oars and crews into the air, very much as an Indian juggler tosses his balls.*
The comparison made in this chapter between the whale and the elephant, specifically the tail of one and the trunk of the other, shouldn’t lead anyone to think those two features are equal—let alone compare the animals themselves. The mightiest elephant is like a small dog next to Leviathan, and the elephant's trunk compared to Leviathan’s tail is as fragile as the stem of a flower. The most forceful blow from an elephant’s trunk would feel like a light fan tap compared to the unimaginable power of the sperm whale’s massive tail flukes, which have, on numerous occasions, smashed entire boats—complete with oars and crews—into the air, much like an Indian juggler tosses his balls.*
*Though all comparison in the way of general bulk between the whale and the elephant is preposterous, inasmuch as in that particular the elephant stands in much the same respect to the whale that a dog does to the elephant; nevertheless, there are not wanting some points of curious similitude; among these is the spout. It is well known that the elephant will often draw up water or dust in his trunk, and then elevating it, jet it forth in a stream.
Even though comparing the size of a whale to an elephant is utterly ridiculous—since, in terms of bulk, the elephant is to the whale what a dog is to the elephant—there are still some intriguing similarities between them. One of these is the spout. It's well known that an elephant often sucks up water or dust into its trunk and then shoots it out in a stream by raising its trunk.
The more I consider this mighty tail, the more do I deplore my inability to express it. At times there are gestures in it, which, though they would well grace the hand of man, remain wholly inexplicable. In an extensive herd, so remarkable, occasionally, are these mystic gestures, that I have heard hunters who have declared them akin to Free-Mason signs and symbols; that the whale, indeed, by these methods intelligently conversed with the world. Nor are there wanting other motions of the whale in his general body, full of strangeness, and unaccountable to his most experienced assailant. Dissect him how I may, then, I but go skin deep; I know him not, and never will. But if I know not even the tail of this whale, how understand his head? much more, how comprehend his face, when face he has none? Thou shalt see my back parts, my tail, he seems to say, but my face shall not be seen. But I cannot completely make out his back parts; and hint what he will about his face, I say again he has no face.
The more I think about this incredible tail, the more frustrated I get at not being able to describe it. Sometimes it moves in ways that would make even a human’s hand seem clumsy, yet these movements remain a complete mystery. In a large group of these creatures, these cryptic gestures are sometimes so extraordinary that I’ve heard hunters compare them to Masonic signs and symbols, claiming that the whale uses these movements to communicate intelligently with the world. And it’s not just the tail—there are other strange and inexplicable movements in the whale’s body that even the most skilled hunters can’t fully understand. No matter how much I analyze it, I only scratch the surface; I’ll never truly know it. If I can’t even figure out the tail, how could I ever hope to understand the head? And how could I possibly grasp the nature of its face, when it doesn’t even seem to have one? It’s as if the whale is saying, “You can look at my back, my tail, but my face is off-limits.” Yet I can’t even fully comprehend its back, and as for its face—if it does have one—I must insist it remains beyond my understanding.
CHAPTER 87. The Grand Armada.
The long and narrow peninsula of Malacca, extending south-eastward from the territories of Birmah, forms the most southerly point of all Asia. In a continuous line from that peninsula stretch the long islands of Sumatra, Java, Bally, and Timor; which, with many others, form a vast mole, or rampart, lengthwise connecting Asia with Australia, and dividing the long unbroken Indian ocean from the thickly studded oriental archipelagoes. This rampart is pierced by several sally-ports for the convenience of ships and whales; conspicuous among which are the straits of Sunda and Malacca. By the straits of Sunda, chiefly, vessels bound to China from the west, emerge into the China seas.
The long and narrow Malacca Peninsula, stretching southeast from the lands of Burma, marks the southernmost point of Asia. Extending in a line from this peninsula are the islands of Sumatra, Java, Bali, and Timor, along with many others. Together, they form a large barrier or rampart, running lengthwise to connect Asia with Australia and separating the vast, open Indian Ocean from the densely packed islands of the eastern archipelagos. This barrier is broken in several places to allow passage for ships and whales, with the most notable routes being the Straits of Sunda and Malacca. The Straits of Sunda, in particular, are the main path for vessels traveling from the west to China, leading them into the China Seas.
Those narrow straits of Sunda divide Sumatra from Java; and standing midway in that vast rampart of islands, buttressed by that bold green promontory, known to seamen as Java Head; they not a little correspond to the central gateway opening into some vast walled empire: and considering the inexhaustible wealth of spices, and silks, and jewels, and gold, and ivory, with which the thousand islands of that oriental sea are enriched, it seems a significant provision of nature, that such treasures, by the very formation of the land, should at least bear the appearance, however ineffectual, of being guarded from the all-grasping western world. The shores of the Straits of Sunda are unsupplied with those domineering fortresses which guard the entrances to the Mediterranean, the Baltic, and the Propontis. Unlike the Danes, these Orientals do not demand the obsequious homage of lowered top-sails from the endless procession of ships before the wind, which for centuries past, by night and by day, have passed between the islands of Sumatra and Java, freighted with the costliest cargoes of the east. But while they freely waive a ceremonial like this, they do by no means renounce their claim to more solid tribute.
The narrow Sunda Strait separates Sumatra from Java. Sitting right in the middle of that massive chain of islands, backed by the bold green headland known to sailors as Java Head, it’s like the main gateway to some enormous walled empire. Considering the endless wealth of spices, silks, jewels, gold, and ivory that enrich the countless islands of that eastern sea, it feels like nature intentionally shaped the landscape to at least look, even if ineffectively, as though these treasures were guarded from the ever-grasping Western world. The shores of the Sunda Strait don’t have the imposing fortresses that defend the entrances to the Mediterranean, the Baltic, and the Sea of Marmara. Unlike the Danes, the people of this region don't demand the submissive gesture of lowered sails from the endless line of ships that, for centuries, have sailed between Sumatra and Java, carrying the most valuable goods of the East, day and night. However, while they may forgo such formalities, they certainly don’t give up their claim to more tangible payments.
Time out of mind the piratical proas of the Malays, lurking among the low shaded coves and islets of Sumatra, have sallied out upon the vessels sailing through the straits, fiercely demanding tribute at the point of their spears. Though by the repeated bloody chastisements they have received at the hands of European cruisers, the audacity of these corsairs has of late been somewhat repressed; yet, even at the present day, we occasionally hear of English and American vessels, which, in those waters, have been remorselessly boarded and pillaged.
For as long as anyone can remember, the pirate proas of the Malays, hiding in the shaded coves and small islands of Sumatra, have ambushed ships passing through the straits, aggressively demanding payment under threat of their spears. While the repeated, bloody punishments inflicted by European warships have somewhat curbed their boldness in recent times, even today we still occasionally hear of English and American ships in those waters being mercilessly boarded and looted.
With a fair, fresh wind, the Pequod was now drawing nigh to these straits; Ahab purposing to pass through them into the Javan sea, and thence, cruising northwards, over waters known to be frequented here and there by the Sperm Whale, sweep inshore by the Philippine Islands, and gain the far coast of Japan, in time for the great whaling season there. By these means, the circumnavigating Pequod would sweep almost all the known Sperm Whale cruising grounds of the world, previous to descending upon the Line in the Pacific; where Ahab, though everywhere else foiled in his pursuit, firmly counted upon giving battle to Moby Dick, in the sea he was most known to frequent; and at a season when he might most reasonably be presumed to be haunting it.
With a steady, fresh wind, the Pequod was now approaching these straits. Ahab planned to pass through them into the Java Sea, and from there, sail north over waters known to be occasionally visited by sperm whales, then head closer to shore near the Philippine Islands, and eventually reach Japan's distant coast in time for the major whaling season there. In doing so, the Pequod, on its global voyage, would cover nearly all the known sperm whale hunting areas worldwide before heading to the equator in the Pacific. It was there that Ahab, though frustrated everywhere else in his chase, was determined to take on Moby Dick in the waters the whale was most known to frequent—and at a time when it was most likely he would be there.
But how now? in this zoned quest, does Ahab touch no land? does his crew drink air? Surely, he will stop for water. Nay. For a long time, now, the circus-running sun has raced within his fiery ring, and needs no sustenance but what’s in himself. So Ahab. Mark this, too, in the whaler. While other hulls are loaded down with alien stuff, to be transferred to foreign wharves; the world-wandering whale-ship carries no cargo but herself and crew, their weapons and their wants. She has a whole lake’s contents bottled in her ample hold. She is ballasted with utilities; not altogether with unusable pig-lead and kentledge. She carries years’ water in her. Clear old prime Nantucket water; which, when three years afloat, the Nantucketer, in the Pacific, prefers to drink before the brackish fluid, but yesterday rafted off in casks, from the Peruvian or Indian streams. Hence it is, that, while other ships may have gone to China from New York, and back again, touching at a score of ports, the whale-ship, in all that interval, may not have sighted one grain of soil; her crew having seen no man but floating seamen like themselves. So that did you carry them the news that another flood had come; they would only answer—“Well, boys, here’s the ark!”
But what’s this? In this relentless search, does Ahab never stop at land? Does his crew survive on air? Surely, he’ll have to stop for water. No. For a long time now, the ever-running sun has circled within its fiery path, needing nothing but what it already has. So it is with Ahab. Take note of this about the whaler: while other ships are loaded up with foreign goods to be unloaded at distant docks, the wandering whaling ship carries no cargo except for herself and her crew, their tools, and their needs. She has an entire lake’s worth of water stored in her vast hold. She’s loaded with essentials, not just useless pig-iron and ballast. She carries years’ worth of water within her—pure old prime Nantucket water, which, even after three years at sea, the Nantucketer in the Pacific would rather drink than the salty water hauled in barrels just yesterday from Peruvian or Indian rivers. This is why, while other ships might have traveled to China from New York and back, stopping at dozens of ports along the way, the whaling ship in that time might not touch a single bit of land, with her crew seeing no one but other sailors like themselves. So, if you were to tell them that another flood had come, they’d just reply, “Well, boys, we’ve got the ark!”
Now, as many Sperm Whales had been captured off the western coast of Java, in the near vicinity of the Straits of Sunda; indeed, as most of the ground, roundabout, was generally recognised by the fishermen as an excellent spot for cruising; therefore, as the Pequod gained more and more upon Java Head, the look-outs were repeatedly hailed, and admonished to keep wide awake. But though the green palmy cliffs of the land soon loomed on the starboard bow, and with delighted nostrils the fresh cinnamon was snuffed in the air, yet not a single jet was descried. Almost renouncing all thought of falling in with any game hereabouts, the ship had well nigh entered the straits, when the customary cheering cry was heard from aloft, and ere long a spectacle of singular magnificence saluted us.
As many sperm whales had been caught off the western coast of Java, near the Straits of Sunda—an area widely known among fishermen as a great spot for hunting—the Pequod, approaching closer to Java Head, kept the lookouts on high alert, frequently calling out reminders to stay focused. Soon, the lush, palm-covered cliffs of the land came into view on the starboard side, and the crew enjoyed the fresh scent of cinnamon carried on the breeze. Yet, no spouts were spotted. Almost ready to give up hope of finding any whales in the area, the ship was about to enter the straits when the familiar call came from above. Not long after, we were greeted by a sight of extraordinary grandeur.
But here be it premised, that owing to the unwearied activity with which of late they have been hunted over all four oceans, the Sperm Whales, instead of almost invariably sailing in small detached companies, as in former times, are now frequently met with in extensive herds, sometimes embracing so great a multitude, that it would almost seem as if numerous nations of them had sworn solemn league and covenant for mutual assistance and protection. To this aggregation of the Sperm Whale into such immense caravans, may be imputed the circumstance that even in the best cruising grounds, you may now sometimes sail for weeks and months together, without being greeted by a single spout; and then be suddenly saluted by what sometimes seems thousands on thousands.
Let it first be noted that, due to the relentless efforts with which they’ve recently been hunted across all four oceans, Sperm Whales, instead of typically traveling in small, scattered groups as they did in the past, are now often found in large herds. These herds can sometimes be so massive it almost feels like entire nations of them have joined forces in a pact for mutual aid and protection. This tendency of Sperm Whales to gather in such huge groups explains why, even in the best hunting areas, you might now sail for weeks or even months without spotting a single spout—only to then suddenly encounter what looks like thousands upon thousands of them.
Broad on both bows, at the distance of some two or three miles, and forming a great semicircle, embracing one half of the level horizon, a continuous chain of whale-jets were up-playing and sparkling in the noon-day air. Unlike the straight perpendicular twin-jets of the Right Whale, which, dividing at top, fall over in two branches, like the cleft drooping boughs of a willow, the single forward-slanting spout of the Sperm Whale presents a thick curled bush of white mist, continually rising and falling away to leeward.
Wide on both sides of the ship, about two or three miles away, and forming a large semicircle that covered half the flat horizon, a constant line of whale spouts was spraying and glittering in the midday air. Unlike the straight, vertical twin spouts of the Right Whale, which split at the top and fall in two streams like the bending branches of a willow tree, the single, forward-slanting spout of the Sperm Whale forms a thick, curling cloud of white mist, continually rising and drifting downwind.
Seen from the Pequod’s deck, then, as she would rise on a high hill of the sea, this host of vapory spouts, individually curling up into the air, and beheld through a blending atmosphere of bluish haze, showed like the thousand cheerful chimneys of some dense metropolis, descried of a balmy autumnal morning, by some horseman on a height.
From the deck of the Pequod, as it rose on a tall wave, the countless misty spouts, each spiraling into the sky, appeared through a hazy blue atmosphere like the thousands of lively chimneys in a crowded city, seen on a calm autumn morning by a rider on a hill.
As marching armies approaching an unfriendly defile in the mountains, accelerate their march, all eagerness to place that perilous passage in their rear, and once more expand in comparative security upon the plain; even so did this vast fleet of whales now seem hurrying forward through the straits; gradually contracting the wings of their semicircle, and swimming on, in one solid, but still crescentic centre.
Like armies quickening their pace to pass through a dangerous mountain pass, eager to leave the risky spot behind and return to the relative safety of open plains, this massive fleet of whales appeared to be rushing through the straits. They gradually pulled in the wide arcs of their semicircle, moving ahead in a single, solid formation that still held its crescent shape.
Crowding all sail the Pequod pressed after them; the harpooneers handling their weapons, and loudly cheering from the heads of their yet suspended boats. If the wind only held, little doubt had they, that chased through these Straits of Sunda, the vast host would only deploy into the Oriental seas to witness the capture of not a few of their number. And who could tell whether, in that congregated caravan, Moby Dick himself might not temporarily be swimming, like the worshipped white-elephant in the coronation procession of the Siamese! So with stun-sail piled on stun-sail, we sailed along, driving these leviathans before us; when, of a sudden, the voice of Tashtego was heard, loudly directing attention to something in our wake.
With every sail stretched tight, the Pequod charged after them, the harpooners gripping their weapons and shouting excitedly from the bows of their still-hanging boats. As long as the wind held, they were confident that, driven through the Sunda Strait, the massive herd would scatter into the eastern seas, losing more than a few of their number to capture. And who could say if, among that gathered multitude, Moby Dick himself wasn’t swimming temporarily, like the revered white elephant in a royal procession in Siam? So, with extra sails stacked upon extra sails, we surged forward, driving the whales ahead of us—when suddenly, Tashtego’s voice cut through the air, urgently pointing out something behind us.
Corresponding to the crescent in our van, we beheld another in our rear. It seemed formed of detached white vapors, rising and falling something like the spouts of the whales; only they did not so completely come and go; for they constantly hovered, without finally disappearing. Levelling his glass at this sight, Ahab quickly revolved in his pivot-hole, crying, “Aloft there, and rig whips and buckets to wet the sails;—Malays, sir, and after us!”
In front of us, there was a crescent shape, and now we could see another one behind us. It looked like scattered white mist, rising and falling a bit like whale spouts, but it didn’t completely vanish; it just lingered there without disappearing. Ahab quickly grabbed his spyglass, spun on his heel, and shouted, "Get up there and rig the whips and buckets to wet the sails—Malays, they’re after us!"
As if too long lurking behind the headlands, till the Pequod should fairly have entered the straits, these rascally Asiatics were now in hot pursuit, to make up for their over-cautious delay. But when the swift Pequod, with a fresh leading wind, was herself in hot chase; how very kind of these tawny philanthropists to assist in speeding her on to her own chosen pursuit,—mere riding-whips and rowels to her, that they were. As with glass under arm, Ahab to-and-fro paced the deck; in his forward turn beholding the monsters he chased, and in the after one the bloodthirsty pirates chasing him; some such fancy as the above seemed his. And when he glanced upon the green walls of the watery defile in which the ship was then sailing, and bethought him that through that gate lay the route to his vengeance, and beheld, how that through that same gate he was now both chasing and being chased to his deadly end; and not only that, but a herd of remorseless wild pirates and inhuman atheistical devils were infernally cheering him on with their curses;—when all these conceits had passed through his brain, Ahab’s brow was left gaunt and ribbed, like the black sand beach after some stormy tide has been gnawing it, without being able to drag the firm thing from its place.
As if they had been hiding too long behind the headlands, waiting for the Pequod to fully enter the straits, those sneaky Asiatics were now charging after it, trying to make up for their overly cautious delay. But with the swift Pequod, sailing fast with a fresh wind, now in an eager chase herself, how considerate of these tan-colored "philanthropists" to help speed her along toward her chosen pursuit—like mere riding crops and spurs urging her forward. As Ahab paced back and forth on the deck, spyglass under his arm, in one direction he looked ahead at the monsters he was hunting, and in the other, back at the bloodthirsty pirates chasing *him*. Such thoughts as these seemed to pass through his mind. And as he glanced at the green walls of the watery passage the ship was navigating, he considered how that very gateway led toward his vengeance—and yet, through that same gateway, he was both chasing and being chased, heading straight toward his doom. It wasn’t just that, though; a swarm of merciless wild pirates and godless devils seemed cruelly cheering him on with their curses. When all these thoughts passed through his mind, Ahab's face looked gaunt and worn, like a black sand beach carved up by a stormy tide but still holding firm, unmoved from its place.
But thoughts like these troubled very few of the reckless crew; and when, after steadily dropping and dropping the pirates astern, the Pequod at last shot by the vivid green Cockatoo Point on the Sumatra side, emerging at last upon the broad waters beyond; then, the harpooneers seemed more to grieve that the swift whales had been gaining upon the ship, than to rejoice that the ship had so victoriously gained upon the Malays. But still driving on in the wake of the whales, at length they seemed abating their speed; gradually the ship neared them; and the wind now dying away, word was passed to spring to the boats. But no sooner did the herd, by some presumed wonderful instinct of the Sperm Whale, become notified of the three keels that were after them,—though as yet a mile in their rear,—than they rallied again, and forming in close ranks and battalions, so that their spouts all looked like flashing lines of stacked bayonets, moved on with redoubled velocity.
But ideas like these didn’t bother most of the fearless crew; and when, after steadily leaving the pirates far behind, the Pequod finally sped past the vibrant green Cockatoo Point on the Sumatra side, emerging at last onto the open waters beyond, the harpooners seemed more upset that the fast whales were pulling ahead of the ship than happy that the ship had successfully outrun the Malays. Still, they pressed on, chasing the whales, until it seemed the whales were slowing down; the ship gradually caught up to them. As the wind began to fade, the order was given to prepare the boats. But as soon as the pod of whales—perhaps through some amazing instinct unique to the sperm whale—sensed the three boats closing in on them, though still a mile behind, they regrouped. Coming together in tight formation, their spouts lined up like glinting rows of stacked bayonets, and they sped off with renewed energy.
Stripped to our shirts and drawers, we sprang to the white-ash, and after several hours’ pulling were almost disposed to renounce the chase, when a general pausing commotion among the whales gave animating token that they were now at last under the influence of that strange perplexity of inert irresolution, which, when the fishermen perceive it in the whale, they say he is gallied. The compact martial columns in which they had been hitherto rapidly and steadily swimming, were now broken up in one measureless rout; and like King Porus’ elephants in the Indian battle with Alexander, they seemed going mad with consternation. In all directions expanding in vast irregular circles, and aimlessly swimming hither and thither, by their short thick spoutings, they plainly betrayed their distraction of panic. This was still more strangely evinced by those of their number, who, completely paralysed as it were, helplessly floated like water-logged dismantled ships on the sea. Had these Leviathans been but a flock of simple sheep, pursued over the pasture by three fierce wolves, they could not possibly have evinced such excessive dismay. But this occasional timidity is characteristic of almost all herding creatures. Though banding together in tens of thousands, the lion-maned buffaloes of the West have fled before a solitary horseman. Witness, too, all human beings, how when herded together in the sheepfold of a theatre’s pit, they will, at the slightest alarm of fire, rush helter-skelter for the outlets, crowding, trampling, jamming, and remorselessly dashing each other to death. Best, therefore, withhold any amazement at the strangely gallied whales before us, for there is no folly of the beasts of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men.
Stripped down to our shirts and underwear, we jumped to the oars, and after several hours of rowing, we were nearly ready to give up the chase. But then, a sudden stirring among the whales signaled that they were finally caught in that odd state of confused hesitation, which fishermen call being "gallied." The tight, orderly formations in which they'd been steadily swimming broke apart into complete chaos. Like King Porus' elephants during his battle with Alexander, they seemed driven to madness by fear. They scattered in all directions, expanding into massive irregular circles, swimming aimlessly here and there. Their short, quick spouts clearly showed their panic. Some of them displayed it even more strangely, floating helplessly on the surface like waterlogged, abandoned ships. Had these massive creatures been nothing more than a flock of sheep, chased through a meadow by three fierce wolves, they couldn’t have shown more fear. But this occasional timidity is common to almost all animals that move in herds. Even the mighty, lion-maned buffaloes of the West, gathering in tens of thousands, have fled in panic before a lone horseman. Humans are no different. Just look at how, packed together in the pit of a theater, they will, at the first hint of a fire, stampede for the exits, shoving, trampling, crushing, and mercilessly killing one another in their blind fear. So, don't be too surprised at the strange behavior of the panicked whales before us. For there is no foolishness among the creatures of the earth that isn’t far outdone by the insanity of humankind.
Though many of the whales, as has been said, were in violent motion, yet it is to be observed that as a whole the herd neither advanced nor retreated, but collectively remained in one place. As is customary in those cases, the boats at once separated, each making for some one lone whale on the outskirts of the shoal. In about three minutes’ time, Queequeg’s harpoon was flung; the stricken fish darted blinding spray in our faces, and then running away with us like light, steered straight for the heart of the herd. Though such a movement on the part of the whale struck under such circumstances, is in no wise unprecedented; and indeed is almost always more or less anticipated; yet does it present one of the more perilous vicissitudes of the fishery. For as the swift monster drags you deeper and deeper into the frantic shoal, you bid adieu to circumspect life and only exist in a delirious throb.
Even though many of the whales, as mentioned before, were moving wildly, it’s worth noting that the herd as a whole neither moved forward nor backward but stayed in one spot. As is usual in these situations, the boats immediately spread out, each aiming for a lone whale on the edge of the group. Within about three minutes, Queequeg threw his harpoon; the injured whale sprayed blinding water in our faces and, taking off like lightning, pulled us straight toward the center of the herd. While this kind of reaction from a harpooned whale in these circumstances is by no means unusual—and is, in fact, usually expected—it still creates one of the more dangerous twists in whaling. As the powerful creature drags you deeper and deeper into the chaotic herd, you say goodbye to any sense of careful safety and live only in a wild, heart-pounding rush.
As, blind and deaf, the whale plunged forward, as if by sheer power of speed to rid himself of the iron leech that had fastened to him; as we thus tore a white gash in the sea, on all sides menaced as we flew, by the crazed creatures to and fro rushing about us; our beset boat was like a ship mobbed by ice-isles in a tempest, and striving to steer through their complicated channels and straits, knowing not at what moment it may be locked in and crushed.
Blind and deaf, the whale surged forward, as if relying purely on speed to shake off the iron parasite clinging to him. As we cut a white path through the sea, surrounded on all sides by frantic creatures darting back and forth, our besieged boat felt like a ship trapped among icebergs in a storm, desperately trying to navigate through their tangled channels and narrow passages, never knowing when it might be trapped and crushed.
But not a bit daunted, Queequeg steered us manfully; now sheering off from this monster directly across our route in advance; now edging away from that, whose colossal flukes were suspended overhead, while all the time, Starbuck stood up in the bows, lance in hand, pricking out of our way whatever whales he could reach by short darts, for there was no time to make long ones. Nor were the oarsmen quite idle, though their wonted duty was now altogether dispensed with. They chiefly attended to the shouting part of the business. “Out of the way, Commodore!” cried one, to a great dromedary that of a sudden rose bodily to the surface, and for an instant threatened to swamp us. “Hard down with your tail, there!” cried a second to another, which, close to our gunwale, seemed calmly cooling himself with his own fan-like extremity.
But Queequeg wasn’t scared at all and steered us with skill; sometimes swerving away from one huge whale directly in our path, other times pulling away from another, whose massive tail was hanging right above us. Meanwhile, Starbuck stood at the front of the boat with a lance in hand, jabbing at any whales he could reach with quick thrusts, since there was no time for long strikes. The rowers weren’t completely idle either, even though their usual rowing duties had been set aside. Their main job was shouting. “Move it, Commodore!” yelled one at a massive whale that suddenly surfaced and almost capsized us. “Put your tail down!” shouted another at a whale that, right beside our boat, was casually waving its fan-like tail as if to cool off.
All whaleboats carry certain curious contrivances, originally invented by the Nantucket Indians, called druggs. Two thick squares of wood of equal size are stoutly clenched together, so that they cross each other’s grain at right angles; a line of considerable length is then attached to the middle of this block, and the other end of the line being looped, it can in a moment be fastened to a harpoon. It is chiefly among gallied whales that this drugg is used. For then, more whales are close round you than you can possibly chase at one time. But sperm whales are not every day encountered; while you may, then, you must kill all you can. And if you cannot kill them all at once, you must wing them, so that they can be afterwards killed at your leisure. Hence it is, that at times like these the drugg, comes into requisition. Our boat was furnished with three of them. The first and second were successfully darted, and we saw the whales staggeringly running off, fettered by the enormous sidelong resistance of the towing drugg. They were cramped like malefactors with the chain and ball. But upon flinging the third, in the act of tossing overboard the clumsy wooden block, it caught under one of the seats of the boat, and in an instant tore it out and carried it away, dropping the oarsman in the boat’s bottom as the seat slid from under him. On both sides the sea came in at the wounded planks, but we stuffed two or three drawers and shirts in, and so stopped the leaks for the time.
All whaleboats carry some interesting contraptions, originally created by the Nantucket Indians, called "drugs." Two thick, square pieces of wood, equal in size, are securely fastened together so their grain angles cross at 90 degrees. A long line is attached to the center of this wooden block, with the other end forming a loop that can quickly be attached to a harpoon. This device is mainly used when dealing with panicked whales. In such situations, there are often more whales around than you can chase at once. But since sperm whales aren’t encountered every day, you need to kill as many as you can when you get the chance. If it’s not possible to kill them all right away, you can slow them down, "winging" them so they can be killed later at your convenience. That’s when the drug becomes necessary. Our boat was equipped with three of them. The first and second drugs were thrown successfully, and we watched as the whales ran off erratically, hindered by the enormous resistance of the dragging drugs. They looked as if they were shackled like prisoners with chains and weights. However, when we threw the third drug, the bulky wooden block got caught under one of the boat’s seats while being tossed overboard. Instantly, it tore the seat loose and carried it away, knocking the oarsman to the bottom of the boat as the seat slid out from under him. Water began to pour in through the damaged planks on both sides, but we stuffed the leaks temporarily with a few drawers and shirts to stop the flooding for the time being.
It had been next to impossible to dart these drugged-harpoons, were it not that as we advanced into the herd, our whale’s way greatly diminished; moreover, that as we went still further and further from the circumference of commotion, the direful disorders seemed waning. So that when at last the jerking harpoon drew out, and the towing whale sideways vanished; then, with the tapering force of his parting momentum, we glided between two whales into the innermost heart of the shoal, as if from some mountain torrent we had slid into a serene valley lake. Here the storms in the roaring glens between the outermost whales, were heard but not felt. In this central expanse the sea presented that smooth satin-like surface, called a sleek, produced by the subtle moisture thrown off by the whale in his more quiet moods. Yes, we were now in that enchanted calm which they say lurks at the heart of every commotion. And still in the distracted distance we beheld the tumults of the outer concentric circles, and saw successive pods of whales, eight or ten in each, swiftly going round and round, like multiplied spans of horses in a ring; and so closely shoulder to shoulder, that a Titanic circus-rider might easily have over-arched the middle ones, and so have gone round on their backs. Owing to the density of the crowd of reposing whales, more immediately surrounding the embayed axis of the herd, no possible chance of escape was at present afforded us. We must watch for a breach in the living wall that hemmed us in; the wall that had only admitted us in order to shut us up. Keeping at the centre of the lake, we were occasionally visited by small tame cows and calves; the women and children of this routed host.
It would have been nearly impossible to throw these drugged harpoons if, as we moved deeper into the herd, the whales hadn't slowed down significantly. On top of that, the chaos at the edge of the commotion seemed to decrease as we ventured further in. So, when the jerking harpoon finally dislodged, and the whale we had been towing veered off to the side and disappeared, its fading momentum carried us smoothly between two whales into the very heart of the pod. It felt as though we had slid out of a raging mountain torrent into a peaceful, serene valley lake. Here, the distant storms among the outermost whales could still be heard, but they no longer reached us. In this central space, the sea was smooth and shimmering, with a satin-like sheen known as a "sleek," created by the subtle oils the whales release when they're calm. Yes, we had entered the magical stillness said to exist at the core of every upheaval. From this central vantage point, we could still see the frenzy in the outer circles of whales, where successive groups of eight or ten were spinning rapidly, shoulder-to-shoulder, like teams of horses racing in a ring. They were packed so tightly together that a gigantic circus performer could have stepped across their backs and ridden the middle ones in a loop. Closer to us, surrounding the very core of the herd, the density of the resting whales formed an almost impenetrable wall, leaving us with no way to escape for the time being. It was clear that this living barrier had temporarily enclosed us as though it had let us in for the sole purpose of trapping us. As we remained at the center of this calm "lake," we were occasionally approached by smaller, more docile cows and their calves—the females and young ones of this scattered whale pod.
Now, inclusive of the occasional wide intervals between the revolving outer circles, and inclusive of the spaces between the various pods in any one of those circles, the entire area at this juncture, embraced by the whole multitude, must have contained at least two or three square miles. At any rate—though indeed such a test at such a time might be deceptive—spoutings might be discovered from our low boat that seemed playing up almost from the rim of the horizon. I mention this circumstance, because, as if the cows and calves had been purposely locked up in this innermost fold; and as if the wide extent of the herd had hitherto prevented them from learning the precise cause of its stopping; or, possibly, being so young, unsophisticated, and every way innocent and inexperienced; however it may have been, these smaller whales—now and then visiting our becalmed boat from the margin of the lake—evinced a wondrous fearlessness and confidence, or else a still becharmed panic which it was impossible not to marvel at. Like household dogs they came snuffling round us, right up to our gunwales, and touching them; till it almost seemed that some spell had suddenly domesticated them. Queequeg patted their foreheads; Starbuck scratched their backs with his lance; but fearful of the consequences, for the time refrained from darting it.
Now, including the occasional wide gaps between the outer circles and the spaces between the various pods within those circles, the entire area at this point, covered by the massive group, must have spanned at least two or three square miles. In any case—though such an observation at the time might be misleading—you could spot spouts from our low boat that seemed to rise almost from the edge of the horizon. I mention this because it was as though the cows and calves had been deliberately kept in this innermost area. It was as if the vast size of the herd had so far stopped them from realizing the exact reason for its pause. Or perhaps, being so young, naive, and entirely innocent and inexperienced, they hadn’t grasped it yet. Whatever the reason, these smaller whales—occasionally drifting close to our becalmed boat from the edges of the lake—showed an incredible fearlessness and trust, or maybe a kind of stunned panic that was impossible not to be amazed by. Like household dogs, they came sniffing around us, right up to the sides of our boat and even touching them, until it almost felt like some magic had suddenly tamed them. Queequeg patted their foreheads, and Starbuck scratched their backs with his lance. But, wary of the possible consequences, he held back from using it for the time being.
But far beneath this wondrous world upon the surface, another and still stranger world met our eyes as we gazed over the side. For, suspended in those watery vaults, floated the forms of the nursing mothers of the whales, and those that by their enormous girth seemed shortly to become mothers. The lake, as I have hinted, was to a considerable depth exceedingly transparent; and as human infants while suckling will calmly and fixedly gaze away from the breast, as if leading two different lives at the time; and while yet drawing mortal nourishment, be still spiritually feasting upon some unearthly reminiscence;—even so did the young of these whales seem looking up towards us, but not at us, as if we were but a bit of Gulfweed in their new-born sight. Floating on their sides, the mothers also seemed quietly eyeing us. One of these little infants, that from certain queer tokens seemed hardly a day old, might have measured some fourteen feet in length, and some six feet in girth. He was a little frisky; though as yet his body seemed scarce yet recovered from that irksome position it had so lately occupied in the maternal reticule; where, tail to head, and all ready for the final spring, the unborn whale lies bent like a Tartar’s bow. The delicate side-fins, and the palms of his flukes, still freshly retained the plaited crumpled appearance of a baby’s ears newly arrived from foreign parts.
But far below this incredible world on the surface, an even stranger world came into view as we looked over the side. Suspended in the clear waters, we saw the nursing mothers of the whales and those whose enormous size showed they were soon to give birth. The lake, as I mentioned, was remarkably transparent at great depths. Just like human infants who, while nursing, often gaze calmly and intently away from their mother, as if living two different lives at once—feeding physically while their thoughts seem somewhere far beyond—so too did the whale calves appear to look up at us, but not directly at us, as if we were just another piece of floating seaweed in their brand-new world. Floating on their sides, the mothers seemed to watch us quietly as well. One of these little calves, which by certain peculiar signs seemed no more than a day old, was already about fourteen feet long and six feet around. He was a bit playful, though his body still seemed to be adjusting from the cramped position he had just left in his mother's womb—where, curled up from tail to head, ready for his final journey into the world, he had been bent like a Tartar’s bow. His delicate side fins and the edges of his tail flukes still retained the crumpled, folded texture of a newborn’s ears, fresh from far-off, unknown places.
“Line! line!” cried Queequeg, looking over the gunwale; “him fast! him fast!—Who line him! Who struck?—Two whale; one big, one little!”
"Line! Line!" shouted Queequeg, leaning over the side of the ship. "It's caught! It's caught!—Who's got the line? Who struck it?—Two whales; one big, one small!"
“What ails ye, man?” cried Starbuck.
"What's wrong with you, man?" shouted Starbuck.
“Look-e here,” said Queequeg, pointing down.
"Look here," said Queequeg, pointing downward.
As when the stricken whale, that from the tub has reeled out hundreds of fathoms of rope; as, after deep sounding, he floats up again, and shows the slackened curling line buoyantly rising and spiralling towards the air; so now, Starbuck saw long coils of the umbilical cord of Madame Leviathan, by which the young cub seemed still tethered to its dam. Not seldom in the rapid vicissitudes of the chase, this natural line, with the maternal end loose, becomes entangled with the hempen one, so that the cub is thereby trapped. Some of the subtlest secrets of the seas seemed divulged to us in this enchanted pond. We saw young Leviathan amours in the deep.*
Just like when the wounded whale, after letting out hundreds of fathoms of rope from the tub, dives deep and eventually floats back up, revealing the slackened line spiraling and curling toward the surface, Starbuck now observed the long loops of the umbilical cord of Madame Leviathan, still seemingly tethering the young cub to its mother. Often, in the chaotic twists and turns of the chase, this natural cord, with one end free from the mother, gets tangled with the harpoon line, trapping the cub in the process. It felt as though the hidden mysteries of the ocean were being revealed to us in this mystical pool. We witnessed the courtship of young Leviathans in the depths.*
*The sperm whale, as with all other species of the Leviathan, but unlike most other fish, breeds indifferently at all seasons; after a gestation which may probably be set down at nine months, producing but one at a time; though in some few known instances giving birth to an Esau and Jacob:—a contingency provided for in suckling by two teats, curiously situated, one on each side of the anus; but the breasts themselves extend upwards from that. When by chance these precious parts in a nursing whale are cut by the hunter’s lance, the mother’s pouring milk and blood rivallingly discolour the sea for rods. The milk is very sweet and rich; it has been tasted by man; it might do well with strawberries. When overflowing with mutual esteem, the whales salute more hominum.
The sperm whale, like all other species of Leviathan but unlike most other fish, breeds throughout the year without preference for any specific season. After a gestation period likely lasting around nine months, it gives birth to only one offspring at a time; although, in rare cases, twins have been known to occur, akin to Esau and Jacob. This possibility is accommodated during nursing by two teats, uniquely located on either side of the anus, with the breasts extending upward from that area. If, by chance, these vital parts of a nursing whale are struck by the hunter’s lance, the mother’s milk and blood mix, coloring the sea for yards around. The milk is exceptionally sweet and rich; it has even been tasted by humans and could pair well with strawberries. When filled with mutual respect, whales greet each other in a way reminiscent of human customs (more hominum).
And thus, though surrounded by circle upon circle of consternations and affrights, did these inscrutable creatures at the centre freely and fearlessly indulge in all peaceful concernments; yea, serenely revelled in dalliance and delight. But even so, amid the tornadoed Atlantic of my being, do I myself still for ever centrally disport in mute calm; and while ponderous planets of unwaning woe revolve round me, deep down and deep inland there I still bathe me in eternal mildness of joy.
And so, even though they were surrounded by layer upon layer of chaos and fear, these mysterious creatures at the center lived freely and fearlessly, going about their peaceful lives and even joyfully indulging in pleasure and delight. In the same way, amidst the stormy ocean of my own soul, I continue to find a quiet calm at my core; and while heavy planets of endless sorrow orbit around me, deep within myself, I still immerse in an everlasting sense of gentle happiness.
Meanwhile, as we thus lay entranced, the occasional sudden frantic spectacles in the distance evinced the activity of the other boats, still engaged in drugging the whales on the frontier of the host; or possibly carrying on the war within the first circle, where abundance of room and some convenient retreats were afforded them. But the sight of the enraged drugged whales now and then blindly darting to and fro across the circles, was nothing to what at last met our eyes. It is sometimes the custom when fast to a whale more than commonly powerful and alert, to seek to hamstring him, as it were, by sundering or maiming his gigantic tail-tendon. It is done by darting a short-handled cutting-spade, to which is attached a rope for hauling it back again. A whale wounded (as we afterwards learned) in this part, but not effectually, as it seemed, had broken away from the boat, carrying along with him half of the harpoon line; and in the extraordinary agony of the wound, he was now dashing among the revolving circles like the lone mounted desperado Arnold, at the battle of Saratoga, carrying dismay wherever he went.
Meanwhile, as we lay there in a trance, occasional frantic scenes in the distance showed the activity of the other boats, still busy drugging the whales along the edge of the group, or perhaps fighting within the first circle, where there was plenty of space and some places to retreat. But the sight of the enraged, drugged whales occasionally charging blindly back and forth across the circles was nothing compared to what we were about to witness. When dealing with a particularly powerful and agile whale, it's sometimes the practice to try and disable it by severing or injuring its massive tail tendon. This is done by throwing a short-handled cutting spear attached to a rope, which allows it to be pulled back. A whale, as we later found out, had been wounded in this way but not effectively. It escaped from the boat, taking half the harpoon line with it. In its unimaginable agony, it was now thrashing wildly within the spinning circles, like the lone mounted desperado Arnold at the Battle of Saratoga, spreading chaos everywhere it went.
But agonizing as was the wound of this whale, and an appalling spectacle enough, any way; yet the peculiar horror with which he seemed to inspire the rest of the herd, was owing to a cause which at first the intervening distance obscured from us. But at length we perceived that by one of the unimaginable accidents of the fishery, this whale had become entangled in the harpoon-line that he towed; he had also run away with the cutting-spade in him; and while the free end of the rope attached to that weapon, had permanently caught in the coils of the harpoon-line round his tail, the cutting-spade itself had worked loose from his flesh. So that tormented to madness, he was now churning through the water, violently flailing with his flexible tail, and tossing the keen spade about him, wounding and murdering his own comrades.
But as agonizing as this whale's wound was, and horrifying enough in any case, the unique terror he seemed to provoke in the rest of the herd came from a cause that distance initially kept hidden from us. Eventually, we realized that, due to one of the unimaginable mishaps of whaling, this whale had gotten tangled in the harpoon line he was dragging. He had also taken off with a cutting-spade embedded in him, and the loose end of the rope connected to that weapon had gotten permanently caught in the coils of the harpoon line around his tail. Meanwhile, the cutting-spade had worked its way free from his flesh. Driven mad with pain, he was now raging through the water, thrashing violently with his flexible tail and tossing the sharp spade around, injuring and killing his own companions.
This terrific object seemed to recall the whole herd from their stationary fright. First, the whales forming the margin of our lake began to crowd a little, and tumble against each other, as if lifted by half spent billows from afar; then the lake itself began faintly to heave and swell; the submarine bridal-chambers and nurseries vanished; in more and more contracting orbits the whales in the more central circles began to swim in thickening clusters. Yes, the long calm was departing. A low advancing hum was soon heard; and then like to the tumultuous masses of block-ice when the great river Hudson breaks up in Spring, the entire host of whales came tumbling upon their inner centre, as if to pile themselves up in one common mountain. Instantly Starbuck and Queequeg changed places; Starbuck taking the stern.
This incredible sight seemed to snap the whole herd out of their frozen fear. First, the whales at the edge of our lake started to shift and bump into each other, as if pushed by distant, fading waves. Then the surface of the lake itself began to ripple and rise. The underwater nurseries and bridal chambers disappeared, and the whales in the inner circles started swimming closer together in tightening groups. The long stillness was ending. A low, advancing rumble soon grew louder, and then, like the chaotic blocks of ice breaking up on the Hudson River in spring, the entire herd of whales surged inward toward the center, as if trying to heap themselves into one massive pile. Immediately, Starbuck and Queequeg switched positions, with Starbuck moving to take the stern.
“Oars! Oars!” he intensely whispered, seizing the helm—“gripe your oars, and clutch your souls, now! My God, men, stand by! Shove him off, you Queequeg—the whale there!—prick him!—hit him! Stand up—stand up, and stay so! Spring, men—pull, men; never mind their backs—scrape them!—scrape away!”
"Oars! Oars!" he whispered urgently, grabbing the helm. "Grab your oars and hold on tight, men! My God, get ready! Push him off, Queequeg—the whale's right there! Stab him! Hit him! Stand up—stay standing! Move, men—pull with everything you’ve got; don’t worry about your backs—just push through!"
The boat was now all but jammed between two vast black bulks, leaving a narrow Dardanelles between their long lengths. But by desperate endeavor we at last shot into a temporary opening; then giving way rapidly, and at the same time earnestly watching for another outlet. After many similar hair-breadth escapes, we at last swiftly glided into what had just been one of the outer circles, but now crossed by random whales, all violently making for one centre. This lucky salvation was cheaply purchased by the loss of Queequeg’s hat, who, while standing in the bows to prick the fugitive whales, had his hat taken clean from his head by the air-eddy made by the sudden tossing of a pair of broad flukes close by.
The boat was almost trapped between two massive black masses, leaving a narrow passage like the Dardanelles between their long sides. But with desperate effort, we finally pushed through a temporary gap, rowing quickly while carefully watching for another way out. After several close calls like this, we eventually slid into what had been one of the outer circles but was now crisscrossed by random whales, all charging violently toward a single point. Fortunately, we escaped with nothing worse than Queequeg losing his hat. While he stood at the bow, trying to spear the fleeing whales, a pair of huge flukes suddenly tossed nearby, creating an air current that snatched the hat clean off his head.
Riotous and disordered as the universal commotion now was, it soon resolved itself into what seemed a systematic movement; for having clumped together at last in one dense body, they then renewed their onward flight with augmented fleetness. Further pursuit was useless; but the boats still lingered in their wake to pick up what drugged whales might be dropped astern, and likewise to secure one which Flask had killed and waifed. The waif is a pennoned pole, two or three of which are carried by every boat; and which, when additional game is at hand, are inserted upright into the floating body of a dead whale, both to mark its place on the sea, and also as token of prior possession, should the boats of any other ship draw near.
Chaotic and out of control as the universal commotion was at first, it soon turned into something that looked like an organized movement. After coming together into one dense group, they rushed forward again with even greater speed. Chasing them further was pointless, but the boats stayed behind to follow their trail, hoping to collect any drugged whales that might fall behind, as well as secure one that Flask had killed and marked. The mark, or waif, is a pole with a flag on it, and each boat carries two or three of these. When more whales are found, the waif is stuck upright into the floating body of a dead whale to show its location on the sea and to claim ownership in case boats from another ship come near.
The result of this lowering was somewhat illustrative of that sagacious saying in the Fishery,—the more whales the less fish. Of all the drugged whales only one was captured. The rest contrived to escape for the time, but only to be taken, as will hereafter be seen, by some other craft than the Pequod.
The result of this setback demonstrated the wise saying in the whaling industry—more whales mean fewer fish. Out of all the drugged whales, only one was caught. The rest managed to get away for the moment, only to be captured later, as we’ll see, by another ship instead of the Pequod.
CHAPTER 88. Schools and Schoolmasters.
The previous chapter gave account of an immense body or herd of Sperm Whales, and there was also then given the probable cause inducing those vast aggregations.
The previous chapter described a massive group or pod of sperm whales and explained the likely reason behind such large gatherings.
Now, though such great bodies are at times encountered, yet, as must have been seen, even at the present day, small detached bands are occasionally observed, embracing from twenty to fifty individuals each. Such bands are known as schools. They generally are of two sorts; those composed almost entirely of females, and those mustering none but young vigorous males, or bulls, as they are familiarly designated.
Nowadays, while such large groups are sometimes encountered, it’s clear that even today, small isolated groups are occasionally seen, consisting of anywhere from twenty to fifty individuals. These groups are called schools. They generally fall into two categories: those made up almost entirely of females and those made up entirely of young, strong males, often referred to as bulls.
In cavalier attendance upon the school of females, you invariably see a male of full grown magnitude, but not old; who, upon any alarm, evinces his gallantry by falling in the rear and covering the flight of his ladies. In truth, this gentleman is a luxurious Ottoman, swimming about over the watery world, surroundingly accompanied by all the solaces and endearments of the harem. The contrast between this Ottoman and his concubines is striking; because, while he is always of the largest leviathanic proportions, the ladies, even at full growth, are not more than one-third of the bulk of an average-sized male. They are comparatively delicate, indeed; I dare say, not to exceed half a dozen yards round the waist. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied, that upon the whole they are hereditarily entitled to en bon point.
When accompanying a group of females, you always notice a fully grown male, not old but in his prime, who, if there's any danger, shows his chivalry by staying at the back and protecting the retreat of his ladies. Honestly, this guy seems like a pampered Ottoman prince, gliding through the watery world and constantly surrounded by the comforts and affections of his harem. The difference between this Ottoman and his companions is striking because, while he is always enormous, the females, even when fully grown, are only about one-third the size of an average male. They are relatively petite, really—not more than six yards around the waist, I’d guess. Still, it’s clear that, as a group, they’ve inherited a charmingly plump appearance.
It is very curious to watch this harem and its lord in their indolent ramblings. Like fashionables, they are for ever on the move in leisurely search of variety. You meet them on the Line in time for the full flower of the Equatorial feeding season, having just returned, perhaps, from spending the summer in the Northern seas, and so cheating summer of all unpleasant weariness and warmth. By the time they have lounged up and down the promenade of the Equator awhile, they start for the Oriental waters in anticipation of the cool season there, and so evade the other excessive temperature of the year.
It's fascinating to watch this group and their leader as they lazily wander around. Like socialites, they're always on the move, leisurely searching for something new. You might spot them along the Equator during the height of the feeding season, having just come back from spending the summer up in the Northern seas, avoiding all the discomfort and heat of summer. After spending some time leisurely moving back and forth along the Equator, they head to the waters of the East, gearing up for the cooler season there, dodging the year's other extreme temperatures.
When serenely advancing on one of these journeys, if any strange suspicious sights are seen, my lord whale keeps a wary eye on his interesting family. Should any unwarrantably pert young Leviathan coming that way, presume to draw confidentially close to one of the ladies, with what prodigious fury the Bashaw assails him, and chases him away! High times, indeed, if unprincipled young rakes like him are to be permitted to invade the sanctity of domestic bliss; though do what the Bashaw will, he cannot keep the most notorious Lothario out of his bed; for, alas! all fish bed in common. As ashore, the ladies often cause the most terrible duels among their rival admirers; just so with the whales, who sometimes come to deadly battle, and all for love. They fence with their long lower jaws, sometimes locking them together, and so striving for the supremacy like elks that warringly interweave their antlers. Not a few are captured having the deep scars of these encounters,—furrowed heads, broken teeth, scolloped fins; and in some instances, wrenched and dislocated mouths.
When calmly traveling on one of these journeys, if any suspicious or unusual sights appear, the lord whale keeps a close and protective eye on his family. If a cheeky young Leviathan happens to wander too close to one of the ladies, the lord whale attacks with immense fury and chases him off! Imagine the audacity if careless young troublemakers like that were allowed to disrupt the peace of domestic happiness. Yet, no matter how hard the lord whale tries, he cannot prevent the boldest of intruders from encroaching on his space, as all fish, unfortunately, share the same communal bedding grounds. Just like on land, where women often incite fierce duels among their rival suitors, the whales experience the same drama, occasionally even engaging in deadly battles—all for love. They clash with their long lower jaws, sometimes locking them together in a struggle for dominance, much like elk fighting with their interlocked antlers. Many whales are captured bearing the scars of these conflicts—scarred heads, broken teeth, jagged fins—and, in some cases, even dislocated or twisted jaws.
But supposing the invader of domestic bliss to betake himself away at the first rush of the harem’s lord, then is it very diverting to watch that lord. Gently he insinuates his vast bulk among them again and revels there awhile, still in tantalizing vicinity to young Lothario, like pious Solomon devoutly worshipping among his thousand concubines. Granting other whales to be in sight, the fishermen will seldom give chase to one of these Grand Turks; for these Grand Turks are too lavish of their strength, and hence their unctuousness is small. As for the sons and the daughters they beget, why, those sons and daughters must take care of themselves; at least, with only the maternal help. For like certain other omnivorous roving lovers that might be named, my Lord Whale has no taste for the nursery, however much for the bower; and so, being a great traveller, he leaves his anonymous babies all over the world; every baby an exotic. In good time, nevertheless, as the ardour of youth declines; as years and dumps increase; as reflection lends her solemn pauses; in short, as a general lassitude overtakes the sated Turk; then a love of ease and virtue supplants the love for maidens; our Ottoman enters upon the impotent, repentant, admonitory stage of life, forswears, disbands the harem, and grown to an exemplary, sulky old soul, goes about all alone among the meridians and parallels saying his prayers, and warning each young Leviathan from his amorous errors.
Suppose the intruder on domestic happiness scurries away at the first sign of the harem’s lord arriving—then it’s quite entertaining to watch that lord. He gently maneuvers his massive body back among the group and indulges himself for a while, staying temptingly close to the young Lothario, much like a devout Solomon worshipping among his thousand mistresses. If other whales are nearby, the fishermen rarely bother chasing one of these so-called Grand Turks; they burn through their energy so fast that they don’t yield much oil. As for the offspring they leave behind, those sons and daughters are left to fend for themselves, relying only on their mothers for survival. Like some other roaming lovers we could name, Lord Whale has no interest in parenting, though he certainly enjoys the company of the ladies. A true globetrotter, he abandons anonymous babies anywhere and everywhere, each one a stranger to a homeland. Eventually, as the fire of youth fades, age takes its toll, and deeper reflection sets in; as weariness replaces passion, and a craving for comfort and virtue overtakes the desire for romance, our Turkish-like lord enters a new phase of life. Now impotent, repentant, and warning others, he dismisses his harem, grows into a surly, solitary old creature, wandering the world alone. Along the meridians and parallels, he mutters prayers and cautions every young Leviathan he meets against making the same romantic mistakes he once did.
Now, as the harem of whales is called by the fishermen a school, so is the lord and master of that school technically known as the schoolmaster. It is therefore not in strict character, however admirably satirical, that after going to school himself, he should then go abroad inculcating not what he learned there, but the folly of it. His title, schoolmaster, would very naturally seem derived from the name bestowed upon the harem itself, but some have surmised that the man who first thus entitled this sort of Ottoman whale, must have read the memoirs of Vidocq, and informed himself what sort of a country-schoolmaster that famous Frenchman was in his younger days, and what was the nature of those occult lessons he inculcated into some of his pupils.
These days, fishermen refer to a group of whales as a school, and the leader of that group is called the schoolmaster. So, while it might make for good satire, it’s not entirely accurate to picture the schoolmaster spreading the nonsense he learned after attending school himself. The term schoolmaster likely comes from the name given to the group of whales, but some believe the person who first called this type of dominant whale an "Ottoman schoolmaster" may have read the memoirs of Vidocq, learning about the kind of country-schoolmaster that renowned Frenchman was in his youth—and the secretive lessons he taught his students.
The same secludedness and isolation to which the schoolmaster whale betakes himself in his advancing years, is true of all aged Sperm Whales. Almost universally, a lone whale—as a solitary Leviathan is called—proves an ancient one. Like venerable moss-bearded Daniel Boone, he will have no one near him but Nature herself; and her he takes to wife in the wilderness of waters, and the best of wives she is, though she keeps so many moody secrets.
The same seclusion and solitude that the schoolmaster whale seeks in his later years are true for all old Sperm Whales. Almost always, a lone whale—what people call a solitary Leviathan—turns out to be an elder. Like the old, moss-covered Daniel Boone, he doesn’t want anyone near him except Nature herself; he takes her as his companion in the vast wilderness of the ocean, and she’s the best companion he could have, even though she holds so many mysterious secrets.
The schools composing none but young and vigorous males, previously mentioned, offer a strong contrast to the harem schools. For while those female whales are characteristically timid, the young males, or forty-barrel-bulls, as they call them, are by far the most pugnacious of all Leviathans, and proverbially the most dangerous to encounter; excepting those wondrous grey-headed, grizzled whales, sometimes met, and these will fight you like grim fiends exasperated by a penal gout.
The schools made up entirely of young and energetic males, mentioned earlier, are a sharp contrast to the harem schools. While those female whales are typically shy, the young males, often called forty-barrel bulls, are the most aggressive of all whales and are famously the most dangerous to face—except for those extraordinary grey-headed, grizzled whales that are occasionally encountered. These older whales will fight like furious demons driven mad by unbearable pain.
The Forty-barrel-bull schools are larger than the harem schools. Like a mob of young collegians, they are full of fight, fun, and wickedness, tumbling round the world at such a reckless, rollicking rate, that no prudent underwriter would insure them any more than he would a riotous lad at Yale or Harvard. They soon relinquish this turbulence though, and when about three-fourths grown, break up, and separately go about in quest of settlements, that is, harems.
The Forty-barrel-bull schools are bigger than the harem schools. Like a group of rowdy college kids, they’re full of energy, mischief, and trouble, tearing around the world with such reckless, wild behavior that no sensible insurer would cover them—just like they wouldn’t insure a rowdy student at Yale or Harvard. However, they eventually grow out of this rowdiness, and when they’re about three-quarters grown, they split up and go off on their own in search of harems.
Another point of difference between the male and female schools is still more characteristic of the sexes. Say you strike a Forty-barrel-bull—poor devil! all his comrades quit him. But strike a member of the harem school, and her companions swim around her with every token of concern, sometimes lingering so near her and so long, as themselves to fall a prey.
Another difference between the male and female groups is even more reflective of their nature. If you attack a Forty-barrel-bull—poor guy!—all his buddies abandon him. But if you attack a member of the harem group, her companions swim around her showing every sign of concern, sometimes staying so close to her and for so long that they themselves become victims.
CHAPTER 89. Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish.
The allusion to the waif and waif-poles in the last chapter but one, necessitates some account of the laws and regulations of the whale fishery, of which the waif may be deemed the grand symbol and badge.
The mention of the waif and waif-poles in the second-to-last chapter requires some explanation of the rules and regulations of the whaling industry, where the waif can be considered the main symbol and emblem.
It frequently happens that when several ships are cruising in company, a whale may be struck by one vessel, then escape, and be finally killed and captured by another vessel; and herein are indirectly comprised many minor contingencies, all partaking of this one grand feature. For example,—after a weary and perilous chase and capture of a whale, the body may get loose from the ship by reason of a violent storm; and drifting far away to leeward, be retaken by a second whaler, who, in a calm, snugly tows it alongside, without risk of life or line. Thus the most vexatious and violent disputes would often arise between the fishermen, were there not some written or unwritten, universal, undisputed law applicable to all cases.
It often happens that when several ships are sailing together, one ship might harpoon a whale, the whale escapes, and then another ship finally kills and captures it. This scenario involves various smaller incidents, all tied to this main situation. For instance, after an exhausting and dangerous chase and capture, the whale's body might break free from the ship during a violent storm. It could drift far downwind and then be recovered by another whaling ship, which, during calm weather, easily tows it back without any danger to the crew or gear. Because of such situations, the most frustrating and heated arguments often arise among the crews—unless there’s some universal, agreed-upon law, whether officially written or just understood, that applies to all cases.
Perhaps the only formal whaling code authorized by legislative enactment, was that of Holland. It was decreed by the States-General in A.D. 1695. But though no other nation has ever had any written whaling law, yet the American fishermen have been their own legislators and lawyers in this matter. They have provided a system which for terse comprehensiveness surpasses Justinian’s Pandects and the By-laws of the Chinese Society for the Suppression of Meddling with other People’s Business. Yes; these laws might be engraven on a Queen Anne’s farthing, or the barb of a harpoon, and worn round the neck, so small are they.
The only official whaling code ever approved by law was from Holland, established by the States-General in 1695. While no other nation has had formal written laws on whaling, American fishermen have created their own rules and acted as their own lawmakers in this area. They’ve developed a system so concise yet comprehensive that it surpasses Justinian’s legal codes and the rules of the Chinese Society for the Suppression of Meddling in Other People’s Affairs. In fact, these laws are so brief they could fit on a Queen Anne’s coin or the tip of a harpoon and be worn as a necklace.
I. A Fast-Fish belongs to the party fast to it.
I. A Fast-Fish belongs to the group that has secure hold of it.
II. A Loose-Fish is fair game for anybody who can soonest catch it.
II. A loose fish is fair game for anyone who can catch it first.
But what plays the mischief with this masterly code is the admirable brevity of it, which necessitates a vast volume of commentaries to expound it.
What complicates this brilliant code is its impressive brevity, which requires an enormous amount of commentary to explain it.
First: What is a Fast-Fish? Alive or dead a fish is technically fast, when it is connected with an occupied ship or boat, by any medium at all controllable by the occupant or occupants,—a mast, an oar, a nine-inch cable, a telegraph wire, or a strand of cobweb, it is all the same. Likewise a fish is technically fast when it bears a waif, or any other recognised symbol of possession; so long as the party waifing it plainly evince their ability at any time to take it alongside, as well as their intention so to do.
First: What’s a Fast-Fish? Whether it’s alive or dead, a fish is considered fast when it’s attached to an occupied ship or boat by any means that can be controlled by the people on board—whether it’s a mast, an oar, a thick cable, a telegraph wire, or even a strand of spiderweb. It doesn’t matter. Similarly, a fish is technically fast if it carries a waif or any other recognized symbol of ownership, as long as the party marking it shows they’re capable of bringing it alongside whenever they want and that they intend to do so.
These are scientific commentaries; but the commentaries of the whalemen themselves sometimes consist in hard words and harder knocks—the Coke-upon-Littleton of the fist. True, among the more upright and honorable whalemen allowances are always made for peculiar cases, where it would be an outrageous moral injustice for one party to claim possession of a whale previously chased or killed by another party. But others are by no means so scrupulous.
These are scientific explanations, but the sailors' arguments often involve harsh words and even harsher fights—settling things with their fists like a courtroom brawl. It's true that among the more fair and honorable whalers, they make exceptions for unique situations where it would be blatantly unfair for one crew to claim a whale that another crew had already chased or killed. However, not everyone is so conscientious.
Some fifty years ago there was a curious case of whale-trover litigated in England, wherein the plaintiffs set forth that after a hard chase of a whale in the Northern seas; and when indeed they (the plaintiffs) had succeeded in harpooning the fish; they were at last, through peril of their lives, obliged to forsake not only their lines, but their boat itself. Ultimately the defendants (the crew of another ship) came up with the whale, struck, killed, seized, and finally appropriated it before the very eyes of the plaintiffs. And when those defendants were remonstrated with, their captain snapped his fingers in the plaintiffs’ teeth, and assured them that by way of doxology to the deed he had done, he would now retain their line, harpoons, and boat, which had remained attached to the whale at the time of the seizure. Wherefore the plaintiffs now sued for the recovery of the value of their whale, line, harpoons, and boat.
About fifty years ago, there was an unusual court case in England about a whale dispute. The plaintiffs claimed that, after a tough chase of a whale in the northern seas and finally managing to harpoon it, they were forced to abandon their lines and even their boat due to the danger to their lives. Later, the defendants, the crew of another ship, found the whale, struck it, killed it, and took possession of it right in front of the plaintiffs. When confronted, the defendants' captain arrogantly dismissed them, even mocking them, and declared that, on top of everything, he would keep their line, harpoons, and boat, which were still attached to the whale when it was taken. As a result, the plaintiffs sued to recover the value of the whale, along with their line, harpoons, and boat.
Mr. Erskine was counsel for the defendants; Lord Ellenborough was the judge. In the course of the defence, the witty Erskine went on to illustrate his position, by alluding to a recent crim. con. case, wherein a gentleman, after in vain trying to bridle his wife’s viciousness, had at last abandoned her upon the seas of life; but in the course of years, repenting of that step, he instituted an action to recover possession of her. Erskine was on the other side; and he then supported it by saying, that though the gentleman had originally harpooned the lady, and had once had her fast, and only by reason of the great stress of her plunging viciousness, had at last abandoned her; yet abandon her he did, so that she became a loose-fish; and therefore when a subsequent gentleman re-harpooned her, the lady then became that subsequent gentleman’s property, along with whatever harpoon might have been found sticking in her.
Mr. Erskine was the lawyer for the defendants, and Lord Ellenborough was the judge. During the defense, the clever Erskine used an example from a recent adultery case to make his point. In the case, a man, after unsuccessfully trying to control his wife’s immoral behavior, eventually left her to drift through life on her own. However, after some years, the man regretted his decision and filed a claim to get her back. Erskine, representing the opposing side, argued that while the man may have initially “harpooned” the woman and held onto her, he ultimately gave up due to the extreme difficulties caused by her behavior. By abandoning her, she became a "free fish." Therefore, when another man later "re-harpooned" her, she ultimately belonged to the new man, along with any “harpoon” that might still be lodged in her.
Now in the present case Erskine contended that the examples of the whale and the lady were reciprocally illustrative of each other.
In this case, Erskine argued that the examples of the whale and the lady illustrated each other in a mutually enlightening way.
These pleadings, and the counter pleadings, being duly heard, the very learned judge in set terms decided, to wit,—That as for the boat, he awarded it to the plaintiffs, because they had merely abandoned it to save their lives; but that with regard to the controverted whale, harpoons, and line, they belonged to the defendants; the whale, because it was a Loose-Fish at the time of the final capture; and the harpoons and line because when the fish made off with them, it (the fish) acquired a property in those articles; and hence anybody who afterwards took the fish had a right to them. Now the defendants afterwards took the fish; ergo, the aforesaid articles were theirs.
After hearing these arguments and counterarguments, the highly learned judge made his decision in clear terms: as for the boat, he ruled in favor of the plaintiffs since they had only left it behind to save their lives. However, when it came to the disputed whale, harpoons, and line, he declared these belonged to the defendants. The whale was considered a "Loose-Fish" at the time it was finally captured, and the harpoons and line were deemed to have been claimed by the whale when it swam off with them. Therefore, anyone who subsequently caught the whale also gained the right to those items. Since the defendants later captured the whale, the aforementioned items legally belonged to them.
A common man looking at this decision of the very learned Judge, might possibly object to it. But ploughed up to the primary rock of the matter, the two great principles laid down in the twin whaling laws previously quoted, and applied and elucidated by Lord Ellenborough in the above cited case; these two laws touching Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish, I say, will, on reflection, be found the fundamentals of all human jurisprudence; for notwithstanding its complicated tracery of sculpture, the Temple of the Law, like the Temple of the Philistines, has but two props to stand on.
An ordinary person looking at this decision by the very learned Judge might object to it. But when you dig down to the core of the issue, the two main principles outlined in the earlier quoted whaling laws and explained by Lord Ellenborough in the cited case—those two laws regarding Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish—are, on reflection, the foundation of all human law. For despite its intricate and elaborate structure, the Temple of Law, like the Temple of the Philistines, rests on just two pillars.
Is it not a saying in every one’s mouth, Possession is half of the law: that is, regardless of how the thing came into possession? But often possession is the whole of the law. What are the sinews and souls of Russian serfs and Republican slaves but Fast-Fish, whereof possession is the whole of the law? What to the rapacious landlord is the widow’s last mite but a Fast-Fish? What is yonder undetected villain’s marble mansion with a door-plate for a waif; what is that but a Fast-Fish? What is the ruinous discount which Mordecai, the broker, gets from poor Woebegone, the bankrupt, on a loan to keep Woebegone’s family from starvation; what is that ruinous discount but a Fast-Fish? What is the Archbishop of Savesoul’s income of £100,000 seized from the scant bread and cheese of hundreds of thousands of broken-backed laborers (all sure of heaven without any of Savesoul’s help) what is that globular £100,000 but a Fast-Fish? What are the Duke of Dunder’s hereditary towns and hamlets but Fast-Fish? What to that redoubted harpooneer, John Bull, is poor Ireland, but a Fast-Fish? What to that apostolic lancer, Brother Jonathan, is Texas but a Fast-Fish? And concerning all these, is not Possession the whole of the law?
Isn’t there a common saying, “Possession is nine-tenths of the law”? Meaning, it doesn’t matter how something was acquired? But honestly, possession is often the entire law. What are the bodies and souls of Russian serfs and Republican slaves but Fast-Fish, entirely owned by those in power? What is the widow’s last penny to a greedy landlord, if not a Fast-Fish? What is that luxurious mansion owned by an unpunished criminal with a fake name on the doorplate, if not a Fast-Fish? What about the outrageous interest that Mordecai, the broker, charges poor Woebegone, who’s already bankrupt and only trying to keep his family from starving—isn’t that just another Fast-Fish? What is the Archbishop of Savesoul’s £100,000 income, squeezed from the crumbs of countless struggling laborers (who don’t need Savesoul’s help to get to heaven), but a Fast-Fish? What about the Duke of Dunder’s inherited towns and villages—aren’t they Fast-Fish too? And to that famous harpooneer, John Bull, what is poor Ireland but a Fast-Fish? To Brother Jonathan, the self-proclaimed apostle, isn’t Texas just the same? And for all these cases, isn’t possession the ultimate law?
But if the doctrine of Fast-Fish be pretty generally applicable, the kindred doctrine of Loose-Fish is still more widely so. That is internationally and universally applicable.
But if the rule of Fast-Fish is fairly widely applicable, the related rule of Loose-Fish applies even more broadly. It’s relevant both internationally and universally.
What was America in 1492 but a Loose-Fish, in which Columbus struck the Spanish standard by way of waifing it for his royal master and mistress? What was Poland to the Czar? What Greece to the Turk? What India to England? What at last will Mexico be to the United States? All Loose-Fish.
What was America in 1492 but an unclaimed territory, where Columbus planted the Spanish flag to claim it for his king and queen? What was Poland to the Czar? What was Greece to the Turk? What was India to England? And ultimately, what will Mexico be to the United States? All unclaimed prizes.
What are the Rights of Man and the Liberties of the World but Loose-Fish? What all men’s minds and opinions but Loose-Fish? What is the principle of religious belief in them but a Loose-Fish? What to the ostentatious smuggling verbalists are the thoughts of thinkers but Loose-Fish? What is the great globe itself but a Loose-Fish? And what are you, reader, but a Loose-Fish and a Fast-Fish, too?
What are the Rights of Man and the Liberties of the World but unclaimed opportunities? What are all men’s thoughts and opinions but unclaimed opportunities? What is the foundation of religious belief among them but an unclaimed opportunity? What are the ideas of thinkers to the flashy, self-important talkers but unclaimed opportunities? What is the entire world itself but an unclaimed opportunity? And what are you, reader, but both an unclaimed opportunity and something already claimed?
CHAPTER 90. Heads or Tails.
“De balena vero sufficit, si rex habeat caput, et regina caudam.” Bracton, l. 3, c. 3.
"Regarding the whale, it is enough if the king has the head, and the queen has the tail." Bracton, l. 3, c. 3.
Latin from the books of the Laws of England, which taken along with the context, means, that of all whales captured by anybody on the coast of that land, the King, as Honorary Grand Harpooneer, must have the head, and the Queen be respectfully presented with the tail. A division which, in the whale, is much like halving an apple; there is no intermediate remainder. Now as this law, under a modified form, is to this day in force in England; and as it offers in various respects a strange anomaly touching the general law of Fast and Loose-Fish, it is here treated of in a separate chapter, on the same courteous principle that prompts the English railways to be at the expense of a separate car, specially reserved for the accommodation of royalty. In the first place, in curious proof of the fact that the above-mentioned law is still in force, I proceed to lay before you a circumstance that happened within the last two years.
Latin from the books of England’s laws, which, when considered with the context, means that for any whales caught by anyone on the coast of that country, the King, as the honorary Grand Harpooner, gets the head, while the Queen is to be respectfully given the tail. This division, when it comes to a whale, is like splitting an apple—there’s no leftover piece in between. Now, since this law, in a modified form, is still enforced in England today, and because it represents a strange exception to the general rule of Fast-Fish and Loose-Fish, it is discussed here in its own chapter. This is the same polite principle that inspires English railways to provide a separate car specifically reserved for royalty. First of all, to demonstrate that this law is still active, I’ll share an incident that occurred within the last two years.
It seems that some honest mariners of Dover, or Sandwich, or some one of the Cinque Ports, had after a hard chase succeeded in killing and beaching a fine whale which they had originally descried afar off from the shore. Now the Cinque Ports are partially or somehow under the jurisdiction of a sort of policeman or beadle, called a Lord Warden. Holding the office directly from the crown, I believe, all the royal emoluments incident to the Cinque Port territories become by assignment his. By some writers this office is called a sinecure. But not so. Because the Lord Warden is busily employed at times in fobbing his perquisites; which are his chiefly by virtue of that same fobbing of them.
It seems that some honest sailors from Dover, Sandwich, or one of the Cinque Ports had, after a tough chase, managed to kill and drag ashore a big whale that they had first spotted from a distance. Now, the Cinque Ports are partially, or somehow, under the authority of an official called the Lord Warden, who operates like a sort of policeman or overseer. This position is directly granted by the crown, and I believe all the royal profits from the Cinque Port territories are assigned to him. Some writers refer to this role as a sinecure, but that’s not exactly true. The Lord Warden is often quite busy collecting his dues, which, incidentally, he mostly secures through the act of diligently collecting them in the first place.
Now when these poor sun-burnt mariners, bare-footed, and with their trowsers rolled high up on their eely legs, had wearily hauled their fat fish high and dry, promising themselves a good £150 from the precious oil and bone; and in fantasy sipping rare tea with their wives, and good ale with their cronies, upon the strength of their respective shares; up steps a very learned and most Christian and charitable gentleman, with a copy of Blackstone under his arm; and laying it upon the whale’s head, he says—“Hands off! this fish, my masters, is a Fast-Fish. I seize it as the Lord Warden’s.” Upon this the poor mariners in their respectful consternation—so truly English—knowing not what to say, fall to vigorously scratching their heads all round; meanwhile ruefully glancing from the whale to the stranger. But that did in nowise mend the matter, or at all soften the hard heart of the learned gentleman with the copy of Blackstone. At length one of them, after long scratching about for his ideas, made bold to speak,
When these sunburned sailors, barefoot with their pants rolled up high on their skinny legs, had finally dragged their fat catch onto dry land, dreaming of earning a good £150 from the valuable oil and bone, and picturing themselves enjoying rare tea with their wives and good ale with their friends thanks to their shares—up walks a very educated, supposedly Christian and charitable man with a copy of Blackstone under his arm. Placing it on the whale’s head, he declares, "Hands off! This whale, gentlemen, is a Fast-Fish. I claim it as property of the Lord Warden." At this, the poor sailors—respectful and very English in their confusion—stand there scratching their heads, not knowing what to say, all the while casting sad glances between the whale and the stranger. But none of this softened the heart of the educated man with his copy of Blackstone. Finally, after much head-scratching, one of the sailors summoned the courage to speak.
“Please, sir, who is the Lord Warden?”
"Excuse me, sir, who is the Lord Warden?"
“The Duke.”
"The Duke"
“But the duke had nothing to do with taking this fish?”
"But the duke didn’t have anything to do with catching this fish?"
“It is his.”
“It’s his.”
“We have been at great trouble, and peril, and some expense, and is all that to go to the Duke’s benefit; we getting nothing at all for our pains but our blisters?”
"We've gone through a lot of trouble, danger, and even spent some money, and all of that is just going to benefit the Duke while we get nothing for our efforts except blisters?"
“It is his.”
“It’s his.”
“Is the Duke so very poor as to be forced to this desperate mode of getting a livelihood?”
"Is the Duke really so broke that he has to resort to such a desperate way of making a living?"
“It is his.”
"It's his."
“I thought to relieve my old bed-ridden mother by part of my share of this whale.”
"I planned to use part of my share of this whale to help out my elderly mother, who’s stuck in bed."
“It is his.”
"It's his."
“Won’t the Duke be content with a quarter or a half?”
"Won’t the Duke be satisfied with a quarter or half?"
“It is his.”
“It’s his.”
In a word, the whale was seized and sold, and his Grace the Duke of Wellington received the money. Thinking that viewed in some particular lights, the case might by a bare possibility in some small degree be deemed, under the circumstances, a rather hard one, an honest clergyman of the town respectfully addressed a note to his Grace, begging him to take the case of those unfortunate mariners into full consideration. To which my Lord Duke in substance replied (both letters were published) that he had already done so, and received the money, and would be obliged to the reverend gentleman if for the future he (the reverend gentleman) would decline meddling with other people’s business. Is this the still militant old man, standing at the corners of the three kingdoms, on all hands coercing alms of beggars?
In short, the whale was captured and sold, and the Duke of Wellington got the money. Thinking that, in some specific ways, the situation might possibly seem a little unfair given the circumstances, an honest clergyman from the town respectfully wrote a note to the Duke, asking him to fully consider the plight of the unfortunate sailors. The Duke responded (both letters were made public) that he already had, had received the money, and would appreciate it if the clergyman would refrain from interfering in other people's business in the future. Is this the same tough old man, standing like a guardian over the three kingdoms, forcing charity from beggars on every side?
It will readily be seen that in this case the alleged right of the Duke to the whale was a delegated one from the Sovereign. We must needs inquire then on what principle the Sovereign is originally invested with that right. The law itself has already been set forth. But Plowdon gives us the reason for it. Says Plowdon, the whale so caught belongs to the King and Queen, “because of its superior excellence.” And by the soundest commentators this has ever been held a cogent argument in such matters.
It's clear that in this case, the Duke's claimed right to the whale was given to him by the Sovereign. So, we need to ask on what basis the Sovereign originally has this right. The law has already been stated, but Plowden provides the reasoning. According to Plowden, the whale caught belongs to the King and Queen "because of its superior excellence." The most respected commentators have always considered this a strong argument in such cases.
But why should the King have the head, and the Queen the tail? A reason for that, ye lawyers!
But why should the King get the head and the Queen the tail? Explain that, you lawyers!
In his treatise on “Queen-Gold,” or Queen-pinmoney, an old King’s Bench author, one William Prynne, thus discourseth: “Ye tail is ye Queen’s, that ye Queen’s wardrobe may be supplied with ye whalebone.” Now this was written at a time when the black limber bone of the Greenland or Right whale was largely used in ladies’ bodices. But this same bone is not in the tail; it is in the head, which is a sad mistake for a sagacious lawyer like Prynne. But is the Queen a mermaid, to be presented with a tail? An allegorical meaning may lurk here.
In his essay on “Queen-Gold,” or the Queen’s pocket money, an old King’s Bench writer, William Prynne, says the following: “The tail belongs to the Queen, so that the Queen’s wardrobe can be stocked with whalebone.” This was written back when the black flexible bone of the Greenland or Right whale was commonly used in women’s bodices. But that bone isn’t in the tail—it’s in the head, which is quite an error for a supposedly sharp lawyer like Prynne. But wait—does this make the Queen a mermaid, to be gifted a tail? Perhaps there’s some deeper allegorical meaning hidden here.
There are two royal fish so styled by the English law writers—the whale and the sturgeon; both royal property under certain limitations, and nominally supplying the tenth branch of the crown’s ordinary revenue. I know not that any other author has hinted of the matter; but by inference it seems to me that the sturgeon must be divided in the same way as the whale, the King receiving the highly dense and elastic head peculiar to that fish, which, symbolically regarded, may possibly be humorously grounded upon some presumed congeniality. And thus there seems a reason in all things, even in law.
There are two "royal" fish, as described by English law writers: the whale and the sturgeon. Both are considered royal property under certain conditions and are technically meant to provide the tenth part of the crown's regular revenue. As far as I know, no other writer has mentioned this topic, but it seems logical to me that the sturgeon should be divided similarly to the whale, with the King receiving the uniquely dense and springy head of the sturgeon. Symbolically, this might be humorously based on some assumed similarity. So, it appears there’s a reason for everything, even in the law.
CHAPTER 91. The Pequod Meets The Rose-Bud.
“In vain it was to rake for Ambergriese in the paunch of this Leviathan, insufferable fetor denying not inquiry.” Sir T. Browne, V.E.
"It was pointless to search for ambergris in the belly of this whale, as an unbearable stench made any investigation impossible." Sir T. Browne, V.E.
It was a week or two after the last whaling scene recounted, and when we were slowly sailing over a sleepy, vapory, mid-day sea, that the many noses on the Pequod’s deck proved more vigilant discoverers than the three pairs of eyes aloft. A peculiar and not very pleasant smell was smelt in the sea.
It was a week or two after the last whaling event described, and while we were slowly sailing across a calm, hazy, midday sea, the many noses on the Pequod's deck turned out to be sharper at detecting things than the three pairs of eyes up in the lookout. A strange and not very pleasant smell was noticed coming from the sea.
“I will bet something now,” said Stubb, “that somewhere hereabouts are some of those drugged whales we tickled the other day. I thought they would keel up before long.”
"I'll make a bet right now," said Stubb, "that some of those drugged whales we played around with the other day are somewhere nearby. I figured they’d turn belly-up soon."
Presently, the vapors in advance slid aside; and there in the distance lay a ship, whose furled sails betokened that some sort of whale must be alongside. As we glided nearer, the stranger showed French colours from his peak; and by the eddying cloud of vulture sea-fowl that circled, and hovered, and swooped around him, it was plain that the whale alongside must be what the fishermen call a blasted whale, that is, a whale that has died unmolested on the sea, and so floated an unappropriated corpse. It may well be conceived, what an unsavory odor such a mass must exhale; worse than an Assyrian city in the plague, when the living are incompetent to bury the departed. So intolerable indeed is it regarded by some, that no cupidity could persuade them to moor alongside of it. Yet are there those who will still do it; notwithstanding the fact that the oil obtained from such subjects is of a very inferior quality, and by no means of the nature of attar-of-rose.
Soon, the mist ahead parted, and in the distance appeared a ship with its sails furled, signaling that a whale must be nearby. As we got closer, the ship displayed French colors from its mast, and the swirling cloud of seabirds circling, hovering, and diving around it made it clear that the whale alongside was what fishermen call a "blasted whale"—a whale that has died naturally at sea and drifted as an unclaimed carcass. You can imagine the awful stench such a massive creature gives off; worse than a plague-stricken Assyrian city where the living can't bury the dead. The odor is so unbearable that some refuse to approach it, no matter the potential profit. Yet, there are still those willing to endure it, even though the oil from such whales is of very poor quality and nothing like the prized attar of roses.
Coming still nearer with the expiring breeze, we saw that the Frenchman had a second whale alongside; and this second whale seemed even more of a nosegay than the first. In truth, it turned out to be one of those problematical whales that seem to dry up and die with a sort of prodigious dyspepsia, or indigestion; leaving their defunct bodies almost entirely bankrupt of anything like oil. Nevertheless, in the proper place we shall see that no knowing fisherman will ever turn up his nose at such a whale as this, however much he may shun blasted whales in general.
As we got closer with the dying breeze, we saw that the Frenchman had another whale alongside; and this second whale looked even more like a bouquet than the first. Honestly, it turned out to be one of those strange whales that seem to shrivel up and die from some enormous indigestion or stomach trouble, leaving their dead bodies almost completely drained of anything resembling oil. Still, as we'll see later, any experienced fisherman will never turn his nose up at a whale like this, no matter how much he might avoid ruined whales in general.
The Pequod had now swept so nigh to the stranger, that Stubb vowed he recognised his cutting spade-pole entangled in the lines that were knotted round the tail of one of these whales.
The Pequod had now come so close to the other ship that Stubb swore he recognized his cutting spade-pole tangled in the lines knotted around the tail of one of these whales.
“There’s a pretty fellow, now,” he banteringly laughed, standing in the ship’s bows, “there’s a jackal for ye! I well know that these Crappoes of Frenchmen are but poor devils in the fishery; sometimes lowering their boats for breakers, mistaking them for Sperm Whale spouts; yes, and sometimes sailing from their port with their hold full of boxes of tallow candles, and cases of snuffers, foreseeing that all the oil they will get won’t be enough to dip the Captain’s wick into; aye, we all know these things; but look ye, here’s a Crappo that is content with our leavings, the drugged whale there, I mean; aye, and is content too with scraping the dry bones of that other precious fish he has there. Poor devil! I say, pass round a hat, some one, and let’s make him a present of a little oil for dear charity’s sake. For what oil he’ll get from that drugged whale there, wouldn’t be fit to burn in a jail; no, not in a condemned cell. And as for the other whale, why, I’ll agree to get more oil by chopping up and trying out these three masts of ours, than he’ll get from that bundle of bones; though, now that I think of it, it may contain something worth a good deal more than oil; yes, ambergris. I wonder now if our old man has thought of that. It’s worth trying. Yes, I’m for it;” and so saying he started for the quarter-deck.
"Look at that guy," he laughed sarcastically, standing at the front of the ship. "There’s a scavenger for you! I know these French folks aren’t much good at whaling; sometimes they lower their boats for waves, thinking they’re sperm whale spouts. And sometimes they leave port loaded with boxes of tallow candles and snuffers, knowing full well they won’t catch enough oil to keep the captain’s lantern lit. Yeah, we all know how it is. But look at this one—he’s happy with our scraps, that drugged whale over there. And he’s fine with picking the bones of that other pitiful whale too. Poor guy! Someone pass around a hat so we can give him a little oil for charity. The oil he’ll get from that drugged whale wouldn’t even be fit to light a jail cell, not even one for condemned prisoners. And as for the other whale, I’d bet I could get more oil by chopping up these three masts of ours than he’ll ever get out of that bag of bones. Still, now that I think about it, there might be something more valuable than oil in that whale—ambergris. I wonder if the old man thought of that. It might be worth a shot. Yeah, I’m in!" And with that, he headed for the quarterdeck.
By this time the faint air had become a complete calm; so that whether or no, the Pequod was now fairly entrapped in the smell, with no hope of escaping except by its breezing up again. Issuing from the cabin, Stubb now called his boat’s crew, and pulled off for the stranger. Drawing across her bow, he perceived that in accordance with the fanciful French taste, the upper part of her stem-piece was carved in the likeness of a huge drooping stalk, was painted green, and for thorns had copper spikes projecting from it here and there; the whole terminating in a symmetrical folded bulb of a bright red colour. Upon her head boards, in large gilt letters, he read “Bouton de Rose,”—Rose-button, or Rose-bud; and this was the romantic name of this aromatic ship.
By now, the light breeze had died down completely, leaving everything totally calm. Whether or not, the Pequod seemed stuck in the scent, with no hope of getting away unless the wind picked up again. Coming out of the cabin, Stubb called for his boat crew and rowed over to the other ship. As they crossed in front of its bow, he noticed that, in line with the fanciful French style, the upper part of its stem was shaped like a large drooping stalk, painted green, with copper spikes here and there as thorns; it ended with a perfectly folded, bright red bulb. On the headboards, written in large golden letters, he read “Bouton de Rose” — Rose-button, or Rose-bud; this was the romantic name of the fragrant ship.
Though Stubb did not understand the Bouton part of the inscription, yet the word rose, and the bulbous figure-head put together, sufficiently explained the whole to him.
Although Stubb didn’t understand the Bouton part of the inscription, the word rose and the bulbous figurehead together made the meaning clear to him.
“A wooden rose-bud, eh?” he cried with his hand to his nose, “that will do very well; but how like all creation it smells!”
"A wooden rosebud, huh?" he exclaimed, holding his nose. "That'll do just fine, but wow, it smells like nothing else!"
Now in order to hold direct communication with the people on deck, he had to pull round the bows to the starboard side, and thus come close to the blasted whale; and so talk over it.
To talk directly with the crew on deck, he had to row around the front of the ship to the right side, bringing him close to the dead whale, and speak across it.
Arrived then at this spot, with one hand still to his nose, he bawled—“Bouton-de-Rose, ahoy! are there any of you Bouton-de-Roses that speak English?”
Once he got to this spot, still holding his nose with one hand, he shouted, "Bouton-de-Rose, ahoy! Are there any of you Bouton-de-Roses who speak English?"
“Yes,” rejoined a Guernsey-man from the bulwarks, who turned out to be the chief-mate.
"Yeah," replied a Guernsey man from the deck, who turned out to be the chief mate.
“Well, then, my Bouton-de-Rose-bud, have you seen the White Whale?”
"Well then, my little Rosebud, have you seen the White Whale?"
“What whale?”
“Which whale?”
“The White Whale—a Sperm Whale—Moby Dick, have ye seen him?
"The White Whale—a Sperm Whale—Moby Dick, have you seen him?"
“Never heard of such a whale. Cachalot Blanche! White Whale—no.”
"Never heard of a whale like that. White sperm whale? No way."
“Very good, then; good bye now, and I’ll call again in a minute.”
"Alright then, goodbye for now. I’ll be back in a minute."
Then rapidly pulling back towards the Pequod, and seeing Ahab leaning over the quarter-deck rail awaiting his report, he moulded his two hands into a trumpet and shouted—“No, Sir! No!” Upon which Ahab retired, and Stubb returned to the Frenchman.
Then quickly heading back to the Pequod and spotting Ahab leaning over the quarter-deck railing waiting for his report, he cupped his hands around his mouth like a trumpet and yelled, “No, sir! No!” With that, Ahab stepped back, and Stubb went back to the Frenchman.
He now perceived that the Guernsey-man, who had just got into the chains, and was using a cutting-spade, had slung his nose in a sort of bag.
He now noticed that the Guernseyman, who had just climbed into the chains and was using a cutting spade, had his nose tucked into some kind of bag.
“What’s the matter with your nose, there?” said Stubb. “Broke it?”
"What's wrong with your nose there?" asked Stubb. "Did you break it?"
“I wish it was broken, or that I didn’t have any nose at all!” answered the Guernsey-man, who did not seem to relish the job he was at very much. “But what are you holding yours for?”
"I wish it were broken, or that I didn’t have a nose at all!” replied the man from Guernsey, who didn’t seem to enjoy the task he was doing very much. “But why are you holding yours?”
“Oh, nothing! It’s a wax nose; I have to hold it on. Fine day, ain’t it? Air rather gardenny, I should say; throw us a bunch of posies, will ye, Bouton-de-Rose?”
“Oh, nothing! It’s just a fake nose; I have to keep it in place. Nice day, isn’t it? The air smells kind of like a garden, I’d say; toss me a bouquet, will you, Rosebud?”
“What in the devil’s name do you want here?” roared the Guernseyman, flying into a sudden passion.
“What on earth do you want here?” shouted the Guernseyman, suddenly losing his temper.
“Oh! keep cool—cool? yes, that’s the word! why don’t you pack those whales in ice while you’re working at ’em? But joking aside, though; do you know, Rose-bud, that it’s all nonsense trying to get any oil out of such whales? As for that dried up one, there, he hasn’t a gill in his whole carcase.”
“Oh, stay calm—calm? Yeah, that’s the word! Why don’t you pack those whales in ice while you’re working on them? But seriously, though, do you know, Rose-bud, that it’s pointless trying to get any oil out of whales like that? As for that dried-up one over there, he doesn’t have a single drop left in his entire body.”
“I know that well enough; but, d’ye see, the Captain here won’t believe it; this is his first voyage; he was a Cologne manufacturer before. But come aboard, and mayhap he’ll believe you, if he won’t me; and so I’ll get out of this dirty scrape.”
"I know that well enough; but, you see, the Captain here doesn’t believe it. This is his first trip; he used to be a manufacturer in Cologne. But come aboard, and maybe he’ll believe you, if he doesn’t believe me. That way, I can get out of this mess."
“Anything to oblige ye, my sweet and pleasant fellow,” rejoined Stubb, and with that he soon mounted to the deck. There a queer scene presented itself. The sailors, in tasselled caps of red worsted, were getting the heavy tackles in readiness for the whales. But they worked rather slow and talked very fast, and seemed in anything but a good humor. All their noses upwardly projected from their faces like so many jib-booms. Now and then pairs of them would drop their work, and run up to the mast-head to get some fresh air. Some thinking they would catch the plague, dipped oakum in coal-tar, and at intervals held it to their nostrils. Others having broken the stems of their pipes almost short off at the bowl, were vigorously puffing tobacco-smoke, so that it constantly filled their olfactories.
"Anything to help you out, my sweet and cheerful friend," replied Stubb, and with that, he quickly climbed up to the deck. There, a strange scene unfolded. The sailors, wearing red woolen caps with tassels, were preparing the heavy equipment for the whales. But they were working pretty slowly, talking a lot, and didn’t seem to be in a good mood. All of their noses stuck out from their faces like little ship bowsprits. Every now and then, pairs of them would stop working and run up to the masthead to catch some fresh air. Some, worried they might catch a disease, soaked oakum in coal tar and occasionally held it to their noses. Others, having snapped the stems of their pipes almost down to the bowls, were furiously puffing out tobacco smoke, filling their noses constantly.
Stubb was struck by a shower of outcries and anathemas proceeding from the Captain’s round-house abaft; and looking in that direction saw a fiery face thrust from behind the door, which was held ajar from within. This was the tormented surgeon, who, after in vain remonstrating against the proceedings of the day, had betaken himself to the Captain’s round-house (cabinet he called it) to avoid the pest; but still, could not help yelling out his entreaties and indignations at times.
Stubb was hit by a storm of shouts and curses coming from the Captain's cabin at the back. Looking that way, he saw an angry, flushed face peeking out from behind the door, which was held slightly open from inside. It was the frustrated surgeon, who, after unsuccessfully protesting the day's events, had retreated to the Captain's cabin (which he called his "office") to escape the chaos. Yet, he couldn't stop himself from occasionally shouting out his pleas and anger.
Marking all this, Stubb argued well for his scheme, and turning to the Guernsey-man had a little chat with him, during which the stranger mate expressed his detestation of his Captain as a conceited ignoramus, who had brought them all into so unsavory and unprofitable a pickle. Sounding him carefully, Stubb further perceived that the Guernsey-man had not the slightest suspicion concerning the ambergris. He therefore held his peace on that head, but otherwise was quite frank and confidential with him, so that the two quickly concocted a little plan for both circumventing and satirizing the Captain, without his at all dreaming of distrusting their sincerity. According to this little plan of theirs, the Guernsey-man, under cover of an interpreter’s office, was to tell the Captain what he pleased, but as coming from Stubb; and as for Stubb, he was to utter any nonsense that should come uppermost in him during the interview.
Noticing all this, Stubb made a good case for his plan and had a little chat with the Guernsey man. During their conversation, the stranger mate expressed his hatred for his Captain, calling him an arrogant fool who had landed them all in such a bad and unprofitable situation. Carefully feeling him out, Stubb realized that the Guernsey man had no clue about the ambergris. So, he kept quiet about that topic but otherwise was open and friendly with him. Quickly, the two worked out a little plan to both outwit and mock the Captain without him suspecting their sincerity. According to their plan, the Guernsey man, pretending to act as an interpreter, would tell the Captain whatever he wanted, but as if coming from Stubb. Meanwhile, Stubb would say whatever nonsense popped into his head during the conversation.
By this time their destined victim appeared from his cabin. He was a small and dark, but rather delicate looking man for a sea-captain, with large whiskers and moustache, however; and wore a red cotton velvet vest with watch-seals at his side. To this gentleman, Stubb was now politely introduced by the Guernsey-man, who at once ostentatiously put on the aspect of interpreting between them.
By this time, their intended target emerged from his cabin. He was a small, dark-complexioned man who looked somewhat delicate for a sea captain, though he had large whiskers and a mustache. He wore a red cotton velvet vest with watch fobs at his side. Stubb was politely introduced to this gentleman by the man from Guernsey, who immediately put on a show of acting as their interpreter.
“What shall I say to him first?” said he.
"What should I say to him first?" he asked.
“Why,” said Stubb, eyeing the velvet vest and the watch and seals, “you may as well begin by telling him that he looks a sort of babyish to me, though I don’t pretend to be a judge.”
"Well," said Stubb, eyeing the velvet vest and the watch with its seals, "you might as well start by telling him he looks kind of childish to me, though I don't claim to be an expert."
“He says, Monsieur,” said the Guernsey-man, in French, turning to his captain, “that only yesterday his ship spoke a vessel, whose captain and chief-mate, with six sailors, had all died of a fever caught from a blasted whale they had brought alongside.”
"He says, sir," said the Guernsey-man in French, turning to his captain, "that just yesterday his ship came across another vessel, whose captain, first mate, and six sailors had all died from a fever they caught after bringing in a cursed whale."
Upon this the captain started, and eagerly desired to know more.
At this, the captain jumped and eagerly asked to hear more.
“What now?” said the Guernsey-man to Stubb.
"What now?" the Guernsey-man asked Stubb.
“Why, since he takes it so easy, tell him that now I have eyed him carefully, I’m quite certain that he’s no more fit to command a whale-ship than a St. Jago monkey. In fact, tell him from me he’s a baboon.”
"Well, since he’s so relaxed about it, tell him that now that I’ve looked him over closely, I’m completely sure he’s no more qualified to command a whaling ship than a St. Jago monkey. Actually, tell him from me that he’s a baboon."
“He vows and declares, Monsieur, that the other whale, the dried one, is far more deadly than the blasted one; in fine, Monsieur, he conjures us, as we value our lives, to cut loose from these fish.”
"He promises and insists, sir, that the other whale, the dried one, is much more dangerous than the damaged one; in short, sir, he urgently advises us, for the sake of our lives, to let go of these whales."
Instantly the captain ran forward, and in a loud voice commanded his crew to desist from hoisting the cutting-tackles, and at once cast loose the cables and chains confining the whales to the ship.
The captain immediately rushed forward and loudly ordered his crew to stop hoisting the cutting tackles and to quickly release the cables and chains tying the whales to the ship.
“What now?” said the Guernsey-man, when the Captain had returned to them.
"What now?" asked the Guernsey man when the Captain came back to them.
“Why, let me see; yes, you may as well tell him now that—that—in fact, tell him I’ve diddled him, and (aside to himself) perhaps somebody else.”
"Well, let me think; yeah, you might as well tell him now that—that—actually, tell him I’ve tricked him, and (speaking to himself) maybe someone else too."
“He says, Monsieur, that he’s very happy to have been of any service to us.”
"He says, sir, that he’s really happy to have been able to help us in any way."
Hearing this, the captain vowed that they were the grateful parties (meaning himself and mate) and concluded by inviting Stubb down into his cabin to drink a bottle of Bordeaux.
Hearing this, the captain declared that he and the mate were the ones who should be grateful and finished by inviting Stubb down to his cabin to share a bottle of Bordeaux.
“He wants you to take a glass of wine with him,” said the interpreter.
"He wants you to have a glass of wine with him," said the interpreter.
“Thank him heartily; but tell him it’s against my principles to drink with the man I’ve diddled. In fact, tell him I must go.”
"Thank him sincerely, but let him know it’s against my principles to drink with someone I’ve tricked. Actually, tell him I have to leave."
“He says, Monsieur, that his principles won’t admit of his drinking; but that if Monsieur wants to live another day to drink, then Monsieur had best drop all four boats, and pull the ship away from these whales, for it’s so calm they won’t drift.”
"He says, sir, that his principles don't allow him to drink; but if you want to live another day to drink, then you'd better drop all four boats and row the ship away from these whales, because it's so calm they won't drift."
By this time Stubb was over the side, and getting into his boat, hailed the Guernsey-man to this effect,—that having a long tow-line in his boat, he would do what he could to help them, by pulling out the lighter whale of the two from the ship’s side. While the Frenchman’s boats, then, were engaged in towing the ship one way, Stubb benevolently towed away at his whale the other way, ostentatiously slacking out a most unusually long tow-line.
By this time, Stubb had climbed over the side and was getting into his boat. He called out to the Guernsey man, saying that he had a long towline in his boat and would try to help by pulling the lighter of the two whales away from the ship’s side. While the Frenchmen’s boats were busy towing the ship in one direction, Stubb helpfully towed his whale in the opposite direction, deliberately letting out an unusually long towline.
Presently a breeze sprang up; Stubb feigned to cast off from the whale; hoisting his boats, the Frenchman soon increased his distance, while the Pequod slid in between him and Stubb’s whale. Whereupon Stubb quickly pulled to the floating body, and hailing the Pequod to give notice of his intentions, at once proceeded to reap the fruit of his unrighteous cunning. Seizing his sharp boat-spade, he commenced an excavation in the body, a little behind the side fin. You would almost have thought he was digging a cellar there in the sea; and when at length his spade struck against the gaunt ribs, it was like turning up old Roman tiles and pottery buried in fat English loam. His boat’s crew were all in high excitement, eagerly helping their chief, and looking as anxious as gold-hunters.
A breeze started to pick up, and Stubb pretended to cut loose from the whale. Raising his boats, the Frenchman quickly created more distance, while the Pequod slid in between him and Stubb’s whale. Taking advantage of this, Stubb immediately moved toward the floating carcass and called out to the Pequod to announce his intentions. Without wasting any time, he began to claim the rewards of his sneaky plan. Grabbing his sharp boat-spade, he started cutting into the body, just behind the side fin. It almost looked like he was digging a cellar right there in the middle of the sea. When his spade finally struck the tough ribs, it felt as if he were uncovering ancient Roman tiles and pottery hidden in rich English soil. His boat crew was buzzing with excitement, enthusiastically helping their leader and looking as eager as gold prospectors.
And all the time numberless fowls were diving, and ducking, and screaming, and yelling, and fighting around them. Stubb was beginning to look disappointed, especially as the horrible nosegay increased, when suddenly from out the very heart of this plague, there stole a faint stream of perfume, which flowed through the tide of bad smells without being absorbed by it, as one river will flow into and then along with another, without at all blending with it for a time.
All the while, countless birds were diving, ducking, screaming, yelling, and fighting around them. Stubb was starting to look disappointed, especially as the awful stench grew stronger, when suddenly, right from the center of this mess, a faint trace of fragrance emerged. It drifted through the sea of terrible smells without being overpowered, like one river flowing into another and temporarily running alongside it without mixing.
“I have it, I have it,” cried Stubb, with delight, striking something in the subterranean regions, “a purse! a purse!”
"I've got it, I've got it!" shouted Stubb excitedly, hitting something below. "A purse! A purse!"
Dropping his spade, he thrust both hands in, and drew out handfuls of something that looked like ripe Windsor soap, or rich mottled old cheese; very unctuous and savory withal. You might easily dent it with your thumb; it is of a hue between yellow and ash colour. And this, good friends, is ambergris, worth a gold guinea an ounce to any druggist. Some six handfuls were obtained; but more was unavoidably lost in the sea, and still more, perhaps, might have been secured were it not for impatient Ahab’s loud command to Stubb to desist, and come on board, else the ship would bid them good bye.
Dropping his shovel, he plunged both hands in and pulled out handfuls of something that looked like ripe Windsor soap or rich, marbled aged cheese—very greasy and fragrant. You could easily press your thumb into it; its color was somewhere between yellow and gray. And this, my friends, is ambergris, worth a gold guinea an ounce to any pharmacist. They managed to gather about six handfuls, but much of it was unfortunately lost in the sea, and even more could have probably been collected if it weren’t for Ahab’s impatient shouts to Stubb to stop and get back on board, or else the ship would leave them behind.
CHAPTER 92. Ambergris.
Now this ambergris is a very curious substance, and so important as an article of commerce, that in 1791 a certain Nantucket-born Captain Coffin was examined at the bar of the English House of Commons on that subject. For at that time, and indeed until a comparatively late day, the precise origin of ambergris remained, like amber itself, a problem to the learned. Though the word ambergris is but the French compound for grey amber, yet the two substances are quite distinct. For amber, though at times found on the sea-coast, is also dug up in some far inland soils, whereas ambergris is never found except upon the sea. Besides, amber is a hard, transparent, brittle, odorless substance, used for mouth-pieces to pipes, for beads and ornaments; but ambergris is soft, waxy, and so highly fragrant and spicy, that it is largely used in perfumery, in pastiles, precious candles, hair-powders, and pomatum. The Turks use it in cooking, and also carry it to Mecca, for the same purpose that frankincense is carried to St. Peter’s in Rome. Some wine merchants drop a few grains into claret, to flavor it.
Ambergris is a fascinating substance and so valuable in trade that, in 1791, a Nantucket-born Captain Coffin was questioned about it in the English House of Commons. At that time—and even until relatively recently—the exact origin of ambergris, like amber, was a mystery to scholars. Although the word "ambergris" is just the French term for "gray amber," the two are completely different. Amber, sometimes found along coastlines, is also dug up in landlocked areas, while ambergris is only found at sea. Amber is a hard, transparent, brittle, and odorless material used for pipe mouthpieces, beads, and jewelry. Ambergris, on the other hand, is soft, waxy, and intensely fragrant and spicy. It's widely used in perfumes, incense, luxury candles, hair powders, and pomades. The Turks use it in cooking and even take it to Mecca for a purpose similar to how frankincense is taken to St. Peter’s in Rome. Some wine merchants add a few grains of ambergris to claret for flavoring.
Who would think, then, that such fine ladies and gentlemen should regale themselves with an essence found in the inglorious bowels of a sick whale! Yet so it is. By some, ambergris is supposed to be the cause, and by others the effect, of the dyspepsia in the whale. How to cure such a dyspepsia it were hard to say, unless by administering three or four boat loads of Brandreth’s pills, and then running out of harm’s way, as laborers do in blasting rocks.
Who would imagine, then, that such fancy ladies and gentlemen would enjoy something that comes from the unpleasant insides of a sick whale? Yet that’s the case. Some believe ambergris causes the whale’s indigestion, while others think it’s a result of it. How to cure such indigestion is anyone’s guess—maybe by giving the whale three or four boatloads of Brandreth’s pills and then getting out of the way as quickly as possible, like workers do when blasting rocks.
I have forgotten to say that there were found in this ambergris, certain hard, round, bony plates, which at first Stubb thought might be sailors’ trowsers buttons; but it afterwards turned out that they were nothing more than pieces of small squid bones embalmed in that manner.
I forgot to mention that they found some hard, round, bony plates in this ambergris. At first, Stubb thought they might be buttons from sailors' trousers, but it turned out they were just pieces of small squid bones preserved in that way.
Now that the incorruption of this most fragrant ambergris should be found in the heart of such decay; is this nothing? Bethink thee of that saying of St. Paul in Corinthians, about corruption and incorruption; how that we are sown in dishonor, but raised in glory. And likewise call to mind that saying of Paracelsus about what it is that maketh the best musk. Also forget not the strange fact that of all things of ill-savor, Cologne-water, in its rudimental manufacturing stages, is the worst.
Now, isn’t it remarkable that the purity of this incredibly fragrant ambergris is found in the middle of such decay? Think about what St. Paul says in Corinthians about corruption and incorruption—how we are sown in dishonor but raised in glory. Also, remember what Paracelsus said about what creates the finest musk. And don’t forget the strange fact that, of all bad-smelling things, the early stages of making cologne are the absolute worst.
I should like to conclude the chapter with the above appeal, but cannot, owing to my anxiety to repel a charge often made against whalemen, and which, in the estimation of some already biased minds, might be considered as indirectly substantiated by what has been said of the Frenchman’s two whales. Elsewhere in this volume the slanderous aspersion has been disproved, that the vocation of whaling is throughout a slatternly, untidy business. But there is another thing to rebut. They hint that all whales always smell bad. Now how did this odious stigma originate?
I’d love to wrap up the chapter with the appeal above, but I can’t, because I’m worried about countering an accusation often made against whalemen—an accusation that, in the eyes of some already biased people, might seem to be indirectly supported by the story of the Frenchman’s two whales. Elsewhere in this book, I’ve already debunked the offensive idea that whaling is an entirely messy, disorganized profession. But there’s another claim to refute. Some people suggest that all whales always smell bad. Now, where did this nasty rumor even come from?
I opine, that it is plainly traceable to the first arrival of the Greenland whaling ships in London, more than two centuries ago. Because those whalemen did not then, and do not now, try out their oil at sea as the Southern ships have always done; but cutting up the fresh blubber in small bits, thrust it through the bung holes of large casks, and carry it home in that manner; the shortness of the season in those Icy Seas, and the sudden and violent storms to which they are exposed, forbidding any other course. The consequence is, that upon breaking into the hold, and unloading one of these whale cemeteries, in the Greenland dock, a savor is given forth somewhat similar to that arising from excavating an old city grave-yard, for the foundations of a Lying-in Hospital.
I believe it can be traced back to when the Greenland whaling ships first arrived in London over two centuries ago. These whalers didn’t, and still don’t, process their oil at sea like the Southern ships have always done. Instead, they cut the fresh blubber into small pieces, stuff it through the openings of large casks, and transport it home that way. The short hunting season in the icy seas and the sudden, violent storms they face make any other method impossible. As a result, when they unload these whale-filled holds at the Greenland dock, the smell that escapes is somewhat like the stench of digging up an old city graveyard to lay the foundation for a maternity hospital.
I partly surmise also, that this wicked charge against whalers may be likewise imputed to the existence on the coast of Greenland, in former times, of a Dutch village called Schmerenburgh or Smeerenberg, which latter name is the one used by the learned Fogo Von Slack, in his great work on Smells, a text-book on that subject. As its name imports (smeer, fat; berg, to put up), this village was founded in order to afford a place for the blubber of the Dutch whale fleet to be tried out, without being taken home to Holland for that purpose. It was a collection of furnaces, fat-kettles, and oil sheds; and when the works were in full operation certainly gave forth no very pleasant savor. But all this is quite different with a South Sea Sperm Whaler; which in a voyage of four years perhaps, after completely filling her hold with oil, does not, perhaps, consume fifty days in the business of boiling out; and in the state that it is casked, the oil is nearly scentless. The truth is, that living or dead, if but decently treated, whales as a species are by no means creatures of ill odor; nor can whalemen be recognised, as the people of the middle ages affected to detect a Jew in the company, by the nose. Nor indeed can the whale possibly be otherwise than fragrant, when, as a general thing, he enjoys such high health; taking abundance of exercise; always out of doors; though, it is true, seldom in the open air. I say, that the motion of a Sperm Whale’s flukes above water dispenses a perfume, as when a musk-scented lady rustles her dress in a warm parlor. What then shall I liken the Sperm Whale to for fragrance, considering his magnitude? Must it not be to that famous elephant, with jewelled tusks, and redolent with myrrh, which was led out of an Indian town to do honor to Alexander the Great?
I also suspect that this unfair accusation against whalers might partly stem from the existence, long ago, of a Dutch village on the coast of Greenland known as Schmerenburgh or Smeerenberg. The latter name is the one used by the esteemed Fogo Von Slack in his influential book *Smells*, a standard reference on the subject. As the name suggests (smeer meaning fat, berg meaning to store), the village was established as a processing site for the Dutch whaling fleet, where blubber was rendered down instead of being taken back to Holland for the job. It was essentially a collection of furnaces, fat-boiling kettles, and oil sheds—which, when fully operational, undoubtedly produced a strong and unpleasant odor. However, this is very different from a South Sea sperm whaling ship, which over a four-year voyage might spend only fifty days boiling blubber, even after completely filling its hold with oil. And when packed in casks, the oil is almost odorless. Truthfully, whales as a species—whether alive or dead—are not inherently smelly if handled properly. Furthermore, whalers can’t be identified by scent, any more than medieval people could supposedly recognize a Jewish person by smell. In fact, if treated well, whales are often remarkably fragrant. Consider the sperm whale’s robust health: it gets plenty of exercise, lives outdoors almost constantly (though not exactly in open air), and seems to thrive. I’d even say the gentle motion of a sperm whale’s tail above water releases an aroma much like when a woman wearing musky perfume stirs the air in a warm room by rustling her dress. So what could possibly compare to the scent of a sperm whale, given its immense size? Surely, it must be like the legendary elephant with jewel-covered tusks, drenched in myrrh, that was paraded out of an Indian city in honor of Alexander the Great.
CHAPTER 93. The Castaway.
It was but some few days after encountering the Frenchman, that a most significant event befell the most insignificant of the Pequod’s crew; an event most lamentable; and which ended in providing the sometimes madly merry and predestinated craft with a living and ever accompanying prophecy of whatever shattered sequel might prove her own.
It was only a few days after meeting the Frenchman that a highly significant event happened to the least significant member of the Pequod's crew; an event both tragic and sorrowful, which resulted in the occasionally insanely cheerful and seemingly doomed ship gaining a living, constant reminder of whatever disastrous fate might eventually befall her.
Now, in the whale ship, it is not every one that goes in the boats. Some few hands are reserved called ship-keepers, whose province it is to work the vessel while the boats are pursuing the whale. As a general thing, these ship-keepers are as hardy fellows as the men comprising the boats’ crews. But if there happen to be an unduly slender, clumsy, or timorous wight in the ship, that wight is certain to be made a ship-keeper. It was so in the Pequod with the little negro Pippin by nick-name, Pip by abbreviation. Poor Pip! ye have heard of him before; ye must remember his tambourine on that dramatic midnight, so gloomy-jolly.
On a whaling ship, not everyone goes out in the boats. A few crew members are kept behind, called ship-keepers, whose job is to manage the ship while the boats are chasing the whale. Generally, these ship-keepers are just as tough as the men who go out in the boats. But if there's someone on board who happens to be unusually small, awkward, or easily scared, that person is almost always made a ship-keeper. That’s exactly what happened on the Pequod with the young Black boy called Pippin, or Pip for short. Poor Pip! You’ve heard about him before; you must remember his tambourine during that dark but strangely cheerful midnight.
In outer aspect, Pip and Dough-Boy made a match, like a black pony and a white one, of equal developments, though of dissimilar colour, driven in one eccentric span. But while hapless Dough-Boy was by nature dull and torpid in his intellects, Pip, though over tender-hearted, was at bottom very bright, with that pleasant, genial, jolly brightness peculiar to his tribe; a tribe, which ever enjoy all holidays and festivities with finer, freer relish than any other race. For blacks, the year’s calendar should show naught but three hundred and sixty-five Fourth of Julys and New Year’s Days. Nor smile so, while I write that this little black was brilliant, for even blackness has its brilliancy; behold yon lustrous ebony, panelled in king’s cabinets. But Pip loved life, and all life’s peaceable securities; so that the panic-striking business in which he had somehow unaccountably become entrapped, had most sadly blurred his brightness; though, as ere long will be seen, what was thus temporarily subdued in him, in the end was destined to be luridly illumined by strange wild fires, that fictitiously showed him off to ten times the natural lustre with which in his native Tolland County in Connecticut, he had once enlivened many a fiddler’s frolic on the green; and at melodious even-tide, with his gay ha-ha! had turned the round horizon into one star-belled tambourine. So, though in the clear air of day, suspended against a blue-veined neck, the pure-watered diamond drop will healthful glow; yet, when the cunning jeweller would show you the diamond in its most impressive lustre, he lays it against a gloomy ground, and then lights it up, not by the sun, but by some unnatural gases. Then come out those fiery effulgences, infernally superb; then the evil-blazing diamond, once the divinest symbol of the crystal skies, looks like some crown-jewel stolen from the King of Hell. But let us to the story.
On the surface, Pip and Dough-Boy were like a pair of mismatched ponies—one black, one white—equal in size but different in color, pulling the same strange cart. While poor Dough-Boy was naturally slow and dull, Pip, though overly sensitive, was inherently sharp and cheerful, with that warm, happy-go-lucky charm that was so common in his community—a community that embraced holidays and celebrations with a joy unmatched by any other. For people like Pip, every day of the year could have been a Fourth of July or New Year’s Day. Don’t smirk as I describe this little black boy as brilliant, because even darkness has its shine—think of polished ebony wood in royal palaces. Pip loved life and its gentle comforts, so the terrifying job he had somehow found himself caught up in had sadly dimmed his spark. However, as we'll soon see, this temporary dimming would later be replaced by a startling, otherworldly kind of brightness, as if lit by wild, strange flames that revealed him in a spectacular light—ten times brighter than the natural glow he had once brought to his hometown in Tolland County, Connecticut. There, he had enlivened countless dances with fiddlers on the green, and at dusk, with his joyful laughter, seemed to turn the horizon into a starry tambourine. Just as a pure diamond glows beautifully in clear daylight, a jeweler can make it appear even more stunning by placing it against a dark background and illuminating it with an eerie, artificial light. Then, the diamond flares with a fiery brilliance, something almost hellish and hypnotic, transforming it from a heavenly gem into an infernal treasure, like a stolen jewel from the crown of the Devil himself. But enough of this—back to the story.
It came to pass, that in the ambergris affair Stubb’s after-oarsman chanced so to sprain his hand, as for a time to become quite maimed; and, temporarily, Pip was put into his place.
In the ambergris incident, Stubb's after-oarsman happened to sprain his hand so badly that he was temporarily unable to use it, and for a while, Pip took his place.
The first time Stubb lowered with him, Pip evinced much nervousness; but happily, for that time, escaped close contact with the whale; and therefore came off not altogether discreditably; though Stubb observing him, took care, afterwards, to exhort him to cherish his courageousness to the utmost, for he might often find it needful.
The first time Stubb went down with him, Pip showed a lot of nerves; but luckily, that time he avoided getting too close to the whale and managed to come out of it without much disgrace. However, Stubb, noticing his anxiety, made sure to advise him afterward to build up his courage as much as possible because he might need it often.
Now upon the second lowering, the boat paddled upon the whale; and as the fish received the darted iron, it gave its customary rap, which happened, in this instance, to be right under poor Pip’s seat. The involuntary consternation of the moment caused him to leap, paddle in hand, out of the boat; and in such a way, that part of the slack whale line coming against his chest, he breasted it overboard with him, so as to become entangled in it, when at last plumping into the water. That instant the stricken whale started on a fierce run, the line swiftly straightened; and presto! poor Pip came all foaming up to the chocks of the boat, remorselessly dragged there by the line, which had taken several turns around his chest and neck.
As the boat moved in on the whale during the second lowering, the whale received the thrown harpoon and gave its usual jolt, which, in this case, happened to be directly under poor Pip’s seat. Startled and terrified, Pip instinctively jumped out of the boat, paddle still in hand. As he did, a section of the loose whale line pressed against his chest, and he ended up pulling it overboard with him, getting tangled in it as he plunged into the water. In that instant, the wounded whale took off in a furious dash, causing the line to snap tight. And just like that, poor Pip was yanked back to the boat in a frothy rush, mercilessly dragged by the line, which had wrapped multiple times around his chest and neck.
Tashtego stood in the bows. He was full of the fire of the hunt. He hated Pip for a poltroon. Snatching the boat-knife from its sheath, he suspended its sharp edge over the line, and turning towards Stubb, exclaimed interrogatively, “Cut?” Meantime Pip’s blue, choked face plainly looked, Do, for God’s sake! All passed in a flash. In less than half a minute, this entire thing happened.
Tashtego stood at the front of the boat, energized by the thrill of the hunt. He despised Pip for being a coward. Grabbing the boat-knife from its sheath, he held its sharp edge over the line and turned to Stubb, asking, “Should I cut?” Meanwhile, Pip’s panicked, blue face clearly begged, Please, for God’s sake! It all happened in a heartbeat. In less than thirty seconds, the entire event unfolded.
“Damn him, cut!” roared Stubb; and so the whale was lost and Pip was saved.
“Damn him, cut the line!” yelled Stubb. And so, the whale got away, and Pip was saved.
So soon as he recovered himself, the poor little negro was assailed by yells and execrations from the crew. Tranquilly permitting these irregular cursings to evaporate, Stubb then in a plain, business-like, but still half humorous manner, cursed Pip officially; and that done, unofficially gave him much wholesome advice. The substance was, Never jump from a boat, Pip, except—but all the rest was indefinite, as the soundest advice ever is. Now, in general, Stick to the boat, is your true motto in whaling; but cases will sometimes happen when Leap from the boat, is still better. Moreover, as if perceiving at last that if he should give undiluted conscientious advice to Pip, he would be leaving him too wide a margin to jump in for the future; Stubb suddenly dropped all advice, and concluded with a peremptory command, “Stick to the boat, Pip, or by the Lord, I won’t pick you up if you jump; mind that. We can’t afford to lose whales by the likes of you; a whale would sell for thirty times what you would, Pip, in Alabama. Bear that in mind, and don’t jump any more.” Hereby perhaps Stubb indirectly hinted, that though man loved his fellow, yet man is a money-making animal, which propensity too often interferes with his benevolence.
As soon as he got himself together, the poor little Black boy was hit with shouts and curses from the crew. Stubb patiently let the random insults fade away, then, in a straightforward, business-like but still slightly humorous way, officially scolded Pip. After that, he gave him some solid advice—although it was a bit vague, like the best advice often is. The main idea was, "Never jump from a boat, Pip, except..."—but the rest wasn’t too clear. Generally speaking, *“Stay in the boat”* is the golden rule in whaling, but sometimes, *“Jump from the boat”* might actually be the better move. However, as if realizing that giving Pip honest advice might leave too much gray area for him to misjudge, Stubb abruptly stopped advising and barked out a firm order: “Stay in the boat, Pip, or I swear I won’t pick you up if you jump again. Got it? We can’t afford to lose whales because of someone like you. A whale is worth thirty times more than you’d be worth in Alabama, Pip. Remember that, and no more jumping!” With this, Stubb perhaps subtly suggested that although humans care for one another, we’re also driven by money—and that urge often gets in the way of kindness.
But we are all in the hands of the Gods; and Pip jumped again. It was under very similar circumstances to the first performance; but this time he did not breast out the line; and hence, when the whale started to run, Pip was left behind on the sea, like a hurried traveller’s trunk. Alas! Stubb was but too true to his word. It was a beautiful, bounteous, blue day; the spangled sea calm and cool, and flatly stretching away, all round, to the horizon, like gold-beater’s skin hammered out to the extremest. Bobbing up and down in that sea, Pip’s ebon head showed like a head of cloves. No boat-knife was lifted when he fell so rapidly astern. Stubb’s inexorable back was turned upon him; and the whale was winged. In three minutes, a whole mile of shoreless ocean was between Pip and Stubb. Out from the centre of the sea, poor Pip turned his crisp, curling, black head to the sun, another lonely castaway, though the loftiest and the brightest.
We’re all at the mercy of fate, and Pip jumped overboard again. It happened much like the first time, but this time he didn’t grab hold of the rope; so when the whale took off, Pip was left behind in the ocean, like a rushed traveler’s forgotten luggage. Sadly, Stubb was as good as his word. It was a gorgeous, clear blue day; the shimmering sea was calm, cool, and stretched flatly to the horizon, like gold leaf hammered paper-thin. Bobbing up and down in the water, Pip’s dark head looked like a clove floating on the surface. No one lifted a boat-hook as he quickly drifted far behind. Stubb, unyielding, kept his back turned to him, chasing the whale instead. In just three minutes, an entire mile of endless ocean separated Pip from Stubb. Alone in the vast sea, poor Pip turned his tightly curled head toward the sun, another forsaken soul, though surrounded by beauty and light.
Now, in calm weather, to swim in the open ocean is as easy to the practised swimmer as to ride in a spring-carriage ashore. But the awful lonesomeness is intolerable. The intense concentration of self in the middle of such a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it? Mark, how when sailors in a dead calm bathe in the open sea—mark how closely they hug their ship and only coast along her sides.
Now, in calm weather, swimming in the open ocean is as easy for an experienced swimmer as riding in a car on land. But the overwhelming loneliness is unbearable. The intense focus on yourself in the middle of such a vast, uncaring emptiness—my God! Who can describe it? Notice how, when sailors take a swim in the open sea during a dead calm, they stay close to their ship, sticking to its sides.
But had Stubb really abandoned the poor little negro to his fate? No; he did not mean to, at least. Because there were two boats in his wake, and he supposed, no doubt, that they would of course come up to Pip very quickly, and pick him up; though, indeed, such considerations towards oarsmen jeopardized through their own timidity, is not always manifested by the hunters in all similar instances; and such instances not unfrequently occur; almost invariably in the fishery, a coward, so called, is marked with the same ruthless detestation peculiar to military navies and armies.
But had Stubb really left the poor little Black boy to his fate? No, he didn’t intend to, at least. There were two boats trailing behind him, and he probably assumed they would catch up to Pip quickly and rescue him. Still, such thoughtfulness towards crew members endangered by their own fear isn’t always shown by whalers in similar situations. And such situations aren’t uncommon; almost always in the whaling industry, someone labeled a coward receives the same harsh scorn typically found in military fleets and armies.
But it so happened, that those boats, without seeing Pip, suddenly spying whales close to them on one side, turned, and gave chase; and Stubb’s boat was now so far away, and he and all his crew so intent upon his fish, that Pip’s ringed horizon began to expand around him miserably. By the merest chance the ship itself at last rescued him; but from that hour the little negro went about the deck an idiot; such, at least, they said he was. The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul. Not drowned entirely, though. Rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes; and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous, God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal orbs. He saw God’s foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad. So man’s insanity is heaven’s sense; and wandering from all mortal reason, man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his God.
It happened that those boats, without noticing Pip, suddenly spotted whales nearby and turned to chase them. Stubb’s boat was now so far away, and he and his crew were so focused on their catch, that Pip’s shrinking world began to stretch out around him miserably. By sheer luck, the ship eventually rescued him, but from that moment, the young Black boy wandered the deck as though he’d lost his mind—or so they said. The sea had mockingly kept his finite body afloat but drowned the infinite part of his soul. Not entirely drowned, though—more like dragged alive to tremendous depths, where strange forms of the untainted, ancient world drifted before his unresisting eyes. The greedy merman of Wisdom unveiled his hidden treasures, and within the joyful, unfeeling, eternally youthful expanses, Pip witnessed the endless, all-encompassing, Godlike coral insects that raised towering orbs from the watery heavens. He saw God’s foot driving the loom’s pedal and spoke of it, which is why his crewmates called him crazy. In this way, man’s madness is heaven’s wisdom; straying far from mortal logic, humanity eventually reaches a divine understanding that seems ridiculous and wild to reason. For better or worse, at that point, man becomes resolute, as indifferent as God himself.
For the rest, blame not Stubb too hardly. The thing is common in that fishery; and in the sequel of the narrative, it will then be seen what like abandonment befell myself.
Don't be too hard on Stubb about the rest. That kind of thing is pretty common in this line of work, and later in the story, you'll see a similar kind of abandonment happen to me.
CHAPTER 94. A Squeeze of the Hand.
That whale of Stubb’s, so dearly purchased, was duly brought to the Pequod’s side, where all those cutting and hoisting operations previously detailed, were regularly gone through, even to the baling of the Heidelburgh Tun, or Case.
Stubb’s whale, which he had bought at such a high cost, was properly brought to the side of the Pequod, where all those cutting and hoisting procedures described earlier were carried out as usual, including the emptying of the Heidelburgh Tun, or Case.
While some were occupied with this latter duty, others were employed in dragging away the larger tubs, so soon as filled with the sperm; and when the proper time arrived, this same sperm was carefully manipulated ere going to the try-works, of which anon.
While some were busy with this task, others were focused on dragging away the larger tubs as soon as they were filled with the sperm; and when the right moment came, this same sperm was carefully handled before being sent to the try-works, which will be explained later.
It had cooled and crystallized to such a degree, that when, with several others, I sat down before a large Constantine’s bath of it, I found it strangely concreted into lumps, here and there rolling about in the liquid part. It was our business to squeeze these lumps back into fluid. A sweet and unctuous duty! No wonder that in old times this sperm was such a favourite cosmetic. Such a clearer! such a sweetener! such a softener! such a delicious molifier! After having my hands in it for only a few minutes, my fingers felt like eels, and began, as it were, to serpentine and spiralise.
It had cooled and hardened so much that when I, along with several others, sat in front of a large tub of it, I found it oddly clumped into pieces, rolling around here and there in the remaining liquid. Our job was to break these lumps back into a smooth liquid. A sweet and satisfying task! No wonder this substance was such a popular cosmetic in the past. What a cleanser! What a softener! What a sweet, soothing balm! After soaking my hands in it for just a few minutes, my fingers felt incredibly smooth and slippery, almost as if they were transforming into something eel-like, twisting and spiraling.
As I sat there at my ease, cross-legged on the deck; after the bitter exertion at the windlass; under a blue tranquil sky; the ship under indolent sail, and gliding so serenely along; as I bathed my hands among those soft, gentle globules of infiltrated tissues, woven almost within the hour; as they richly broke to my fingers, and discharged all their opulence, like fully ripe grapes their wine; as I snuffed up that uncontaminated aroma,—literally and truly, like the smell of spring violets; I declare to you, that for the time I lived as in a musky meadow; I forgot all about our horrible oath; in that inexpressible sperm, I washed my hands and my heart of it; I almost began to credit the old Paracelsan superstition that sperm is of rare virtue in allaying the heat of anger; while bathing in that bath, I felt divinely free from all ill-will, or petulance, or malice, of any sort whatsoever.
As I sat there comfortably, cross-legged on the deck after the exhausting effort at the windlass, under a calm blue sky, with the ship lazily sailing and gliding peacefully along, I let my hands dip into those soft, gentle globules of freshly woven tissue, made only within the last hour. As they broke richly in my fingers and released all their abundance, like ripe grapes spilling their wine, I inhaled their pure aroma—truly and honestly, like the scent of spring violets. I have to tell you, for a moment it felt like I was living in a fragrant meadow. I completely forgot about our dreadful oath; in that indescribable sperm, I cleansed both my hands and my heart of it. I almost started to believe in the old Paracelsus myth about how sperm had a rare quality for easing anger. While soaking in that bath, I felt blessedly free of any ill will, irritation, or malice of any kind.
Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,—Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.
Squeeze! Squeeze! Squeeze! All morning long, I kept squeezing that sperm until I felt like I might just melt into it myself. I squeezed that sperm until a strange kind of madness took hold of me, and I accidentally started squeezing my coworkers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the soft little globules. This task brought out such an overwhelming sense of affection, friendliness, and love that I couldn’t stop squeezing their hands and gazing sentimentally into their eyes, as if to say, "Oh, my dear fellow humans, why should we hold on to any grudges, bad tempers, or envy? Come on, let’s all join hands; better yet, let’s merge into one another completely; let’s blend ourselves into the very essence of kindness."
Would that I could keep squeezing that sperm for ever! For now, since by many prolonged, repeated experiences, I have perceived that in all cases man must eventually lower, or at least shift, his conceit of attainable felicity; not placing it anywhere in the intellect or the fancy; but in the wife, the heart, the bed, the table, the saddle, the fireside, the country; now that I have perceived all this, I am ready to squeeze case eternally. In thoughts of the visions of the night, I saw long rows of angels in paradise, each with his hands in a jar of spermaceti.
If only I could keep squeezing that sperm oil forever! Now, after many lengthy, repeated experiences, I’ve realized that humans eventually have to adjust or shift their idea of what true happiness can be. It can’t be found in the intellect or imagination, but instead in the spouse, the heart, the home, the simple comforts of life—the bed, the table, the saddle, the fireside, the countryside. Now that I’ve come to understand this, I’m ready to keep squeezing forever. In dreams during the night, I saw endless rows of angels in paradise, each with their hands in a jar of spermaceti.
Now, while discoursing of sperm, it behooves to speak of other things akin to it, in the business of preparing the sperm whale for the try-works.
Now, when talking about sperm, it's important to also discuss other related things involved in getting the sperm whale ready for the try-works.
First comes white-horse, so called, which is obtained from the tapering part of the fish, and also from the thicker portions of his flukes. It is tough with congealed tendons—a wad of muscle—but still contains some oil. After being severed from the whale, the white-horse is first cut into portable oblongs ere going to the mincer. They look much like blocks of Berkshire marble.
First comes white-horse, as it's called, which is taken from the narrow part of the fish and also from the thicker parts of its flukes. It's tough, filled with hardened tendons—a bundle of muscle—but still holds some oil. After being cut off from the whale, the white-horse is first sliced into manageable oblong pieces before going to the mincer. These pieces look a lot like blocks of Berkshire marble.
Plum-pudding is the term bestowed upon certain fragmentary parts of the whale’s flesh, here and there adhering to the blanket of blubber, and often participating to a considerable degree in its unctuousness. It is a most refreshing, convivial, beautiful object to behold. As its name imports, it is of an exceedingly rich, mottled tint, with a bestreaked snowy and golden ground, dotted with spots of the deepest crimson and purple. It is plums of rubies, in pictures of citron. Spite of reason, it is hard to keep yourself from eating it. I confess, that once I stole behind the foremast to try it. It tasted something as I should conceive a royal cutlet from the thigh of Louis le Gros might have tasted, supposing him to have been killed the first day after the venison season, and that particular venison season contemporary with an unusually fine vintage of the vineyards of Champagne.
Plum pudding is the name given to certain small bits of the whale’s flesh that stick here and there to the layer of blubber and often share a good amount of its richness. It’s an incredibly delightful, sociable, and visually stunning sight. True to its name, it has a richly mottled appearance with streaks of snowy white and gold, speckled with deep crimson and purple spots. It’s like ruby plums laid over a canvas of citron. Despite all logic, it’s hard to resist the urge to taste it. I’ll admit, I once snuck behind the foremast to give it a try. It tasted how I’d imagine a royal cutlet from the thigh of Louis the Fat might taste—assuming he had been hunted on the first day of the venison season, in a year that coincided with an exceptionally good harvest from the Champagne vineyards.
There is another substance, and a very singular one, which turns up in the course of this business, but which I feel it to be very puzzling adequately to describe. It is called slobgollion; an appellation original with the whalemen, and even so is the nature of the substance. It is an ineffably oozy, stringy affair, most frequently found in the tubs of sperm, after a prolonged squeezing, and subsequent decanting. I hold it to be the wondrously thin, ruptured membranes of the case, coalescing.
There’s another substance, and a very peculiar one, that comes up in the process of this work, but I find it quite difficult to describe properly. It’s called slobgollion, a name created by whalemen, much like the substance itself is unique to them. It’s an incredibly slimy, stringy material that’s most often found in tubs of sperm oil after being thoroughly squeezed and then poured off. I believe it’s the incredibly thin, broken membranes of the case coming together.
Gurry, so called, is a term properly belonging to right whalemen, but sometimes incidentally used by the sperm fishermen. It designates the dark, glutinous substance which is scraped off the back of the Greenland or right whale, and much of which covers the decks of those inferior souls who hunt that ignoble Leviathan.
Gurry, as it's called, is a term mainly used by right whalemen, though occasionally used by sperm whalemen too. It refers to the dark, sticky substance scraped off the back of the Greenland or right whale, much of which ends up covering the decks of the less refined sailors who hunt that lowly Leviathan.
Nippers. Strictly this word is not indigenous to the whale’s vocabulary. But as applied by whalemen, it becomes so. A whaleman’s nipper is a short firm strip of tendinous stuff cut from the tapering part of Leviathan’s tail: it averages an inch in thickness, and for the rest, is about the size of the iron part of a hoe. Edgewise moved along the oily deck, it operates like a leathern squilgee; and by nameless blandishments, as of magic, allures along with it all impurities.
Nippers. Technically, this word isn’t originally part of whale terminology. But when used by whalers, it becomes one. A whaler’s nipper is a short, tough strip of tendon-like material cut from the narrow end of a whale’s tail. It’s about an inch thick and roughly the size of the metal part of a hoe. When dragged edgewise along the slick deck, it works like a leather squeegee, magically coaxing all the grime and mess along with it.
But to learn all about these recondite matters, your best way is at once to descend into the blubber-room, and have a long talk with its inmates. This place has previously been mentioned as the receptacle for the blanket-pieces, when stript and hoisted from the whale. When the proper time arrives for cutting up its contents, this apartment is a scene of terror to all tyros, especially by night. On one side, lit by a dull lantern, a space has been left clear for the workmen. They generally go in pairs,—a pike-and-gaffman and a spade-man. The whaling-pike is similar to a frigate’s boarding-weapon of the same name. The gaff is something like a boat-hook. With his gaff, the gaffman hooks on to a sheet of blubber, and strives to hold it from slipping, as the ship pitches and lurches about. Meanwhile, the spade-man stands on the sheet itself, perpendicularly chopping it into the portable horse-pieces. This spade is sharp as hone can make it; the spademan’s feet are shoeless; the thing he stands on will sometimes irresistibly slide away from him, like a sledge. If he cuts off one of his own toes, or one of his assistants’, would you be very much astonished? Toes are scarce among veteran blubber-room men.
To really understand these complex things, it’s best to head straight down to the blubber room and have a good, long chat with the people working there. This spot, mentioned earlier, is where the pieces of whale blubber are stored after being stripped and hoisted off the whale. When the time comes to process the contents, the place becomes a horrifying sight for beginners, especially at night. On one side, dimly lit by a dull lantern, there’s a cleared space for the workers. They usually work in pairs—a pike-and-gaffman and a spade-man. The whaling pike is like a boarding weapon used on a warship, while the gaff resembles a boat hook. The gaffman uses his gaff to grip onto a sheet of blubber and tries to keep it steady as the ship sways and lurches. At the same time, the spade-man stands right on the blubber sheet, cutting it vertically into smaller pieces called horse-pieces. His spade is razor-sharp, honed to perfection; he doesn’t wear shoes, and the surface he’s on can suddenly slide out from under him, like a sled on ice. If he ends up slicing off one of his own toes or his coworker’s, would you really be shocked? Missing toes aren’t uncommon among seasoned blubber-room workers.
CHAPTER 95. The Cassock.
Had you stepped on board the Pequod at a certain juncture of this post-mortemizing of the whale; and had you strolled forward nigh the windlass, pretty sure am I that you would have scanned with no small curiosity a very strange, enigmatical object, which you would have seen there, lying along lengthwise in the lee scuppers. Not the wondrous cistern in the whale’s huge head; not the prodigy of his unhinged lower jaw; not the miracle of his symmetrical tail; none of these would so surprise you, as half a glimpse of that unaccountable cone,—longer than a Kentuckian is tall, nigh a foot in diameter at the base, and jet-black as Yojo, the ebony idol of Queequeg. And an idol, indeed, it is; or, rather, in old times, its likeness was. Such an idol as that found in the secret groves of Queen Maachah in Judea; and for worshipping which, King Asa, her son, did depose her, and destroyed the idol, and burnt it for an abomination at the brook Kedron, as darkly set forth in the 15th chapter of the First Book of Kings.
If you had stepped aboard the Pequod at a particular moment during this post-mortem examination of the whale and wandered forward near the windlass, I’m pretty sure you would have looked with no small amount of curiosity at a very strange, puzzling object lying lengthwise in the lee scuppers. It wouldn’t be the amazing reservoir in the whale’s massive head, the astonishing sight of his unhinged lower jaw, or the impressive symmetry of his tail that would surprise you the most. Instead, it would be a mere glimpse of that mysterious cone—longer than a tall man from Kentucky, nearly a foot wide at its base, and jet-black like Yojo, Queequeg’s ebony idol. And indeed, it is an idol—or at least, it once resembled one. An idol like those hidden in the secret groves of Queen Maachah in Judea, the one that King Asa, her son, destroyed and burned as an abomination by the brook Kedron, as grimly described in the 15th chapter of the First Book of Kings.
Look at the sailor, called the mincer, who now comes along, and assisted by two allies, heavily backs the grandissimus, as the mariners call it, and with bowed shoulders, staggers off with it as if he were a grenadier carrying a dead comrade from the field. Extending it upon the forecastle deck, he now proceeds cylindrically to remove its dark pelt, as an African hunter the pelt of a boa. This done he turns the pelt inside out, like a pantaloon leg; gives it a good stretching, so as almost to double its diameter; and at last hangs it, well spread, in the rigging, to dry. Ere long, it is taken down; when removing some three feet of it, towards the pointed extremity, and then cutting two slits for arm-holes at the other end, he lengthwise slips himself bodily into it. The mincer now stands before you invested in the full canonicals of his calling. Immemorial to all his order, this investiture alone will adequately protect him, while employed in the peculiar functions of his office.
Look at the sailor, known as the mincer, who now comes over, and with the help of two assistants, hefts the grandissimus (as the sailors call it). With bent shoulders, he struggles off under its weight, like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade from the battlefield. Laying it out on the deck at the front of the ship, he begins to carefully strip away its dark outer layer, much like an African hunter skinning a boa constrictor. Once that's done, he flips the skin inside out, like turning a pant leg, stretches it to almost double its width, and finally hangs it up in the rigging to dry. Before long, it’s taken down again; he cuts about three feet of it near the pointed end, makes two slits for armholes on the other end, and slips the whole thing on, lengthwise, like a suit. Now the mincer stands before you, fully dressed in the traditional gear of his trade. This outfit, part of the long-standing tradition of his profession, is the only thing that can properly protect him while he goes about his unique responsibilities.
That office consists in mincing the horse-pieces of blubber for the pots; an operation which is conducted at a curious wooden horse, planted endwise against the bulwarks, and with a capacious tub beneath it, into which the minced pieces drop, fast as the sheets from a rapt orator’s desk. Arrayed in decent black; occupying a conspicuous pulpit; intent on bible leaves; what a candidate for an archbishopric, what a lad for a Pope were this mincer!*
That job involves cutting the horse-sized chunks of blubber into smaller pieces for the pots. The work is done on a strange wooden structure shaped like a horse, set upright against the railing, with a large tub underneath to catch the chopped pieces as quickly as papers drop from the desk of an impassioned speaker. Dressed neatly in black, standing prominently as if in a pulpit, focused on the "holy pages"—what a perfect candidate for an archbishop, what a potential Pope this mincer would make!*
*Bible leaves! Bible leaves! This is the invariable cry from the mates to the mincer. It enjoins him to be careful, and cut his work into as thin slices as possible, inasmuch as by so doing the business of boiling out the oil is much accelerated, and its quantity considerably increased, besides perhaps improving it in quality.
*Bible pages! Bible pages! This is always the shout from the mates to the mincer. They're telling him to be careful and slice the work as thinly as possible because doing so speeds up the process of boiling out the oil, increases the amount extracted, and might even improve its quality.
CHAPTER 96. The Try-Works.
Besides her hoisted boats, an American whaler is outwardly distinguished by her try-works. She presents the curious anomaly of the most solid masonry joining with oak and hemp in constituting the completed ship. It is as if from the open field a brick-kiln were transported to her planks.
Besides her raised boats, an American whaling ship is easily recognized by her try-works. She presents the unusual sight of sturdy masonry combined with oak and hemp to form the finished ship. It's as if a brick kiln from an open field had been moved onto her deck.
The try-works are planted between the foremast and mainmast, the most roomy part of the deck. The timbers beneath are of a peculiar strength, fitted to sustain the weight of an almost solid mass of brick and mortar, some ten feet by eight square, and five in height. The foundation does not penetrate the deck, but the masonry is firmly secured to the surface by ponderous knees of iron bracing it on all sides, and screwing it down to the timbers. On the flanks it is cased with wood, and at top completely covered by a large, sloping, battened hatchway. Removing this hatch we expose the great try-pots, two in number, and each of several barrels’ capacity. When not in use, they are kept remarkably clean. Sometimes they are polished with soapstone and sand, till they shine within like silver punch-bowls. During the night-watches some cynical old sailors will crawl into them and coil themselves away there for a nap. While employed in polishing them—one man in each pot, side by side—many confidential communications are carried on, over the iron lips. It is a place also for profound mathematical meditation. It was in the left hand try-pot of the Pequod, with the soapstone diligently circling round me, that I was first indirectly struck by the remarkable fact, that in geometry all bodies gliding along the cycloid, my soapstone for example, will descend from any point in precisely the same time.
The try-works are set up between the foremast and mainmast, the most spacious part of the deck. The timbers below are unusually strong, built to support the weight of a nearly solid block of brick and mortar, about ten feet by eight feet across and five feet high. The foundation doesn’t go through the deck, but the masonry is securely fastened to the surface with heavy iron braces on all sides, bolting it down to the timbers. The sides are encased in wood, and the top is completely covered by a large, sloping, battened hatch. When this hatch is removed, it reveals two massive try-pots, each capable of holding several barrels. When not in use, the try-pots are kept extremely clean. Sometimes they are polished with soapstone and sand until the insides gleam like silver punch bowls. During the night shifts, some jaded old sailors occasionally crawl into them and curl up for a nap. While polishing them—one person in each pot, working side by side—a lot of confidential conversations happen over the iron edges. The try-pots also become a space for deep mathematical contemplation. It was in the left-hand try-pot of the Pequod, as I worked the soapstone in circular motions, that I first noticed the fascinating fact that, in geometry, all objects moving along the cycloid path—like my soapstone—will descend from any point in exactly the same amount of time.
Removing the fire-board from the front of the try-works, the bare masonry of that side is exposed, penetrated by the two iron mouths of the furnaces, directly underneath the pots. These mouths are fitted with heavy doors of iron. The intense heat of the fire is prevented from communicating itself to the deck, by means of a shallow reservoir extending under the entire inclosed surface of the works. By a tunnel inserted at the rear, this reservoir is kept replenished with water as fast as it evaporates. There are no external chimneys; they open direct from the rear wall. And here let us go back for a moment.
Taking the fire-board off the front of the try-works reveals the bare masonry on that side, with two iron furnace openings directly beneath the pots. Heavy iron doors cover these openings. To keep the intense heat from spreading to the deck, a shallow reservoir extends under the entire enclosed surface of the try-works. A tunnel at the back of the works continuously refills this reservoir with water as it evaporates. There are no external chimneys; instead, they vent directly from the rear wall. Now, let’s take a moment to go back.
It was about nine o’clock at night that the Pequod’s try-works were first started on this present voyage. It belonged to Stubb to oversee the business.
It was around nine o’clock at night when the Pequod’s try-works were fired up for the first time on this voyage. Stubb was in charge of supervising the operation.
“All ready there? Off hatch, then, and start her. You cook, fire the works.” This was an easy thing, for the carpenter had been thrusting his shavings into the furnace throughout the passage. Here be it said that in a whaling voyage the first fire in the try-works has to be fed for a time with wood. After that no wood is used, except as a means of quick ignition to the staple fuel. In a word, after being tried out, the crisp, shrivelled blubber, now called scraps or fritters, still contains considerable of its unctuous properties. These fritters feed the flames. Like a plethoric burning martyr, or a self-consuming misanthrope, once ignited, the whale supplies his own fuel and burns by his own body. Would that he consumed his own smoke! for his smoke is horrible to inhale, and inhale it you must, and not only that, but you must live in it for the time. It has an unspeakable, wild, Hindoo odor about it, such as may lurk in the vicinity of funereal pyres. It smells like the left wing of the day of judgment; it is an argument for the pit.
"All set over there? Open the hatch, then, and get it started. Hey, cook, fire it up." This was easy enough since the carpenter had already been piling his wood shavings into the furnace the whole trip. It’s worth mentioning here that on a whaling voyage, the initial fire in the try-works is started with wood. After that, wood is only used to quickly ignite the main fuel. Simply put, once the blubber is rendered down, the crispy, shriveled remains—now called scraps or fritters—still hold a lot of oily properties. These scraps keep the fire going. Like a burning martyr full of fat or a self-destructive recluse, once lit, the whale essentially provides his own fuel and burns using his own body. If only he could somehow burn away his own smoke too! His smoke is unbearable to breathe, and breathe it you must—not to mention live in it for a while. It has this indescribable, wild, almost funeral-pyre scent, something you might imagine near a Hindu cremation site. It smells like the aftermath of judgment day, like a vision of hell itself.
By midnight the works were in full operation. We were clear from the carcase; sail had been made; the wind was freshening; the wild ocean darkness was intense. But that darkness was licked up by the fierce flames, which at intervals forked forth from the sooty flues, and illuminated every lofty rope in the rigging, as with the famed Greek fire. The burning ship drove on, as if remorselessly commissioned to some vengeful deed. So the pitch and sulphur-freighted brigs of the bold Hydriote, Canaris, issuing from their midnight harbors, with broad sheets of flame for sails, bore down upon the Turkish frigates, and folded them in conflagrations.
By midnight, the work was in full swing. We were clear of the carcass; the sails were set, and the wind was picking up. The wild ocean was shrouded in intense darkness. But that darkness was pierced by fierce flames, which occasionally shot out from the sooty chimneys and lit up every tall rope in the rigging, like the legendary Greek fire. The burning ship surged forward, as if mercilessly destined for some vengeful purpose. Just as the pitch- and sulfur-filled ships of the daring Hydriote, Canaris, would emerge from their midnight harbors—with massive sheets of flame as sails—closing in on the Turkish frigates and engulfing them in fire.
The hatch, removed from the top of the works, now afforded a wide hearth in front of them. Standing on this were the Tartarean shapes of the pagan harpooneers, always the whale-ship’s stokers. With huge pronged poles they pitched hissing masses of blubber into the scalding pots, or stirred up the fires beneath, till the snaky flames darted, curling, out of the doors to catch them by the feet. The smoke rolled away in sullen heaps. To every pitch of the ship there was a pitch of the boiling oil, which seemed all eagerness to leap into their faces. Opposite the mouth of the works, on the further side of the wide wooden hearth, was the windlass. This served for a sea-sofa. Here lounged the watch, when not otherwise employed, looking into the red heat of the fire, till their eyes felt scorched in their heads. Their tawny features, now all begrimed with smoke and sweat, their matted beards, and the contrasting barbaric brilliancy of their teeth, all these were strangely revealed in the capricious emblazonings of the works. As they narrated to each other their unholy adventures, their tales of terror told in words of mirth; as their uncivilized laughter forked upwards out of them, like the flames from the furnace; as to and fro, in their front, the harpooneers wildly gesticulated with their huge pronged forks and dippers; as the wind howled on, and the sea leaped, and the ship groaned and dived, and yet steadfastly shot her red hell further and further into the blackness of the sea and the night, and scornfully champed the white bone in her mouth, and viciously spat round her on all sides; then the rushing Pequod, freighted with savages, and laden with fire, and burning a corpse, and plunging into that blackness of darkness, seemed the material counterpart of her monomaniac commander’s soul.
The removed hatch from the top of the machinery now served as a wide platform in front of them. Standing there were the hellish figures of the pagan harpooneers, who always acted as the whale-ship’s stokers. With large, multi-pronged poles, they tossed sizzling chunks of blubber into the boiling pots or stoked the fires below, causing serpentine flames to shoot and curl out of the doors, nearly licking at their feet. Thick plumes of smoke rolled away in sullen clouds. With every lurch of the ship, the boiling oil sloshed violently, as though eager to splash into their faces. Across from the mouth of the works, on the other side of the wide wooden platform, was the windlass, which doubled as a makeshift bench. Here, the watch crew lounged when they weren’t busy, staring into the glowing heat of the fire until their eyes felt scorched. Their smoky, sweat-streaked faces, matted beards, and the sharp contrast of their bright, barbaric-looking teeth were eerily highlighted by the flickering light from the flames. They swapped tales of their grim, unholy adventures, spinning stories of terror told with laughter, their wild, uncivilized cackles shooting upward like flames from the furnace. In front of them, the harpooneers gestured furiously with their massive pronged tools and ladles, while the wind roared, the sea surged, and the ship groaned and plunged forward, firing its glowing red energy deeper into the dark void of the sea and night. It sailed on, biting into the waves like a predator with white bones in its jaws, spitting foam in every direction. In this terrifying moment, the charging Pequod—carrying savages, loaded with flame, burning a carcass, and driving further into the formless blackness—seemed the living embodiment of its captain’s mad, obsessive soul.
So seemed it to me, as I stood at her helm, and for long hours silently guided the way of this fire-ship on the sea. Wrapped, for that interval, in darkness myself, I but the better saw the redness, the madness, the ghastliness of others. The continual sight of the fiend shapes before me, capering half in smoke and half in fire, these at last begat kindred visions in my soul, so soon as I began to yield to that unaccountable drowsiness which ever would come over me at a midnight helm.
It felt that way to me as I stood at the helm, silently steering this fiery ship across the sea for hours on end. Enveloped in darkness myself during that time, I could see more clearly the redness, the insanity, and the horror of others. The constant vision of devilish shapes in front of me, dancing half in smoke and half in fire, eventually sparked similar images in my mind, especially when I started giving in to that strange, inexplicable drowsiness that always crept over me during midnight shifts at the helm.
But that night, in particular, a strange (and ever since inexplicable) thing occurred to me. Starting from a brief standing sleep, I was horribly conscious of something fatally wrong. The jaw-bone tiller smote my side, which leaned against it; in my ears was the low hum of sails, just beginning to shake in the wind; I thought my eyes were open; I was half conscious of putting my fingers to the lids and mechanically stretching them still further apart. But, spite of all this, I could see no compass before me to steer by; though it seemed but a minute since I had been watching the card, by the steady binnacle lamp illuminating it. Nothing seemed before me but a jet gloom, now and then made ghastly by flashes of redness. Uppermost was the impression, that whatever swift, rushing thing I stood on was not so much bound to any haven ahead as rushing from all havens astern. A stark, bewildered feeling, as of death, came over me. Convulsively my hands grasped the tiller, but with the crazy conceit that the tiller was, somehow, in some enchanted way, inverted. My God! what is the matter with me? thought I. Lo! in my brief sleep I had turned myself about, and was fronting the ship’s stern, with my back to her prow and the compass. In an instant I faced back, just in time to prevent the vessel from flying up into the wind, and very probably capsizing her. How glad and how grateful the relief from this unnatural hallucination of the night, and the fatal contingency of being brought by the lee!
That night, something strange and still unexplainable happened to me. Waking suddenly from a brief, standing doze, I felt an overwhelming sense that something was terribly wrong. The tiller jabbed into my side where I leaned against it; I could hear the faint hum of the sails just starting to flap in the wind. I thought my eyes were open, and I vaguely remember touching my eyelids, trying to stretch them wider. But even so, I couldn’t see the compass in front of me to steer by, even though it felt like just a moment ago I had been watching the card lit steadily by the binnacle lamp. All I could see ahead was pitch-black darkness, occasionally lit by eerie red flashes. I was struck with the overwhelming feeling that whatever fast-moving thing I stood on wasn’t heading toward some safe destination but instead speeding away from all safe harbors behind it. A stark, confused sensation that felt like staring into death swept over me. I clutched the tiller frantically, gripped by the absurd notion that it had somehow been enchanted or flipped upside down. My God! What’s wrong with me? I thought. Then I realized—in my brief sleep, I had turned myself around. I was facing the back of the ship, with my back to the prow and the compass. I quickly turned back just in time to stop the vessel from veering into the wind, which could have easily capsized her. The relief I felt was immense—not just from escaping the eerie illusion of the night, but also from avoiding the lethal danger of being caught by the lee.
Look not too long in the face of the fire, O man! Never dream with thy hand on the helm! Turn not thy back to the compass; accept the first hint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its redness makes all things look ghastly. To-morrow, in the natural sun, the skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking flames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp—all others but liars!
Don’t stare into the fire too long, my friend! Never daydream with your hand on the wheel! Don’t turn your back on the compass; pay attention to the first sign of the swaying tiller. Don’t trust the artificial fire when its red glow makes everything look eerie. Tomorrow, under the natural sunlight, the skies will brighten; those who looked like demons in the flickering flames will appear very different—at least softer—in the morning. The glorious, golden, cheerful sun is the only true light—all others are just impostors!
Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, nor Rome’s accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him, that mortal man cannot be true—not true, or undeveloped. With books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon’s, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe. “All is vanity.” ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold of unchristian Solomon’s wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and jails, and walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of operas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor devils all of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais as passing wise, and therefore jolly;—not that man is fitted to sit down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably wondrous Solomon.
Even so, the sun doesn’t hide Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, or Rome’s cursed Campagna, or the vast Sahara, or the countless deserts and sorrows beneath the moon. The sun doesn’t hide the ocean either—it’s the dark side of the earth, making up two-thirds of it. So, any human who feels more joy than sorrow isn’t truly complete—not real, or not fully developed. It’s the same with books. The most genuine man was the Man of Sorrows, and the most genuine book is Solomon’s, with Ecclesiastes being the finely forged steel of despair. “All is vanity.” *ALL*. This stubborn world still hasn’t grasped unchristian Solomon’s wisdom. But the person who avoids hospitals and prisons, rushes past graveyards, prefers chatting about operas over hell, dismisses Cowper, Young, Pascal, and Rousseau as just sick men; and spends a carefree life praising Rabelais as wise and therefore cheerful—that person isn’t ready to sit on tombstones and crack the damp green earth with the deep, mysterious wisdom of Solomon.
But even Solomon, he says, “the man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain” (i.e., even while living) “in the congregation of the dead.” Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.
Even Solomon says, “The person who wanders away from understanding will stay” (meaning, even while alive) “among the dead.” So, don’t give yourself over to destruction, or it might overwhelm you, paralyze you, like it did to me for a while. There’s a kind of wisdom that brings sorrow; but there’s also a sorrow that leads to madness. Yet some souls have the spirit of a Catskill eagle—they can dive into the darkest valleys and still rise out of them, disappearing into the bright, open skies. And even if that eagle always flies within the valley, the valley is still part of the mountains; so, even at its lowest point, the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds on the plains, even when they ascend.
CHAPTER 97. The Lamp.
Had you descended from the Pequod’s try-works to the Pequod’s forecastle, where the off duty watch were sleeping, for one single moment you would have almost thought you were standing in some illuminated shrine of canonized kings and counsellors. There they lay in their triangular oaken vaults, each mariner a chiselled muteness; a score of lamps flashing upon his hooded eyes.
If you'd gone down from the Pequod's try-works to the forecastle, where the off-duty crew was sleeping, even for a moment, you might have thought you were in some brightly lit shrine of legendary kings and advisors. There they lay in their triangular wooden berths, each sailor frozen in silence, with a dozen lamps shining on their closed eyes.
In merchantmen, oil for the sailor is more scarce than the milk of queens. To dress in the dark, and eat in the dark, and stumble in darkness to his pallet, this is his usual lot. But the whaleman, as he seeks the food of light, so he lives in light. He makes his berth an Aladdin’s lamp, and lays him down in it; so that in the pitchiest night the ship’s black hull still houses an illumination.
On merchant ships, oil for sailors is rarer than a queen's milk. Dressing in the dark, eating in the dark, and stumbling in darkness to his bed is his normal routine. But the whaler, as he hunts for the source of light, also lives in the light. He turns his bunk into an Aladdin's lamp and rests in it, so even on the darkest nights, the ship’s black hull still glows with light.
See with what entire freedom the whaleman takes his handful of lamps—often but old bottles and vials, though—to the copper cooler at the try-works, and replenishes them there, as mugs of ale at a vat. He burns, too, the purest of oil, in its unmanufactured, and, therefore, unvitiated state; a fluid unknown to solar, lunar, or astral contrivances ashore. It is sweet as early grass butter in April. He goes and hunts for his oil, so as to be sure of its freshness and genuineness, even as the traveller on the prairie hunts up his own supper of game.
Look at how freely the whaleman takes his handful of lamps—often just old bottles and vials—to the copper cooler at the try-works, refilling them there like mugs of beer at a keg. He burns the purest oil, unprocessed and therefore untouched, a fluid unknown to the artificial lights on land. It’s as sweet as fresh butter in April. He ventures out to hunt for his oil to ensure its freshness and authenticity, just like a traveler on the prairie hunts for his own dinner of wild game.
CHAPTER 98. Stowing Down and Clearing Up.
Already has it been related how the great leviathan is afar off descried from the mast-head; how he is chased over the watery moors, and slaughtered in the valleys of the deep; how he is then towed alongside and beheaded; and how (on the principle which entitled the headsman of old to the garments in which the beheaded was killed) his great padded surtout becomes the property of his executioner; how, in due time, he is condemned to the pots, and, like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, his spermaceti, oil, and bone pass unscathed through the fire;—but now it remains to conclude the last chapter of this part of the description by rehearsing—singing, if I may—the romantic proceeding of decanting off his oil into the casks and striking them down into the hold, where once again leviathan returns to his native profundities, sliding along beneath the surface as before; but, alas! never more to rise and blow.
It's already been told how the giant whale is spotted from far away at the masthead, how he's chased across the open seas and killed in the depths, how he's then brought alongside the ship and decapitated, and how (based on the old rule that the executioner kept the clothes of the condemned) his thick outer layer becomes the property of his killer; how, eventually, he's rendered into oil and, like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, his spermaceti, oil, and bones come through the fire unharmed. But now it's time to wrap up this part of the description by recounting—almost like singing—the poetic act of transferring his oil into barrels and storing them in the ship's hold, where the whale once again returns to the deep, gliding beneath the surface as before; but, sadly, never to rise and breathe again.
While still warm, the oil, like hot punch, is received into the six-barrel casks; and while, perhaps, the ship is pitching and rolling this way and that in the midnight sea, the enormous casks are slewed round and headed over, end for end, and sometimes perilously scoot across the slippery deck, like so many land slides, till at last man-handled and stayed in their course; and all round the hoops, rap, rap, go as many hammers as can play upon them, for now, ex officio, every sailor is a cooper.
While still warm, the oil, like hot punch, is poured into six-barrel casks. And while the ship might be pitching and rolling back and forth on the midnight sea, the massive casks are flipped end over end, sometimes sliding dangerously across the slippery deck like small landslides, until they’re finally manhandled and secured in place. All around the hoops, hammers rhythmically pound away as fast as possible, because at this moment, every sailor on board takes on the role of a barrel maker.
At length, when the last pint is casked, and all is cool, then the great hatchways are unsealed, the bowels of the ship are thrown open, and down go the casks to their final rest in the sea. This done, the hatches are replaced, and hermetically closed, like a closet walled up.
Finally, when the last pint is stored and everything has cooled down, the large hatchways are opened, revealing the ship's interior. The casks are lowered to their final resting place in the depths of the sea. Once that's done, the hatches are sealed up again, airtight, like a room bricked shut.
In the sperm fishery, this is perhaps one of the most remarkable incidents in all the business of whaling. One day the planks stream with freshets of blood and oil; on the sacred quarter-deck enormous masses of the whale’s head are profanely piled; great rusty casks lie about, as in a brewery yard; the smoke from the try-works has besooted all the bulwarks; the mariners go about suffused with unctuousness; the entire ship seems great leviathan himself; while on all hands the din is deafening.
In the sperm whaling industry, this is probably one of the most extraordinary events in the entire business. One day, the decks are flowing with streams of blood and oil; on the once-sacred quarterdeck, massive chunks of the whale’s head are stacked without reverence; huge, rusty barrels are scattered around like in a brewery yard; smoke from the try-works has blackened all the railings; the sailors move about coated in grease; the whole ship feels like a massive whale itself; and all around, the noise is overwhelming.
But a day or two after, you look about you, and prick your ears in this self-same ship; and were it not for the tell-tale boats and try-works, you would all but swear you trod some silent merchant vessel, with a most scrupulously neat commander. The unmanufactured sperm oil possesses a singularly cleansing virtue. This is the reason why the decks never look so white as just after what they call an affair of oil. Besides, from the ashes of the burned scraps of the whale, a potent lye is readily made; and whenever any adhesiveness from the back of the whale remains clinging to the side, that lye quickly exterminates it. Hands go diligently along the bulwarks, and with buckets of water and rags restore them to their full tidiness. The soot is brushed from the lower rigging. All the numerous implements which have been in use are likewise faithfully cleansed and put away. The great hatch is scrubbed and placed upon the try-works, completely hiding the pots; every cask is out of sight; all tackles are coiled in unseen nooks; and when by the combined and simultaneous industry of almost the entire ship’s company, the whole of this conscientious duty is at last concluded, then the crew themselves proceed to their own ablutions; shift themselves from top to toe; and finally issue to the immaculate deck, fresh and all aglow, as bridegrooms new-leaped from out the daintiest Holland.
But a day or two later, you look around on this same ship and perk up your ears; if it weren’t for the obvious signs like the boats and try-works, you’d almost believe you were on a quiet merchant vessel with an extremely meticulous captain. Raw sperm oil has an unusually cleansing quality. That’s why the decks are never as white as they are right after what they call an “oil affair.” Plus, from the ashes of the burned whale scraps, they make a powerful lye, and whenever any sticky residue from the whale clings to the sides, that lye wipes it out fast. The crew works hard along the railings, using buckets of water and rags to restore everything to pristine condition. The soot is cleaned off the lower rigging, and all the tools that were used get thoroughly scrubbed and put away. The large hatch is washed and placed over the try-works, completely hiding the pots. Every barrel is stowed out of sight; all the ropes are coiled and tucked into hidden corners. When nearly the entire crew works together to finish this careful cleaning process, it finally gets done, and then the sailors turn to cleaning themselves. They change entirely, from head to toe, and step out onto the spotless deck, fresh, glowing, and polished—like grooms straight out of the finest laundries.
Now, with elated step, they pace the planks in twos and threes, and humorously discourse of parlors, sofas, carpets, and fine cambrics; propose to mat the deck; think of having hanging to the top; object not to taking tea by moonlight on the piazza of the forecastle. To hint to such musked mariners of oil, and bone, and blubber, were little short of audacity. They know not the thing you distantly allude to. Away, and bring us napkins!
Now, with lively steps, they stroll along the deck in pairs and small groups, joking about living rooms, couches, rugs, and fine fabrics; they suggest carpeting the deck, imagine having curtains hanging up top, and don’t mind the idea of sipping tea by moonlight on the forecastle’s porch. To mention oil, bones, or blubber to these fancified sailors would be almost insulting. They wouldn’t even understand what you’re hinting at. Go on, and fetch us some napkins!
But mark: aloft there, at the three mast heads, stand three men intent on spying out more whales, which, if caught, infallibly will again soil the old oaken furniture, and drop at least one small grease-spot somewhere. Yes; and many is the time, when, after the severest uninterrupted labors, which know no night; continuing straight through for ninety-six hours; when from the boat, where they have swelled their wrists with all day rowing on the Line,—they only step to the deck to carry vast chains, and heave the heavy windlass, and cut and slash, yea, and in their very sweatings to be smoked and burned anew by the combined fires of the equatorial sun and the equatorial try-works; when, on the heel of all this, they have finally bestirred themselves to cleanse the ship, and make a spotless dairy room of it; many is the time the poor fellows, just buttoning the necks of their clean frocks, are startled by the cry of “There she blows!” and away they fly to fight another whale, and go through the whole weary thing again. Oh! my friends, but this is man-killing! Yet this is life. For hardly have we mortals by long toilings extracted from this world’s vast bulk its small but valuable sperm; and then, with weary patience, cleansed ourselves from its defilements, and learned to live here in clean tabernacles of the soul; hardly is this done, when—There she blows!—the ghost is spouted up, and away we sail to fight some other world, and go through young life’s old routine again.
But look: up there, at the three mastheads, three men stand focused on spotting more whales, which, if caught, will inevitably stain the old wooden furniture and leave at least one small grease spot somewhere. Yes, and many times, after the hardest non-stop work—continuing straight for four days and nights—when, coming back from the boat where they’ve strained their wrists rowing all day on the equator, they only step onto the deck to haul massive chains, crank the heavy windlass, and cut and hack, sweating as they’re smoked and scorched all over again by the heat of the equatorial sun and the fiery try-works. Then, after all that, they finally push themselves to scrub the ship clean and turn it into something like a spotless dairy. Many times, just as the poor guys are buttoning up the collars of their fresh shirts, they’re jolted by the cry, “There she blows!”—and off they go to chase another whale and repeat the whole exhausting process once more. Oh, my friends, this is soul-crushing! And yet, this is life. Because no sooner have we humans, through all our hard work, extracted this world’s small but precious rewards, cleaned ourselves of its filth, and learned how to live in a state of spiritual purity—no sooner is all that done than—*There she blows!*—a new challenge rises up, and off we go to face another battle, repeating the same old exhausting routine of life all over again.
Oh! the metempsychosis! Oh! Pythagoras, that in bright Greece, two thousand years ago, did die, so good, so wise, so mild; I sailed with thee along the Peruvian coast last voyage—and, foolish as I am, taught thee, a green simple boy, how to splice a rope!
Oh, the reincarnation! Oh, Pythagoras, who lived in glorious Greece two thousand years ago, so virtuous, so wise, so gentle; I sailed with you along the Peruvian coast on my last journey—and, as foolish as I am, I taught you, a naïve young boy, how to splice a rope!
CHAPTER 99. The Doubloon.
Ere now it has been related how Ahab was wont to pace his quarter-deck, taking regular turns at either limit, the binnacle and mainmast; but in the multiplicity of other things requiring narration it has not been added how that sometimes in these walks, when most plunged in his mood, he was wont to pause in turn at each spot, and stand there strangely eyeing the particular object before him. When he halted before the binnacle, with his glance fastened on the pointed needle in the compass, that glance shot like a javelin with the pointed intensity of his purpose; and when resuming his walk he again paused before the mainmast, then, as the same riveted glance fastened upon the riveted gold coin there, he still wore the same aspect of nailed firmness, only dashed with a certain wild longing, if not hopefulness.
It’s been mentioned before how Ahab would pace back and forth on the quarterdeck, walking between two points—the binnacle and the mainmast. But with so many other things to describe, it hasn’t been noted that sometimes during these walks, when he was deeply absorbed in thought, he would stop at each point and stand there, intensely studying the object in front of him. When he stopped at the binnacle and fixed his gaze on the compass needle, his eyes locked on it with the sharp, piercing focus of his determination. And when he resumed walking and paused again at the mainmast, staring at the gold coin fastened there, he maintained the same firm, unwavering expression—but there was also a hint of wild longing, maybe even a flicker of hope.
But one morning, turning to pass the doubloon, he seemed to be newly attracted by the strange figures and inscriptions stamped on it, as though now for the first time beginning to interpret for himself in some monomaniac way whatever significance might lurk in them. And some certain significance lurks in all things, else all things are little worth, and the round world itself but an empty cipher, except to sell by the cartload, as they do hills about Boston, to fill up some morass in the Milky Way.
But one morning, as he walked past the doubloon, he seemed newly drawn to the strange figures and inscriptions stamped on it, as if he were just now starting to interpret their meaning in his own obsessive way. And there’s some kind of meaning in everything; otherwise, nothing would have much value, and the entire world would just be an empty symbol—good for nothing except selling by the cartload, like they do with hills near Boston to fill in some swamp in the Milky Way.
Now this doubloon was of purest, virgin gold, raked somewhere out of the heart of gorgeous hills, whence, east and west, over golden sands, the head-waters of many a Pactolus flows. And though now nailed amidst all the rustiness of iron bolts and the verdigris of copper spikes, yet, untouchable and immaculate to any foulness, it still preserved its Quito glow. Nor, though placed amongst a ruthless crew and every hour passed by ruthless hands, and through the livelong nights shrouded with thick darkness which might cover any pilfering approach, nevertheless every sunrise found the doubloon where the sunset left it last. For it was set apart and sanctified to one awe-striking end; and however wanton in their sailor ways, one and all, the mariners revered it as the white whale’s talisman. Sometimes they talked it over in the weary watch by night, wondering whose it was to be at last, and whether he would ever live to spend it.
This doubloon was made of the purest, untouched gold, dug up from the heart of stunning hills where, east and west, the headwaters of many a golden river flowed. And even though it was now nailed amid the rust of iron bolts and the greenish corrosion of copper spikes, it remained untouched by any filth, still keeping its radiant glow from Quito. Despite being surrounded by a rough crew, handled frequently by their calloused hands, and left in the pitch-black nights where theft could easily occur, every sunrise found the doubloon exactly where the sunset had left it. It was set apart and held sacred for one awe-inspiring purpose. No matter how reckless the sailors were in their behavior, each and every one of them respected it as the talisman of the white whale. Sometimes, during the long, tiring night watches, they would talk about it, wondering who would eventually claim it and whether that person would ever get the chance to spend it.
Now those noble golden coins of South America are as medals of the sun and tropic token-pieces. Here palms, alpacas, and volcanoes; sun’s disks and stars; ecliptics, horns-of-plenty, and rich banners waving, are in luxuriant profusion stamped; so that the precious gold seems almost to derive an added preciousness and enhancing glories, by passing through those fancy mints, so Spanishly poetic.
Now those noble golden coins from South America are like medals of the sun and tropical souvenirs. On them are stamped images of palms, alpacas, volcanoes, sun disks, stars, ecliptics, cornucopias, and rich waving banners in abundant detail, giving the precious gold an almost added value and enhanced beauty, as if it’s been enriched by passing through those fanciful and poetically Spanish mints.
It so chanced that the doubloon of the Pequod was a most wealthy example of these things. On its round border it bore the letters, REPUBLICA DEL ECUADOR: QUITO. So this bright coin came from a country planted in the middle of the world, and beneath the great equator, and named after it; and it had been cast midway up the Andes, in the unwaning clime that knows no autumn. Zoned by those letters you saw the likeness of three Andes’ summits; from one a flame; a tower on another; on the third a crowing cock; while arching over all was a segment of the partitioned zodiac, the signs all marked with their usual cabalistics, and the keystone sun entering the equinoctial point at Libra.
The doubloon of the Pequod happened to be a particularly impressive example of these things. Around its edge were the words, "REPUBLICA DEL ECUADOR: QUITO." This shiny coin came from a country located at the center of the world, right under the equator, and even named after it. It had been minted high up in the Andes, in an eternal spring climate that never experiences autumn. Encircled by those words, you could see the image of three Andean peaks: from one, a flame; from another, a tower; and from the third, a crowing rooster. Above it all was a section of the divided zodiac, its signs marked with their usual mysterious symbols, and the central sun positioned at Libra, where it crosses the equinox.
Before this equatorial coin, Ahab, not unobserved by others, was now pausing.
Before this equatorial coin, Ahab, clearly noticed by others, was now pausing.
“There’s something ever egotistical in mountain-tops and towers, and all other grand and lofty things; look here,—three peaks as proud as Lucifer. The firm tower, that is Ahab; the volcano, that is Ahab; the courageous, the undaunted, and victorious fowl, that, too, is Ahab; all are Ahab; and this round gold is but the image of the rounder globe, which, like a magician’s glass, to each and every man in turn but mirrors back his own mysterious self. Great pains, small gains for those who ask the world to solve them; it cannot solve itself. Methinks now this coined sun wears a ruddy face; but see! aye, he enters the sign of storms, the equinox! and but six months before he wheeled out of a former equinox at Aries! From storm to storm! So be it, then. Born in throes, ’tis fit that man should live in pains and die in pangs! So be it, then! Here’s stout stuff for woe to work on. So be it, then.”
"There's always something self-centered about mountain peaks, towers, and all other grand and lofty things. Look at this—three peaks as proud as Lucifer. The solid tower—that's Ahab. The volcano—that’s Ahab. The bold, fearless, and victorious bird—that’s Ahab too. All of them are Ahab. And this round gold coin is just a reflection of the rounder globe, which, like a magician’s mirror, only shows every person their own mysterious self. Big struggles, little gains for those who expect the world to provide answers; it can’t even figure itself out. It seems to me this forged sun has a red face now; but look! Yes, it’s entering the sign of storms—the equinox! And just six months ago, it emerged from another equinox at Aries. From one storm to the next! So be it, then. Born in agony, it’s fitting for man to live in pain and die in torment. So be it, then! Here's tough material for sorrow to work with. So be it, then!"
“No fairy fingers can have pressed the gold, but devil’s claws must have left their mouldings there since yesterday,” murmured Starbuck to himself, leaning against the bulwarks. “The old man seems to read Belshazzar’s awful writing. I have never marked the coin inspectingly. He goes below; let me read. A dark valley between three mighty, heaven-abiding peaks, that almost seem the Trinity, in some faint earthly symbol. So in this vale of Death, God girds us round; and over all our gloom, the sun of Righteousness still shines a beacon and a hope. If we bend down our eyes, the dark vale shows her mouldy soil; but if we lift them, the bright sun meets our glance half way, to cheer. Yet, oh, the great sun is no fixture; and if, at midnight, we would fain snatch some sweet solace from him, we gaze for him in vain! This coin speaks wisely, mildly, truly, but still sadly to me. I will quit it, lest Truth shake me falsely.”
"No delicate hands could have touched this gold—only devil's claws must have left those markings since yesterday," Starbuck muttered to himself, leaning against the ship's railing. "The old man seems to see Belshazzar's terrifying message. I've never examined the coin closely. He goes below; let me take a look. A dark valley nestled between three towering, eternal peaks that almost feel like a faint earthly symbol of the Trinity. In this valley of Death, God surrounds us; and above all our darkness, the sun of Righteousness shines as a beacon of hope. If we lower our gaze, the dark valley reveals its decaying soil; but if we lift our eyes, the bright sun meets us halfway, offering comfort. Yet, oh, the great sun isn't fixed in place; and if, at midnight, we long to steal a moment of solace from it, we look for it in vain! This coin speaks to me wisely, gently, truthfully, but also sorrowfully. I'll put it away before Truth misleads me."
“There now’s the old Mogul,” soliloquized Stubb by the try-works, “he’s been twigging it; and there goes Starbuck from the same, and both with faces which I should say might be somewhere within nine fathoms long. And all from looking at a piece of gold, which did I have it now on Negro Hill or in Corlaer’s Hook, I’d not look at it very long ere spending it. Humph! in my poor, insignificant opinion, I regard this as queer. I have seen doubloons before now in my voyagings; your doubloons of old Spain, your doubloons of Peru, your doubloons of Chili, your doubloons of Bolivia, your doubloons of Popayan; with plenty of gold moidores and pistoles, and joes, and half joes, and quarter joes. What then should there be in this doubloon of the Equator that is so killing wonderful? By Golconda! let me read it once. Halloa! here’s signs and wonders truly! That, now, is what old Bowditch in his Epitome calls the zodiac, and what my almanac below calls ditto. I’ll get the almanac and as I have heard devils can be raised with Daboll’s arithmetic, I’ll try my hand at raising a meaning out of these queer curvicues here with the Massachusetts calendar. Here’s the book. Let’s see now. Signs and wonders; and the sun, he’s always among ’em. Hem, hem, hem; here they are—here they go—all alive:—Aries, or the Ram; Taurus, or the Bull and Jimimi! here’s Gemini himself, or the Twins. Well; the sun he wheels among ’em. Aye, here on the coin he’s just crossing the threshold between two of twelve sitting-rooms all in a ring. Book! you lie there; the fact is, you books must know your places. You’ll do to give us the bare words and facts, but we come in to supply the thoughts. That’s my small experience, so far as the Massachusetts calendar, and Bowditch’s navigator, and Daboll’s arithmetic go. Signs and wonders, eh? Pity if there is nothing wonderful in signs, and significant in wonders! There’s a clue somewhere; wait a bit; hist—hark! By Jove, I have it! Look you, Doubloon, your zodiac here is the life of man in one round chapter; and now I’ll read it off, straight out of the book. Come, Almanack! To begin: there’s Aries, or the Ram—lecherous dog, he begets us; then, Taurus, or the Bull—he bumps us the first thing; then Gemini, or the Twins—that is, Virtue and Vice; we try to reach Virtue, when lo! comes Cancer the Crab, and drags us back; and here, going from Virtue, Leo, a roaring Lion, lies in the path—he gives a few fierce bites and surly dabs with his paw; we escape, and hail Virgo, the Virgin! that’s our first love; we marry and think to be happy for aye, when pop comes Libra, or the Scales—happiness weighed and found wanting; and while we are very sad about that, Lord! how we suddenly jump, as Scorpio, or the Scorpion, stings us in the rear; we are curing the wound, when whang come the arrows all round; Sagittarius, or the Archer, is amusing himself. As we pluck out the shafts, stand aside! here’s the battering-ram, Capricornus, or the Goat; full tilt, he comes rushing, and headlong we are tossed; when Aquarius, or the Water-bearer, pours out his whole deluge and drowns us; and to wind up with Pisces, or the Fishes, we sleep. There’s a sermon now, writ in high heaven, and the sun goes through it every year, and yet comes out of it all alive and hearty. Jollily he, aloft there, wheels through toil and trouble; and so, alow here, does jolly Stubb. Oh, jolly’s the word for aye! Adieu, Doubloon! But stop; here comes little King-Post; dodge round the try-works, now, and let’s hear what he’ll have to say. There; he’s before it; he’ll out with something presently. So, so; he’s beginning.”
“Ah, there’s the old Mogul,” Stubb muttered to himself by the tryworks. “He’s been eyeing it; and there goes Starbuck doing the same, both of them looking like their faces are nine fathoms long. And all because of a piece of gold—which, if I had it now on Negro Hill or in Corlaer’s Hook, I wouldn’t stare at it very long before spending it. Hmph! In my small, humble opinion, I think this is downright strange. I’ve seen doubloons before in my journeys; Spanish doubloons, Peruvian doubloons, doubloons from Chile and Bolivia, doubloons from Popayán. Plenty of gold moidores and pistoles, joes, half-joes, and quarter-joes. So what’s so special about this Equator doubloon? By Golconda! Let me take another look. Wait a second! Well, now, here’s some symbols and signs for real! That’s what old Bowditch in his ‘Epitome’ calls the zodiac, and what my almanac calls the same. I’ll grab the almanac, and since I’ve heard you can summon devils with Daboll’s arithmetic, maybe I’ll try to pull some meaning out of these crazy squiggles here with the Massachusetts calendar. Here’s the book. Let’s see. Symbols and wonders; and of course, the sun is always mixed up in them. Hmm, hmm, hmm; here they are—alive and kicking: Aries, the Ram; Taurus, the Bull; and by Jiminy! here’s Gemini, the Twins. So, the sun moves through them. Yep, here on the coin he’s just stepping over the line between two of twelve sitting rooms, all set up in a circle. Book, you sit there; the fact is, you books can give us the bare words and hard facts, but we’re the ones who have to make sense of them. That’s how it’s been for me, at least with the Massachusetts calendar, Bowditch’s navigator, and Daboll’s arithmetic. Signs and wonders, huh? It’d be a shame if signs weren’t full of meaning and wonders weren’t mysterious, wouldn’t it? There’s a clue in here somewhere. Hold on; wait. Shh—listen! Oh, I’ve got it! Look here, Doubloon, your zodiac is like an entire chapter of human life; let me read it straight from the book. Let’s go, almanac! Starting with Aries, the Ram—that lecherous mutt, he starts us off; then Taurus, the Bull—he butts us as soon as we’re born; then Gemini, the Twins—that’s Virtue and Vice; we aim for Virtue, but then along comes Cancer, the Crab, pulling us backward; breaking away toward Virtue again, we run into Leo, the Lion, roaring in the way—he bites and swipes at us with his claws; we get past him and greet Virgo, the Virgin—our first love; we marry, thinking we’ll live happily ever after, but soon enough, here comes Libra, the Scales—happiness is measured and found lacking. While we’re wallowing in that disappointment, bam! Scorpio, the Scorpion, stings us from behind; while we’re busy nursing the wound, whoosh, arrows fly everywhere—Sagittarius, the Archer, is taking aim. Just as we pluck out the arrows, watch out! Charging straight at us comes Capricorn, the Goat—headfirst, we’re thrown; then Aquarius, the Water Bearer, dumps an entire flood to drown us; and finally, Pisces, the Fish, lets us rest in sleep. There you have it—a whole sermon written in the heavens, with the sun going through it all every year and still coming out alive and well. The sun wheels through all this work and struggle, cheerful as ever; and down here, so does jolly Stubb. Yes, ‘jolly’ is the word! Farewell, Doubloon! But wait; here comes little King-Post—quick, dodge around the tryworks and let’s see what he has to say. There! He’s in front of it, about to speak. Let’s hear what he’s got.”
“I see nothing here, but a round thing made of gold, and whoever raises a certain whale, this round thing belongs to him. So, what’s all this staring been about? It is worth sixteen dollars, that’s true; and at two cents the cigar, that’s nine hundred and sixty cigars. I won’t smoke dirty pipes like Stubb, but I like cigars, and here’s nine hundred and sixty of them; so here goes Flask aloft to spy ’em out.”
"I don’t see anything here except a round gold thing, and whoever catches a certain whale gets it. So, what’s all the staring about? Sure, it’s worth sixteen dollars, and at two cents per cigar, that’s nine hundred and sixty cigars. I don’t smoke nasty pipes like Stubb, but I do like cigars, and that’s nine hundred and sixty of them. So, off goes Flask up high to scout them out."
“Shall I call that wise or foolish, now; if it be really wise it has a foolish look to it; yet, if it be really foolish, then has it a sort of wiseish look to it. But, avast; here comes our old Manxman—the old hearse-driver, he must have been, that is, before he took to the sea. He luffs up before the doubloon; halloa, and goes round on the other side of the mast; why, there’s a horse-shoe nailed on that side; and now he’s back again; what does that mean? Hark! he’s muttering—voice like an old worn-out coffee-mill. Prick ears, and listen!”
"Should I call that smart or dumb? If it’s actually smart, it sure looks dumb; but if it’s actually dumb, it kinda seems smart. Anyway, hold up—here comes the old Manxman—the guy who must’ve been a hearse driver before he started sailing. He’s pulling up in front of the doubloon; hey, now he’s moving around to the other side of the mast. Wait, there’s a horseshoe nailed on that side. And now he’s back again. What’s that all about? Listen, he’s mumbling—his voice sounds like an old, worn-out coffee grinder. Keep quiet and listen!"
“If the White Whale be raised, it must be in a month and a day, when the sun stands in some one of these signs. I’ve studied signs, and know their marks; they were taught me two score years ago, by the old witch in Copenhagen. Now, in what sign will the sun then be? The horse-shoe sign; for there it is, right opposite the gold. And what’s the horse-shoe sign? The lion is the horse-shoe sign—the roaring and devouring lion. Ship, old ship! my old head shakes to think of thee.”
"If the White Whale is going to surface, it’ll happen in a month and a day, when the sun is in one of these signs. I’ve studied the signs and know their meanings; an old witch in Copenhagen taught me about them forty years ago. So, what sign will the sun be in then? The horseshoe sign—because there it is, directly across from the gold. And what’s the horseshoe sign? The lion—that roaring, devouring lion. Ship, old ship! My old head trembles just thinking about you."
“There’s another rendering now; but still one text. All sorts of men in one kind of world, you see. Dodge again! here comes Queequeg—all tattooing—looks like the signs of the Zodiac himself. What says the Cannibal? As I live he’s comparing notes; looking at his thigh bone; thinks the sun is in the thigh, or in the calf, or in the bowels, I suppose, as the old women talk Surgeon’s Astronomy in the back country. And by Jove, he’s found something there in the vicinity of his thigh—I guess it’s Sagittarius, or the Archer. No: he don’t know what to make of the doubloon; he takes it for an old button off some king’s trowsers. But, aside again! here comes that ghost-devil, Fedallah; tail coiled out of sight as usual, oakum in the toes of his pumps as usual. What does he say, with that look of his? Ah, only makes a sign to the sign and bows himself; there is a sun on the coin—fire worshipper, depend upon it. Ho! more and more. This way comes Pip—poor boy! would he had died, or I; he’s half horrible to me. He too has been watching all of these interpreters—myself included—and look now, he comes to read, with that unearthly idiot face. Stand away again and hear him. Hark!”
"Here’s another interpretation now, but still just one text. All kinds of people in one kind of world, you see. Watch out again! Here comes Queequeg—all covered in tattoos—looks like the Zodiac signs come to life. What’s the Cannibal doing? I swear he’s comparing notes, staring at his thigh bone; probably thinks the sun is in his thigh, or his calf, or maybe his guts, like those old women chattering about medic astrology out in the country. And by God, he’s really found something near his thigh—maybe it’s Sagittarius, the Archer. No, he doesn’t know what to make of the doubloon; he probably thinks it’s just an old button from some king’s pants. But wait, step aside again! Here comes that ghostly devil, Fedallah—his tail hidden as always, rag-stuffed shoes as usual. What’s with that look of his? Ah, he just gestures at the coin and bows; the coin’s got a sun on it—definitely a fire worshipper. Ha! There’s more! Coming this way now is Pip—poor kid! Wish either he or I hadn’t survived. He’s half terrifying to me. He’s been watching all of these people interpreting—including me—and now look, here he comes to interpret it himself, with that freaky, vacant idiot face. Step back again and listen to him. Listen!"
“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”
"I look, you look, he looks; we look, you all look, they look."
“Upon my soul, he’s been studying Murray’s Grammar! Improving his mind, poor fellow! But what’s that he says now—hist!”
"Honestly, he’s been studying Murray’s Grammar! Trying to better himself, poor guy! But wait, what’s he saying now—shh!"
“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”
"I look, you look, he looks; we look, you look, they look."
“Why, he’s getting it by heart—hist! again.”
"Look, he's memorizing it—shh! There he goes again."
“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”
"I look, you look, he looks; we look, you all look, they look."
“Well, that’s funny.”
"Well, that’s hilarious."
“And I, you, and he; and we, ye, and they, are all bats; and I’m a crow, especially when I stand a’top of this pine tree here. Caw! caw! caw! caw! caw! caw! Ain’t I a crow? And where’s the scare-crow? There he stands; two bones stuck into a pair of old trowsers, and two more poked into the sleeves of an old jacket.”
"And I, you, and he; and we, you all, and they, are all bats; and I’m a crow, especially when I stand on top of this pine tree here. Caw! caw! caw! caw! caw! caw! Am I not a crow? And where’s the scarecrow? There it is; two sticks shoved into some old pants, and two more stuck into the sleeves of an old jacket."
“Wonder if he means me?—complimentary!—poor lad!—I could go hang myself. Any way, for the present, I’ll quit Pip’s vicinity. I can stand the rest, for they have plain wits; but he’s too crazy-witty for my sanity. So, so, I leave him muttering.”
"Wonder if he’s talking about me?—how flattering!—poor guy!—I could just go hang myself. Anyway, for now, I’ll keep my distance from Pip. I can handle the others since they’ve got simple minds, but he’s too sharp and crazy for me to handle. So, so, I’ll leave him rambling."
“Here’s the ship’s navel, this doubloon here, and they are all on fire to unscrew it. But, unscrew your navel, and what’s the consequence? Then again, if it stays here, that is ugly, too, for when aught’s nailed to the mast it’s a sign that things grow desperate. Ha, ha! old Ahab! the White Whale; he’ll nail ye! This is a pine tree. My father, in old Tolland county, cut down a pine tree once, and found a silver ring grown over in it; some old darkey’s wedding ring. How did it get there? And so they’ll say in the resurrection, when they come to fish up this old mast, and find a doubloon lodged in it, with bedded oysters for the shaggy bark. Oh, the gold! the precious, precious, gold! the green miser’ll hoard ye soon! Hish! hish! God goes ’mong the worlds blackberrying. Cook! ho, cook! and cook us! Jenny! hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Jenny, Jenny! and get your hoe-cake done!”
"Here’s the ship’s core, this gold coin here, and everyone’s desperate to unscrew it. But if you unscrew your core, what happens then? On the other hand, if it stays here, that’s not good either, because when something’s nailed to the mast, it’s a bad sign—means things are getting desperate. Ha, ha! Old Ahab! The White Whale; he’ll pin you down for sure! This here is a pine tree. My father, back in old Tolland County, once cut down a pine tree and found a silver ring grown into it—turned out to be some old servant’s wedding ring. How’d it end up there? And that’s what they’ll wonder on judgment day when they pull up this old mast and find a gold coin stuck in it, with oysters settled into the rough bark. Oh, the gold! The precious, precious gold! That greedy miser will get you soon enough! Shh, shh! God wanders among worlds picking blackberries. Cook! Hey, cook! Cook something for us! Jenny! Hey, hey, hey! Jenny, Jenny! Get that corn bread ready!"
CHAPTER 100. Leg and Arm.
The Pequod, of Nantucket, Meets the Samuel Enderby, of London.
“Ship, ahoy! Hast seen the White Whale?”
"Hey, ship! Have you seen the White Whale?"
So cried Ahab, once more hailing a ship showing English colours, bearing down under the stern. Trumpet to mouth, the old man was standing in his hoisted quarter-boat, his ivory leg plainly revealed to the stranger captain, who was carelessly reclining in his own boat’s bow. He was a darkly-tanned, burly, good-natured, fine-looking man, of sixty or thereabouts, dressed in a spacious roundabout, that hung round him in festoons of blue pilot-cloth; and one empty arm of this jacket streamed behind him like the broidered arm of a hussar’s surcoat.
Ahab shouted again, hailing a ship flying the English flag as it approached from behind. With a trumpet at his lips, the old man stood in his raised quarter-boat, his ivory leg clearly visible to the other captain, who lounged casually at the front of his own boat. The captain was a rugged, sun-tanned man of about sixty, with a hearty, good-natured, and handsome appearance. He wore a loose-fitting jacket made of blue pilot cloth that draped around him in folds, and one empty sleeve of the jacket fluttered behind him like the adorned sleeve of a hussar’s coat.
“Hast seen the White Whale?”
"Have you seen the White Whale?"
“See you this?” and withdrawing it from the folds that had hidden it, he held up a white arm of sperm whale bone, terminating in a wooden head like a mallet.
"See this?" he said, and pulling it out from the folds where it had been hidden, he held up a white arm made of sperm whale bone, ending in a wooden head shaped like a mallet.
“Man my boat!” cried Ahab, impetuously, and tossing about the oars near him—“Stand by to lower!”
"Man the boat!" Ahab shouted impulsively, tossing the oars near him. "Get ready to lower!"
In less than a minute, without quitting his little craft, he and his crew were dropped to the water, and were soon alongside of the stranger. But here a curious difficulty presented itself. In the excitement of the moment, Ahab had forgotten that since the loss of his leg he had never once stepped on board of any vessel at sea but his own, and then it was always by an ingenious and very handy mechanical contrivance peculiar to the Pequod, and a thing not to be rigged and shipped in any other vessel at a moment’s warning. Now, it is no very easy matter for anybody—except those who are almost hourly used to it, like whalemen—to clamber up a ship’s side from a boat on the open sea; for the great swells now lift the boat high up towards the bulwarks, and then instantaneously drop it half way down to the kelson. So, deprived of one leg, and the strange ship of course being altogether unsupplied with the kindly invention, Ahab now found himself abjectly reduced to a clumsy landsman again; hopelessly eyeing the uncertain changeful height he could hardly hope to attain.
In less than a minute, without leaving his small boat, Ahab and his crew were lowered into the water and quickly pulled up alongside the other ship. But there, an unexpected problem arose. In the heat of the moment, Ahab had forgotten that ever since losing his leg, he had never boarded any ship at sea other than his own. On the Pequod, he used a clever and convenient mechanical device designed specifically for that ship—something that couldn’t just be set up on another vessel without preparation. Now, climbing up the side of a ship from an open-sea boat is no easy task for anyone unless they’re seasoned whalemen—and even they are almost constantly at it. The rolling waves lift the boat high toward the ship’s side one moment, only to drop it halfway down to the base the next. With one leg gone and no access to the helpful contraption aboard his own ship, Ahab now found himself helpless, reduced to the awkwardness of a land-dwelling novice, staring hopelessly at the ever-changing height he had little chance of reaching.
It has before been hinted, perhaps, that every little untoward circumstance that befell him, and which indirectly sprang from his luckless mishap, almost invariably irritated or exasperated Ahab. And in the present instance, all this was heightened by the sight of the two officers of the strange ship, leaning over the side, by the perpendicular ladder of nailed cleets there, and swinging towards him a pair of tastefully-ornamented man-ropes; for at first they did not seem to bethink them that a one-legged man must be too much of a cripple to use their sea bannisters. But this awkwardness only lasted a minute, because the strange captain, observing at a glance how affairs stood, cried out, “I see, I see!—avast heaving there! Jump, boys, and swing over the cutting-tackle.”
It’s already been hinted, maybe, that every little unfortunate event that happened to him, especially those indirectly caused by his unlucky accident, almost always irritated or infuriated Ahab. In this instance, all of that was made worse by the sight of the two officers from the strange ship leaning over the side, near the vertical ladder with its nailed cleats, and swinging toward him a pair of nicely decorated ropes. At first, they didn’t seem to realize that a one-legged man wouldn’t be able to use their ship’s makeshift railings. But this awkwardness only lasted a moment because the strange captain quickly understood the situation and shouted, “Got it, got it!—Stop lifting there! Jump, boys, and swing over the cutting tackle!”
As good luck would have it, they had had a whale alongside a day or two previous, and the great tackles were still aloft, and the massive curved blubber-hook, now clean and dry, was still attached to the end. This was quickly lowered to Ahab, who at once comprehending it all, slid his solitary thigh into the curve of the hook (it was like sitting in the fluke of an anchor, or the crotch of an apple tree), and then giving the word, held himself fast, and at the same time also helped to hoist his own weight, by pulling hand-over-hand upon one of the running parts of the tackle. Soon he was carefully swung inside the high bulwarks, and gently landed upon the capstan head. With his ivory arm frankly thrust forth in welcome, the other captain advanced, and Ahab, putting out his ivory leg, and crossing the ivory arm (like two sword-fish blades) cried out in his walrus way, “Aye, aye, hearty! let us shake bones together!—an arm and a leg!—an arm that never can shrink, d’ye see; and a leg that never can run. Where did’st thou see the White Whale?—how long ago?”
As luck would have it, they had a whale pulled alongside just a day or two earlier, and the big tackles were still hanging up, with the massive, curved blubber-hook—now clean and dry—still attached to the end. The hook was quickly lowered down to Ahab, who immediately understood what to do. He slid his lone leg into the curve of the hook (it was like sitting in the fluke of an anchor or the fork of an apple tree) and, giving the order, held on tightly. At the same time, he helped lift himself by pulling hand-over-hand on one of the running parts of the tackle. Before long, he was carefully swung over the high bulwarks and gently landed on the capstan head. Stretching out his ivory arm in a straightforward welcome, the other captain stepped forward. Ahab, extending his ivory leg and crossing it with his ivory arm (like two swordfish blades), called out in his gruff way, “Aye, aye, hearty! Let’s shake bones together!—an arm and a leg!—an arm that’ll never shrink, you see, and a leg that’ll never run. Where did you see the White Whale—and how long ago?”
“The White Whale,” said the Englishman, pointing his ivory arm towards the East, and taking a rueful sight along it, as if it had been a telescope; “there I saw him, on the Line, last season.”
"The White Whale," said the Englishman, pointing his ivory arm to the east and squinting down it like it was a telescope, "I saw him there on the equator last season."
“And he took that arm off, did he?” asked Ahab, now sliding down from the capstan, and resting on the Englishman’s shoulder, as he did so.
"And he took that arm off, did he?" Ahab asked as he slid down from the capstan and leaned on the Englishman's shoulder.
“Aye, he was the cause of it, at least; and that leg, too?”
"Yeah, he was the reason for it, wasn’t he? And that leg too?"
“Spin me the yarn,” said Ahab; “how was it?”
"Tell me the story," said Ahab. "What happened?"
“It was the first time in my life that I ever cruised on the Line,” began the Englishman. “I was ignorant of the White Whale at that time. Well, one day we lowered for a pod of four or five whales, and my boat fastened to one of them; a regular circus horse he was, too, that went milling and milling round so, that my boat’s crew could only trim dish, by sitting all their sterns on the outer gunwale. Presently up breaches from the bottom of the sea a bouncing great whale, with a milky-white head and hump, all crows’ feet and wrinkles.”
"It was the first time in my life that I ever sailed near the Equator," the Englishman began. "I didn’t know anything about the White Whale back then. Anyway, one day we went after a group of four or five whales, and my boat managed to latch onto one of them. It was like a circus horse, spinning round and round so much that my crew had to balance the boat by all sitting on the outer edge. Suddenly, up from the bottom of the sea comes this massive whale with a milky-white head and hump, all covered in wrinkles and creases, like crows' feet."
“It was he, it was he!” cried Ahab, suddenly letting out his suspended breath.
"It was him, it was him!" shouted Ahab, suddenly letting out the breath he had been holding.
“And harpoons sticking in near his starboard fin.”
"And harpoons stuck near his right-side fin."
“Aye, aye—they were mine—my irons,” cried Ahab, exultingly—“but on!”
"Yes, yes—they were mine—my irons,” shouted Ahab triumphantly—“but continue on!”
“Give me a chance, then,” said the Englishman, good-humoredly. “Well, this old great-grandfather, with the white head and hump, runs all afoam into the pod, and goes to snapping furiously at my fast-line!
"Give me a chance, then," said the Englishman with a friendly smile. "Well, this old great-grandfather, with his white head and hump, comes charging into the pod, all frothy, and starts snapping furiously at my line!"
“Aye, I see!—wanted to part it; free the fast-fish—an old trick—I know him.”
"Yeah, I see! Wanted to cut it loose; free the caught fish—an old trick—I know that guy."
“How it was exactly,” continued the one-armed commander, “I do not know; but in biting the line, it got foul of his teeth, caught there somehow; but we didn’t know it then; so that when we afterwards pulled on the line, bounce we came plump on to his hump! instead of the other whale’s; that went off to windward, all fluking. Seeing how matters stood, and what a noble great whale it was—the noblest and biggest I ever saw, sir, in my life—I resolved to capture him, spite of the boiling rage he seemed to be in. And thinking the hap-hazard line would get loose, or the tooth it was tangled to might draw (for I have a devil of a boat’s crew for a pull on a whale-line); seeing all this, I say, I jumped into my first mate’s boat—Mr. Mounttop’s here (by the way, Captain—Mounttop; Mounttop—the captain);—as I was saying, I jumped into Mounttop’s boat, which, d’ye see, was gunwale and gunwale with mine, then; and snatching the first harpoon, let this old great-grandfather have it. But, Lord, look you, sir—hearts and souls alive, man—the next instant, in a jiff, I was blind as a bat—both eyes out—all befogged and bedeadened with black foam—the whale’s tail looming straight up out of it, perpendicular in the air, like a marble steeple. No use sterning all, then; but as I was groping at midday, with a blinding sun, all crown-jewels; as I was groping, I say, after the second iron, to toss it overboard—down comes the tail like a Lima tower, cutting my boat in two, leaving each half in splinters; and, flukes first, the white hump backed through the wreck, as though it was all chips. We all struck out. To escape his terrible flailings, I seized hold of my harpoon-pole sticking in him, and for a moment clung to that like a sucking fish. But a combing sea dashed me off, and at the same instant, the fish, taking one good dart forwards, went down like a flash; and the barb of that cursed second iron towing along near me caught me here” (clapping his hand just below his shoulder); “yes, caught me just here, I say, and bore me down to Hell’s flames, I was thinking; when, when, all of a sudden, thank the good God, the barb ript its way along the flesh—clear along the whole length of my arm—came out nigh my wrist, and up I floated;—and that gentleman there will tell you the rest (by the way, captain—Dr. Bunger, ship’s surgeon: Bunger, my lad,—the captain). Now, Bunger boy, spin your part of the yarn.”
"How it happened exactly," the one-armed commander continued, "I’m not sure. But when it bit the line, it somehow got caught in its teeth. We didn’t realize it at first, so when we pulled on the line later, boom—we ran straight into its hump instead of the other whale’s. The other one got away, thrashing off to windward. Seeing the situation and what an incredible beast this one was—the biggest and most magnificent whale I’ve ever seen in my life—I decided to go after it, no matter how furious it seemed. I thought the tangled line might come loose or the tooth it was snagged on might let go (because I’ve got one hell of a boat crew that can really pull on a whale-line). With all this in mind, I jumped into my first mate’s boat—Mr. Mounttop’s here (oh, Captain—this is Mounttop; Mounttop—the captain). Anyway, I jumped into Mounttop’s boat, which at the time was right beside mine, snatched the first harpoon, and gave it to the old beast. But, Lord help me, sir—right then and there, in a split second, I was blinded—couldn’t see a thing—both eyes gone, covered in thick black foam. The whale’s tail rose straight up out of the water like a towering marble steeple. No chance to steer back; I might as well have been groping blindly at noon under a blazing sun. As I tried to grab for the second harpoon to throw it overboard, down came that tail, as heavy as a tower in Lima, cutting my boat clean in two and smashing it into splinters. Then the white hump pushed straight through the wreckage like it was nothing but chips. We all started swimming for it. To avoid its furious thrashing, I grabbed onto the harpoon pole that was still lodged in the whale and clung to it, hanging on like a suckerfish. But a huge wave knocked me off, and at the same moment, the whale surged forward with a sudden lunge and dove like lightning. The barb of that damn second harpoon, which was trailing near me, snagged me right here," (he slapped just below his shoulder), "yes, right here! It yanked me down to what I thought was Hell itself. Then—thank God—the barb tore through my flesh, ripping clean along my whole arm and coming out near my wrist. Suddenly, I floated back up. And that man over there can tell you the rest of it," (he motioned toward another man). "Ah, Captain—this is Dr. Bunger, the ship’s surgeon. Bunger, come on, boy—take over and tell your part of the story."
The professional gentleman thus familiarly pointed out, had been all the time standing near them, with nothing specific visible, to denote his gentlemanly rank on board. His face was an exceedingly round but sober one; he was dressed in a faded blue woollen frock or shirt, and patched trowsers; and had thus far been dividing his attention between a marlingspike he held in one hand, and a pill-box held in the other, occasionally casting a critical glance at the ivory limbs of the two crippled captains. But, at his superior’s introduction of him to Ahab, he politely bowed, and straightway went on to do his captain’s bidding.
The professional man being casually referred to had been standing nearby the whole time, with nothing obvious to show his gentlemanly rank aboard the ship. His face was very round but serious; he was dressed in a faded blue woolen shirt and patched trousers. He had been splitting his attention between a marlinspike in one hand and a pillbox in the other, occasionally glancing critically at the ivory limbs of the two crippled captains. But when his superior introduced him to Ahab, he politely nodded and immediately went on with his captain's orders.
“It was a shocking bad wound,” began the whale-surgeon; “and, taking my advice, Captain Boomer here, stood our old Sammy—”
“It was a terribly bad wound,” started the whale-surgeon, “and, following my advice, Captain Boomer here stood our old Sammy—”
“Samuel Enderby is the name of my ship,” interrupted the one-armed captain, addressing Ahab; “go on, boy.”
"Samuel Enderby is the name of my ship," interrupted the one-armed captain, speaking to Ahab. "Go on, kid."
“Stood our old Sammy off to the northward, to get out of the blazing hot weather there on the Line. But it was no use—I did all I could; sat up with him nights; was very severe with him in the matter of diet—”
"Steered old Sammy northward to escape the scorching heat along the equator. But it was no use—I did everything I could; stayed up with him at night; was really strict with his diet—"
“Oh, very severe!” chimed in the patient himself; then suddenly altering his voice, “Drinking hot rum toddies with me every night, till he couldn’t see to put on the bandages; and sending me to bed, half seas over, about three o’clock in the morning. Oh, ye stars! he sat up with me indeed, and was very severe in my diet. Oh! a great watcher, and very dietetically severe, is Dr. Bunger. (Bunger, you dog, laugh out! why don’t ye? You know you’re a precious jolly rascal.) But, heave ahead, boy, I’d rather be killed by you than kept alive by any other man.”
“Oh, really strict!” the patient added with a grin. Then, suddenly changing his tone, “Drinking hot rum toddies with me every night until he couldn’t even see well enough to put the bandages on, and sending me to bed totally drunk around three in the morning. Oh, for heaven’s sake! He stayed up with me, sure, and was super strict with my diet. Oh! Such a vigilant caregiver and so strict about food, that Dr. Bunger. (Bunger, you rascal, laugh! Why aren’t you laughing? You know you’re a ridiculously cheerful scoundrel.) But go on, boy—I’d rather be killed by you than kept alive by anyone else.”
“My captain, you must have ere this perceived, respected sir”—said the imperturbable godly-looking Bunger, slightly bowing to Ahab—“is apt to be facetious at times; he spins us many clever things of that sort. But I may as well say—en passant, as the French remark—that I myself—that is to say, Jack Bunger, late of the reverend clergy—am a strict total abstinence man; I never drink—”
"My captain, you must have noticed by now, sir," said the calm and godly-looking Bunger, nodding slightly to Ahab, "that he has a bit of a sense of humor sometimes; he comes up with all sorts of clever remarks like that. But I should mention—just by the way, as the French would say—that I, personally—that is, Jack Bunger, formerly of the clergy—am a firm believer in total abstinence; I never drink."
“Water!” cried the captain; “he never drinks it; it’s a sort of fits to him; fresh water throws him into the hydrophobia; but go on—go on with the arm story.”
"Water!" yelled the captain. "He never drinks it; it’s like it gives him seizures. Fresh water makes him act like he has rabies. But go on—tell the story about the arm."
“Yes, I may as well,” said the surgeon, coolly. “I was about observing, sir, before Captain Boomer’s facetious interruption, that spite of my best and severest endeavors, the wound kept getting worse and worse; the truth was, sir, it was as ugly gaping wound as surgeon ever saw; more than two feet and several inches long. I measured it with the lead line. In short, it grew black; I knew what was threatened, and off it came. But I had no hand in shipping that ivory arm there; that thing is against all rule”—pointing at it with the marlingspike—“that is the captain’s work, not mine; he ordered the carpenter to make it; he had that club-hammer there put to the end, to knock some one’s brains out with, I suppose, as he tried mine once. He flies into diabolical passions sometimes. Do ye see this dent, sir”—removing his hat, and brushing aside his hair, and exposing a bowl-like cavity in his skull, but which bore not the slightest scarry trace, or any token of ever having been a wound—“Well, the captain there will tell you how that came here; he knows.”
"Yeah, I might as well," said the surgeon calmly. "I was saying, sir, before Captain Boomer’s little joke interrupted me, that despite my best and toughest efforts, the wound just kept getting worse and worse. Honestly, sir, it was one of the nastiest, most gaping wounds a surgeon could ever see—more than two feet long and a few inches wide. I measured it with the lead line. Long story short, it started turning black; I knew what was coming, so off it went. But I had nothing to do with that ivory arm over there," he added, pointing at it with the marlinespike. "That thing breaks every rule in the book. That’s the captain’s doing, not mine. He told the carpenter to make it, and he had them attach that club-hammer at the end—probably to bash someone’s head in, maybe mine, since he tried that once. The captain has these fits of insane rage sometimes. See this dent, sir?" He took off his hat, pushed his hair aside, and revealed a bowl-like hollow in his skull, though it bore no scar or any sign it had been a wound. "Well, the captain there can tell you how that happened. He knows."
“No, I don’t,” said the captain, “but his mother did; he was born with it. Oh, you solemn rogue, you—you Bunger! was there ever such another Bunger in the watery world? Bunger, when you die, you ought to die in pickle, you dog; you should be preserved to future ages, you rascal.”
"No, I don’t," said the captain. "But his mother did—he was born with it. Oh, you serious rascal, you—Bunger! Has there ever been another Bunger like you in the whole watery world? Bunger, when you die, you should die preserved in brine, you scoundrel; you ought to be kept for future generations, you rogue."
“What became of the White Whale?” now cried Ahab, who thus far had been impatiently listening to this by-play between the two Englishmen.
"What happened to the White Whale?" Ahab suddenly demanded, having been impatiently listening to the back-and-forth between the two Englishmen up until now.
“Oh!” cried the one-armed captain, “oh, yes! Well; after he sounded, we didn’t see him again for some time; in fact, as I before hinted, I didn’t then know what whale it was that had served me such a trick, till some time afterwards, when coming back to the Line, we heard about Moby Dick—as some call him—and then I knew it was he.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the one-armed captain, “oh, yeah! Well, after he dove, we didn’t see him again for a while; actually, like I mentioned earlier, I didn’t even realize which whale had pulled that stunt on me until later, when we were heading back to the Line and heard about Moby Dick—as some people call him—and then I knew it was him.”
“Did’st thou cross his wake again?”
"Did you cross his path again?"
“Twice.”
"Two times."
“But could not fasten?”
“But couldn't secure?”
“Didn’t want to try to: ain’t one limb enough? What should I do without this other arm? And I’m thinking Moby Dick doesn’t bite so much as he swallows.”
“Didn’t want to try, huh? Isn’t losing one limb enough? What would I do without this other arm? And I’m thinking Moby Dick doesn’t bite as much as he swallows.”
“Well, then,” interrupted Bunger, “give him your left arm for bait to get the right. Do you know, gentlemen”—very gravely and mathematically bowing to each Captain in succession—“Do you know, gentlemen, that the digestive organs of the whale are so inscrutably constructed by Divine Providence, that it is quite impossible for him to completely digest even a man’s arm? And he knows it too. So that what you take for the White Whale’s malice is only his awkwardness. For he never means to swallow a single limb; he only thinks to terrify by feints. But sometimes he is like the old juggling fellow, formerly a patient of mine in Ceylon, that making believe swallow jack-knives, once upon a time let one drop into him in good earnest, and there it stayed for a twelvemonth or more; when I gave him an emetic, and he heaved it up in small tacks, d’ye see. No possible way for him to digest that jack-knife, and fully incorporate it into his general bodily system. Yes, Captain Boomer, if you are quick enough about it, and have a mind to pawn one arm for the sake of the privilege of giving decent burial to the other, why in that case the arm is yours; only let the whale have another chance at you shortly, that’s all.”
"Well then," Bunger cut in, "offer him your left arm as bait to save the right. You know, gentlemen"—he bowed gravely and methodically to each Captain in turn—"do you realize that the whale's digestive system is so mysteriously designed by Divine Providence that it's impossible for him to fully digest even a human arm? And believe me, he knows it too. So what you assume is the White Whale's malice is really just his clumsiness. He never actually intends to swallow a limb—he's just trying to scare you with fake moves. But, sometimes, he's like this old juggler I once treated in Ceylon. The guy pretended to swallow jack-knives, but one time he accidentally let one slip down for real, and it stayed in him for over a year. Eventually, I gave him an emetic, and he threw it back up in little pieces, you see. No way could he digest that knife and fully absorb it into his system. So, Captain Boomer, if you're nimble enough and willing to trade one arm for the chance to give the other a proper burial—well, in that case, the arm's yours. Just make sure you give the whale another shot at you soon after, that's all."
“No, thank ye, Bunger,” said the English Captain, “he’s welcome to the arm he has, since I can’t help it, and didn’t know him then; but not to another one. No more White Whales for me; I’ve lowered for him once, and that has satisfied me. There would be great glory in killing him, I know that; and there is a ship-load of precious sperm in him, but, hark ye, he’s best let alone; don’t you think so, Captain?”—glancing at the ivory leg.
"No, thank you, Bunger," said the English Captain. "He can keep the arm he's got—since I can't do anything about it now and didn’t know him back then—but he’s not getting another one from me. No more White Whales for me; I’ve gone after him once, and that's enough. Sure, killing him would bring a ton of glory, I get that, and there’s a fortune of valuable sperm oil in him. But listen, he’s best left alone, don’t you think, Captain?" he said, glancing at the ivory leg.
“He is. But he will still be hunted, for all that. What is best let alone, that accursed thing is not always what least allures. He’s all a magnet! How long since thou saw’st him last? Which way heading?”
"He is. But they’ll still hunt him, regardless. The things better left alone, those cursed things, aren’t always the least tempting. He’s like a magnet! How long ago did you last see him? Which direction was he going?"
“Bless my soul, and curse the foul fiend’s,” cried Bunger, stoopingly walking round Ahab, and like a dog, strangely snuffing; “this man’s blood—bring the thermometer!—it’s at the boiling point!—his pulse makes these planks beat!—sir!”—taking a lancet from his pocket, and drawing near to Ahab’s arm.
"Good grief, curse the devil!" shouted Bunger, crouching as he walked around Ahab, sniffing oddly like a dog. "This man's blood—get the thermometer!—it's boiling!—his pulse is making the floor shake!—Sir!" he said, pulling a lancet out of his pocket and moving closer to Ahab's arm.
“Avast!” roared Ahab, dashing him against the bulwarks—“Man the boat! Which way heading?”
"Stop!" yelled Ahab, shoving him against the ship's railing. "Get the boat ready! Which way is it going?"
“Good God!” cried the English Captain, to whom the question was put. “What’s the matter? He was heading east, I think.—Is your Captain crazy?” whispering Fedallah.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed the English Captain when asked the question. “What’s going on? I think he was heading east. — Is your Captain mad?” he whispered to Fedallah.
But Fedallah, putting a finger on his lip, slid over the bulwarks to take the boat’s steering oar, and Ahab, swinging the cutting-tackle towards him, commanded the ship’s sailors to stand by to lower.
But Fedallah, pressing a finger to his lips, slipped over the railing to grab the boat’s steering oar, and Ahab, swinging the cutting gear toward him, ordered the ship’s crew to get ready to lower.
In a moment he was standing in the boat’s stern, and the Manilla men were springing to their oars. In vain the English Captain hailed him. With back to the stranger ship, and face set like a flint to his own, Ahab stood upright till alongside of the Pequod.
In an instant, he was standing at the back of the boat, and the Manilla crew were leaping to their oars. The English captain called out to him, but it was no use. With his back to the foreign ship and his face hardened and focused on his own, Ahab stood tall until he was next to the Pequod.
CHAPTER 101. The Decanter.
Ere the English ship fades from sight, be it set down here, that she hailed from London, and was named after the late Samuel Enderby, merchant of that city, the original of the famous whaling house of Enderby & Sons; a house which in my poor whaleman’s opinion, comes not far behind the united royal houses of the Tudors and Bourbons, in point of real historical interest. How long, prior to the year of our Lord 1775, this great whaling house was in existence, my numerous fish-documents do not make plain; but in that year (1775) it fitted out the first English ships that ever regularly hunted the Sperm Whale; though for some score of years previous (ever since 1726) our valiant Coffins and Maceys of Nantucket and the Vineyard had in large fleets pursued that Leviathan, but only in the North and South Atlantic: not elsewhere. Be it distinctly recorded here, that the Nantucketers were the first among mankind to harpoon with civilized steel the great Sperm Whale; and that for half a century they were the only people of the whole globe who so harpooned him.
Before the English ship disappears from view, let it be noted here that she came from London and was named after the late Samuel Enderby, a merchant from that city and the founder of the renowned whaling company, Enderby & Sons. In my humble whaleman’s opinion, this company isn't far behind the combined royal dynasties of the Tudors and Bourbons in terms of real historical significance. How long this great whaling house existed prior to the year 1775 is unclear, as my many whaling-related documents don’t provide that information. However, in that year (1775), it outfitted the first English ships to systematically hunt the Sperm Whale. For decades before that (since 1726), the brave Coffins and Maceys of Nantucket and the Vineyard had led large fleets hunting the leviathan, but only in the North and South Atlantic—not elsewhere. Let it be clearly stated here that the people of Nantucket were the first in the world to harpoon the great Sperm Whale with advanced, civilized tools, and for fifty years, they were the only ones on Earth to do so.
In 1778, a fine ship, the Amelia, fitted out for the express purpose, and at the sole charge of the vigorous Enderbys, boldly rounded Cape Horn, and was the first among the nations to lower a whale-boat of any sort in the great South Sea. The voyage was a skilful and lucky one; and returning to her berth with her hold full of the precious sperm, the Amelia’s example was soon followed by other ships, English and American, and thus the vast Sperm Whale grounds of the Pacific were thrown open. But not content with this good deed, the indefatigable house again bestirred itself: Samuel and all his Sons—how many, their mother only knows—and under their immediate auspices, and partly, I think, at their expense, the British government was induced to send the sloop-of-war Rattler on a whaling voyage of discovery into the South Sea. Commanded by a naval Post-Captain, the Rattler made a rattling voyage of it, and did some service; how much does not appear. But this is not all. In 1819, the same house fitted out a discovery whale ship of their own, to go on a tasting cruise to the remote waters of Japan. That ship—well called the “Syren”—made a noble experimental cruise; and it was thus that the great Japanese Whaling Ground first became generally known. The Syren in this famous voyage was commanded by a Captain Coffin, a Nantucketer.
In 1778, a fine ship named the Amelia, equipped specifically for the purpose and entirely funded by the ambitious Enderby family, bravely rounded Cape Horn and became the first from any nation to lower a whale-boat in the vast South Sea. The voyage was both skillful and fortunate; returning to port with her hold full of precious sperm oil, the Amelia’s success inspired other ships, both English and American, to follow suit. This opened up the enormous sperm whale grounds of the Pacific. Not satisfied with this achievement, the tireless Enderbys took action again. Samuel and all his sons—how many, only their mother could say—and under their direct involvement, and partly, it seems, at their expense, persuaded the British government to send the sloop-of-war Rattler on a whaling expedition to explore the South Sea. Led by a navy captain, the Rattler embarked on a lively voyage and accomplished some tasks, though it’s unclear how significant they were. But that wasn’t all. In 1819, the same family organized their own whaling ship for exploration, intending to venture into the distant waters off Japan. That ship, aptly named the “Syren,” undertook an impressive experimental journey, and it was through this expedition that the major Japanese whaling grounds became widely known. The Syren on this renowned voyage was captained by a Nantucketer named Captain Coffin.
All honor to the Enderbies, therefore, whose house, I think, exists to the present day; though doubtless the original Samuel must long ago have slipped his cable for the great South Sea of the other world.
All respect to the Enderbies, then, whose company, I believe, still exists today; though the original Samuel has surely long since set sail for the vast South Sea of the afterlife.
The ship named after him was worthy of the honor, being a very fast sailer and a noble craft every way. I boarded her once at midnight somewhere off the Patagonian coast, and drank good flip down in the forecastle. It was a fine gam we had, and they were all trumps—every soul on board. A short life to them, and a jolly death. And that fine gam I had—long, very long after old Ahab touched her planks with his ivory heel—it minds me of the noble, solid, Saxon hospitality of that ship; and may my parson forget me, and the devil remember me, if I ever lose sight of it. Flip? Did I say we had flip? Yes, and we flipped it at the rate of ten gallons the hour; and when the squall came (for it’s squally off there by Patagonia), and all hands—visitors and all—were called to reef topsails, we were so top-heavy that we had to swing each other aloft in bowlines; and we ignorantly furled the skirts of our jackets into the sails, so that we hung there, reefed fast in the howling gale, a warning example to all drunken tars. However, the masts did not go overboard; and by and by we scrambled down, so sober, that we had to pass the flip again, though the savage salt spray bursting down the forecastle scuttle, rather too much diluted and pickled it to my taste.
The ship named after him deserved the honor—it was incredibly fast and a magnificent vessel in every way. I boarded her once, at midnight, somewhere off the Patagonian coast, and shared some great flip down in the forecastle. We had an amazing hangout, and everyone on board was top-notch—every single person. A short life to them, and a cheerful death. That unforgettable hangout—long, very long after old Ahab set foot on her deck with his ivory leg—brings to mind the noble, solid, Saxon-style hospitality of that ship. And may my preacher forget me and the devil remember me if I ever let go of that memory. Flip? Did I say we had flip? Yes, and we drank it like crazy, at about ten gallons an hour. When a squall hit (it gets stormy down there by Patagonia), everyone—visitors and all—was called up to reef the topsails. We were so off-balance from all the drinking that we had to hoist each other up in bowlines. In our clumsy state, we even ended up furling the skirts of our jackets into the sails by mistake, leaving ourselves strapped there in the howling wind—a living example of what happens to drunken sailors. Somehow, the masts stayed intact, and eventually, we climbed back down. We sobered up so much that we had to pour some more flip, even though the salty spray pouring into the forecastle diluted and over-pickled it for my liking.
The beef was fine—tough, but with body in it. They said it was bull-beef; others, that it was dromedary beef; but I do not know, for certain, how that was. They had dumplings too; small, but substantial, symmetrically globular, and indestructible dumplings. I fancied that you could feel them, and roll them about in you after they were swallowed. If you stooped over too far forward, you risked their pitching out of you like billiard-balls. The bread—but that couldn’t be helped; besides, it was an anti-scorbutic; in short, the bread contained the only fresh fare they had. But the forecastle was not very light, and it was very easy to step over into a dark corner when you ate it. But all in all, taking her from truck to helm, considering the dimensions of the cook’s boilers, including his own live parchment boilers; fore and aft, I say, the Samuel Enderby was a jolly ship; of good fare and plenty; fine flip and strong; crack fellows all, and capital from boot heels to hat-band.
The beef was decent—tough, but it had substance. Some said it was bull meat; others claimed it was dromedary meat, but I couldn’t say for sure. They also served dumplings—small but dense, perfectly round, and practically indestructible. I imagined you could feel them moving around inside you after swallowing. If you leaned forward too much, you might risk them rolling out of you like billiard balls. The bread—well, there was no fixing that; but at least it helped prevent scurvy, and, in all fairness, it was the only fresh food they had. The forecastle wasn’t very well-lit, but it was easy enough to slip into a dark corner to eat it. All things considered, from top to bottom, thinking of the cook’s tiny pots as well as his own leathery self, I’d say the Samuel Enderby was a cheerful ship, with good food and plenty of it; strong drinks; great guys all around; and first-class from boots to hats.
But why was it, think ye, that the Samuel Enderby, and some other English whalers I know of—not all though—were such famous, hospitable ships; that passed round the beef, and the bread, and the can, and the joke; and were not soon weary of eating, and drinking, and laughing? I will tell you. The abounding good cheer of these English whalers is matter for historical research. Nor have I been at all sparing of historical whale research, when it has seemed needed.
But why was it, do you think, that the Samuel Enderby and some other English whaling ships—not all of them though—were so well-known for being warm and welcoming? They shared their beef, bread, drinks, and jokes freely and never seemed to tire of eating, drinking, and laughing. I'll tell you why. The overflowing hospitality of these English whaling ships is something worth digging into historically. And believe me, I haven’t held back on researching the history of whaling when it seemed necessary.
The English were preceded in the whale fishery by the Hollanders, Zealanders, and Danes; from whom they derived many terms still extant in the fishery; and what is yet more, their fat old fashions, touching plenty to eat and drink. For, as a general thing, the English merchant-ship scrimps her crew; but not so the English whaler. Hence, in the English, this thing of whaling good cheer is not normal and natural, but incidental and particular; and, therefore, must have some special origin, which is here pointed out, and will be still further elucidated.
The English were not the first in the whaling industry—that honor goes to the Dutch, Zealanders, and Danes—from whom they picked up many terms still used in whaling today, as well as their hearty traditions of eating and drinking in abundance. Typically, English merchant ships are pretty stingy with provisions for their crew. But English whaling ships are a different story. This means that for the English, the practice of feasting well on whaling ships isn’t a natural or usual thing; it’s more of an exception, with a specific origin that’s noted here and will be explained further.
During my researches in the Leviathanic histories, I stumbled upon an ancient Dutch volume, which, by the musty whaling smell of it, I knew must be about whalers. The title was, “Dan Coopman,” wherefore I concluded that this must be the invaluable memoirs of some Amsterdam cooper in the fishery, as every whale ship must carry its cooper. I was reinforced in this opinion by seeing that it was the production of one “Fitz Swackhammer.” But my friend Dr. Snodhead, a very learned man, professor of Low Dutch and High German in the college of Santa Claus and St. Pott’s, to whom I handed the work for translation, giving him a box of sperm candles for his trouble—this same Dr. Snodhead, so soon as he spied the book, assured me that “Dan Coopman” did not mean “The Cooper,” but “The Merchant.” In short, this ancient and learned Low Dutch book treated of the commerce of Holland; and, among other subjects, contained a very interesting account of its whale fishery. And in this chapter it was, headed, “Smeer,” or “Fat,” that I found a long detailed list of the outfits for the larders and cellars of 180 sail of Dutch whalemen; from which list, as translated by Dr. Snodhead, I transcribe the following:
While researching Leviathanic histories, I came across an old Dutch book that, judging by its musty whaling smell, had to be about whalers. The title was “Dan Coopman,” so I figured it must be the priceless memoirs of some Amsterdam cooper involved in the whaling industry—after all, every whaling ship needs a cooper. My assumption was backed up when I saw that it was written by someone named “Fitz Swackhammer.” But when I gave the book to my friend Dr. Snodhead—an incredibly learned man and a professor of Low Dutch and High German at the College of Santa Claus and St. Pott’s—to translate for me (with a box of sperm candles as payment), he instantly told me that “Dan Coopman” didn’t mean “The Cooper” but rather “The Merchant.” In short, this old scholarly Dutch book was about Holland’s commerce, and one chapter, specifically titled “Smeer,” or “Fat,” included a fascinating account of their whaling industry. This chapter contained a long, detailed list of provisions stocked in the larders and cellars of 180 Dutch whaling ships, and here, as translated by Dr. Snodhead, is an excerpt from that list:
400,000 lbs. of beef. 60,000 lbs. Friesland pork. 150,000 lbs. of stock fish. 550,000 lbs. of biscuit. 72,000 lbs. of soft bread. 2,800 firkins of butter. 20,000 lbs. Texel & Leyden cheese. 144,000 lbs. cheese (probably an inferior article). 550 ankers of Geneva. 10,800 barrels of beer.
400,000 pounds of beef. 60,000 pounds of Friesland pork. 150,000 pounds of stockfish. 550,000 pounds of biscuits. 72,000 pounds of soft bread. 2,800 firkins of butter. 20,000 pounds of Texel and Leyden cheese. 144,000 pounds of cheese (likely a lower quality type). 550 ankers of gin. 10,800 barrels of beer.
Most statistical tables are parchingly dry in the reading; not so in the present case, however, where the reader is flooded with whole pipes, barrels, quarts, and gills of good gin and good cheer.
Most statistical tables are unbearably dull to read; but that's not the case here, where the reader is showered with entire casks, barrels, quarts, and shots of quality gin and good vibes.
At the time, I devoted three days to the studious digesting of all this beer, beef, and bread, during which many profound thoughts were incidentally suggested to me, capable of a transcendental and Platonic application; and, furthermore, I compiled supplementary tables of my own, touching the probable quantity of stock-fish, etc., consumed by every Low Dutch harpooneer in that ancient Greenland and Spitzbergen whale fishery. In the first place, the amount of butter, and Texel and Leyden cheese consumed, seems amazing. I impute it, though, to their naturally unctuous natures, being rendered still more unctuous by the nature of their vocation, and especially by their pursuing their game in those frigid Polar Seas, on the very coasts of that Esquimaux country where the convivial natives pledge each other in bumpers of train oil.
Back then, I spent three days carefully reflecting on all that beer, beef, and bread, during which many deep thoughts came to me—thoughts that could be applied in a philosophical or abstract way. Additionally, I put together some extra charts estimating the amount of stockfish and other supplies consumed by every Low Dutch harpooner in the old Greenland and Spitzbergen whaling industry. First of all, the amount of butter and Texel and Leyden cheese they ate is astonishing. I attribute it to their naturally oily dispositions, made even oilier by the nature of their work, especially as they hunted their prey in the icy waters of the Polar Seas, near the very shores of the Eskimo lands where the friendly locals toast each other with glasses of whale oil.
The quantity of beer, too, is very large, 10,800 barrels. Now, as those polar fisheries could only be prosecuted in the short summer of that climate, so that the whole cruise of one of these Dutch whalemen, including the short voyage to and from the Spitzbergen sea, did not much exceed three months, say, and reckoning 30 men to each of their fleet of 180 sail, we have 5,400 Low Dutch seamen in all; therefore, I say, we have precisely two barrels of beer per man, for a twelve weeks’ allowance, exclusive of his fair proportion of that 550 ankers of gin. Now, whether these gin and beer harpooneers, so fuddled as one might fancy them to have been, were the right sort of men to stand up in a boat’s head, and take good aim at flying whales; this would seem somewhat improbable. Yet they did aim at them, and hit them too. But this was very far North, be it remembered, where beer agrees well with the constitution; upon the Equator, in our southern fishery, beer would be apt to make the harpooneer sleepy at the mast-head and boozy in his boat; and grievous loss might ensue to Nantucket and New Bedford.
The amount of beer is also huge—10,800 barrels. Since those polar whale hunts could only take place during the short summer up there, the entire trip for one of these Dutch whaling ships, including the brief journey to and from the waters around Spitzbergen, didn’t last much more than three months. With about 30 men on each of their 180 ships, that gives us 5,400 Dutch sailors in total. So, that’s exactly two barrels of beer per man for a twelve-week supply, not counting his share of the 550 ankers of gin. Now, whether these gin-and-beer-fueled harpooners, as drunk as you’d imagine them to be, were the right kind of guys to stand at the front of a boat and take accurate shots at whales on the move might seem doubtful. Yet they did aim—and they hit their targets too. But this was way up north, where beer apparently suits the body just fine. Down near the Equator, in our southern whale hunts, beer would probably make the harpooners drowsy at the lookout and drunk in the boats, causing serious losses for places like Nantucket and New Bedford.
But no more; enough has been said to show that the old Dutch whalers of two or three centuries ago were high livers; and that the English whalers have not neglected so excellent an example. For, say they, when cruising in an empty ship, if you can get nothing better out of the world, get a good dinner out of it, at least. And this empties the decanter.
Enough has been said to show that the old Dutch whalers from two or three centuries ago lived well, and the English whalers haven’t ignored such a great example. They say, when you're out cruising in an empty ship, if you can’t get anything better from the world, at least get a good meal out of it. And that’s how the decanter ends up empty.
CHAPTER 102. A Bower in the Arsacides.
Hitherto, in descriptively treating of the Sperm Whale, I have chiefly dwelt upon the marvels of his outer aspect; or separately and in detail upon some few interior structural features. But to a large and thorough sweeping comprehension of him, it behooves me now to unbutton him still further, and untagging the points of his hose, unbuckling his garters, and casting loose the hooks and the eyes of the joints of his innermost bones, set him before you in his ultimatum; that is to say, in his unconditional skeleton.
Up until now, in describing the Sperm Whale, I’ve mainly focused on the wonders of his external appearance or, in some cases, on a few specific internal features. But to fully and thoroughly understand him, it’s time for me to delve even deeper—unfastening his garments, loosening the ties of his leggings, undoing his straps, and exposing the very joints of his innermost bones—to present him to you in his ultimate form: his bare skeleton.
But how now, Ishmael? How is it, that you, a mere oarsman in the fishery, pretend to know aught about the subterranean parts of the whale? Did erudite Stubb, mounted upon your capstan, deliver lectures on the anatomy of the Cetacea; and by help of the windlass, hold up a specimen rib for exhibition? Explain thyself, Ishmael. Can you land a full-grown whale on your deck for examination, as a cook dishes a roast-pig? Surely not. A veritable witness have you hitherto been, Ishmael; but have a care how you seize the privilege of Jonah alone; the privilege of discoursing upon the joists and beams; the rafters, ridge-pole, sleepers, and under-pinnings, making up the frame-work of leviathan; and belike of the tallow-vats, dairy-rooms, butteries, and cheeseries in his bowels.
But wait, Ishmael—how is it that you, just an ordinary oarsman in the whaling business, claim to know anything about the inner workings of a whale’s body? Did the learned Stubb, standing on your capstan, give lectures on whale anatomy and, using the windlass, hoist up a rib as a demonstration? Explain yourself, Ishmael. Can you haul a fully grown whale onto your deck for inspection, like a chef serves up a roasted pig? Of course not. You've been a reliable witness so far, Ishmael, but be careful not to assume Jonah's unique privilege—the privilege of discussing the bones and beams, the rafters, the framework, the supports, and even the fatty chambers, dairies, butteries, and cheeseries hidden within the whale's insides.
I confess, that since Jonah, few whalemen have penetrated very far beneath the skin of the adult whale; nevertheless, I have been blessed with an opportunity to dissect him in miniature. In a ship I belonged to, a small cub Sperm Whale was once bodily hoisted to the deck for his poke or bag, to make sheaths for the barbs of the harpoons, and for the heads of the lances. Think you I let that chance go, without using my boat-hatchet and jack-knife, and breaking the seal and reading all the contents of that young cub?
I admit that, since Jonah’s time, not many whalers have gotten much beneath the surface of an adult whale; however, I was lucky enough to get the chance to examine one on a smaller scale. On a ship I was part of, a young Sperm Whale was once hauled onto the deck so we could use its pouch or sack to make sheaths for harpoon tips and lance heads. Do you think I missed that opportunity? Of course not—I grabbed my boat hatchet and pocketknife, dug in, and examined every detail of that young whale!
And as for my exact knowledge of the bones of the leviathan in their gigantic, full grown development, for that rare knowledge I am indebted to my late royal friend Tranquo, king of Tranque, one of the Arsacides. For being at Tranque, years ago, when attached to the trading-ship Dey of Algiers, I was invited to spend part of the Arsacidean holidays with the lord of Tranque, at his retired palm villa at Pupella; a sea-side glen not very far distant from what our sailors called Bamboo-Town, his capital.
As for my detailed knowledge of a fully grown leviathan's bones in their gigantic form, I owe that rare understanding to my late royal friend Tranquo, king of Tranque, one of the Arsacides. Years ago, when I was with the trading ship *Dey of Algiers* and stopped at Tranque, I was invited to spend part of the Arsacidean holidays with the lord of Tranque at his secluded palm villa in Pupella—a seaside valley not far from what our sailors called Bamboo-Town, his capital.
Among many other fine qualities, my royal friend Tranquo, being gifted with a devout love for all matters of barbaric vertu, had brought together in Pupella whatever rare things the more ingenious of his people could invent; chiefly carved woods of wonderful devices, chiselled shells, inlaid spears, costly paddles, aromatic canoes; and all these distributed among whatever natural wonders, the wonder-freighted, tribute-rendering waves had cast upon his shores.
Among many other great qualities, my royal friend Tranquo, who had a deep appreciation for all kinds of barbaric art, had gathered in Pupella all the rare items the most creative members of his people could craft—mainly intricately carved wooden designs, engraved shells, decorated spears, luxurious paddles, and fragrant canoes. These were all arranged alongside the natural treasures that the tribute-paying, wonder-filled waves had delivered to his shores.
Chief among these latter was a great Sperm Whale, which, after an unusually long raging gale, had been found dead and stranded, with his head against a cocoa-nut tree, whose plumage-like, tufted droopings seemed his verdant jet. When the vast body had at last been stripped of its fathom-deep enfoldings, and the bones become dust dry in the sun, then the skeleton was carefully transported up the Pupella glen, where a grand temple of lordly palms now sheltered it.
Leading among these was a massive Sperm Whale that, after an exceptionally long and violent storm, was discovered dead and stranded with its head against a coconut tree, whose feathery, drooping leaves looked like its lush spout. Once the enormous body had finally been stripped of its thick layers and the bones dried completely in the sun, the skeleton was carefully moved up the Pupella glen, where an impressive temple of towering palm trees now protected it.
The ribs were hung with trophies; the vertebræ were carved with Arsacidean annals, in strange hieroglyphics; in the skull, the priests kept up an unextinguished aromatic flame, so that the mystic head again sent forth its vapory spout; while, suspended from a bough, the terrific lower jaw vibrated over all the devotees, like the hair-hung sword that so affrighted Damocles.
The ribs were decorated with trophies; the vertebrae were engraved with Arsacidean history in strange symbols; in the skull, the priests kept an everlasting aromatic flame burning, making the mysterious head once again release its misty spout; while from a tree branch, the fearsome lower jaw swung over all the worshippers, like the sword hanging by a thread that so terrified Damocles.
It was a wondrous sight. The wood was green as mosses of the Icy Glen; the trees stood high and haughty, feeling their living sap; the industrious earth beneath was as a weaver’s loom, with a gorgeous carpet on it, whereof the ground-vine tendrils formed the warp and woof, and the living flowers the figures. All the trees, with all their laden branches; all the shrubs, and ferns, and grasses; the message-carrying air; all these unceasingly were active. Through the lacings of the leaves, the great sun seemed a flying shuttle weaving the unwearied verdure. Oh, busy weaver! unseen weaver!—pause!—one word!—whither flows the fabric? what palace may it deck? wherefore all these ceaseless toilings? Speak, weaver!—stay thy hand!—but one single word with thee! Nay—the shuttle flies—the figures float from forth the loom; the freshet-rushing carpet for ever slides away. The weaver-god, he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened; and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it. For even so it is in all material factories. The spoken words that are inaudible among the flying spindles; those same words are plainly heard without the walls, bursting from the opened casements. Thereby have villainies been detected. Ah, mortal! then, be heedful; for so, in all this din of the great world’s loom, thy subtlest thinkings may be overheard afar.
It was an incredible sight. The forest was as green as the moss in a hidden glen; the trees stood tall and proud, alive with their sap flowing through them. The busy earth below was like a weaver’s loom, decorated with a stunning carpet, where the vines made up the threads and the living flowers created the patterns. All the trees with their heavy branches, all the bushes, ferns, and grasses, and even the wind itself—all were constantly in motion. Through the leaves, the great sun acted like a flying shuttle, weaving the endless greenery. Oh, tireless weaver! Invisible weaver!—wait!—just one question!—where does this fabric flow to? What palace will it adorn? Why all this endless work? Speak, weaver!—pause for a moment!—just one word! But no—the shuttle keeps flying—the patterns drift away from the loom; the rushing carpet forever slides out of reach. The god-like weaver keeps weaving, deafened by his own creation, unable to hear any mortal voice. And in the midst of that constant humming, we too, who watch the loom, are deafened; only when we leave it behind will we hear the countless voices that it contains. For it’s the same in all factories of the material world. The words spoken near the spinning machines, drowned out in their noise, can be clearly heard outside, breaking free from the open windows. Villainies have been discovered this way. So, mortal, take care; in the overwhelming noise of the loom of the world, even your most subtle thoughts might be overheard from afar.
Now, amid the green, life-restless loom of that Arsacidean wood, the great, white, worshipped skeleton lay lounging—a gigantic idler! Yet, as the ever-woven verdant warp and woof intermixed and hummed around him, the mighty idler seemed the cunning weaver; himself all woven over with the vines; every month assuming greener, fresher verdure; but himself a skeleton. Life folded Death; Death trellised Life; the grim god wived with youthful Life, and begat him curly-headed glories.
Now, in the vibrant, restless green of that Arsacidean forest, the great, white, revered skeleton lay stretched out—a colossal loafer! Yet, as the ever-growing green tapestry intertwined and buzzed around him, the massive slacker seemed like the skilled weaver; covered head to toe in vines, growing greener and fresher with each passing month, but still a skeleton. Life embraced Death; Death supported Life; the grim god united with youthful Life and created curly-headed wonders.
Now, when with royal Tranquo I visited this wondrous whale, and saw the skull an altar, and the artificial smoke ascending from where the real jet had issued, I marvelled that the king should regard a chapel as an object of vertu. He laughed. But more I marvelled that the priests should swear that smoky jet of his was genuine. To and fro I paced before this skeleton—brushed the vines aside—broke through the ribs—and with a ball of Arsacidean twine, wandered, eddied long amid its many winding, shaded colonnades and arbours. But soon my line was out; and following it back, I emerged from the opening where I entered. I saw no living thing within; naught was there but bones.
When I visited this amazing whale with King Tranquo and saw its skull turned into an altar, with artificial smoke rising where the real jet once had, I was amazed that the king considered a chapel to be a work of art. He just laughed. But what surprised me even more was that the priests insisted that the smoky jet was real. I walked back and forth in front of the skeleton—pushing the vines aside, stepping through its ribs—and wandered for a long time inside its many twisting, shady corridors and arches, using a ball of Arsacidean twine to guide me. Eventually, I ran out of string and followed it back to where I had started. There was no sign of life inside—nothing but bones.
Cutting me a green measuring-rod, I once more dived within the skeleton. From their arrow-slit in the skull, the priests perceived me taking the altitude of the final rib, “How now!” they shouted; “Dar’st thou measure this our god! That’s for us.” “Aye, priests—well, how long do ye make him, then?” But hereupon a fierce contest rose among them, concerning feet and inches; they cracked each other’s sconces with their yard-sticks—the great skull echoed—and seizing that lucky chance, I quickly concluded my own admeasurements.
Cutting myself a green measuring stick, I dove back inside the skeleton. From the narrow slit in the skull, the priests saw me measuring the height of the last rib. "Hey, you there!" they shouted. "Do you dare to measure our god? That’s our job!" "Alright, priests—then how long do you figure he is?" I asked. But immediately, a heated argument broke out among them over feet and inches; they started whacking each other on the head with their measuring sticks—the loud echoes rang through the giant skull. Taking advantage of the commotion, I quickly finished my own measurements.
These admeasurements I now propose to set before you. But first, be it recorded, that, in this matter, I am not free to utter any fancied measurement I please. Because there are skeleton authorities you can refer to, to test my accuracy. There is a Leviathanic Museum, they tell me, in Hull, England, one of the whaling ports of that country, where they have some fine specimens of fin-backs and other whales. Likewise, I have heard that in the museum of Manchester, in New Hampshire, they have what the proprietors call “the only perfect specimen of a Greenland or River Whale in the United States.” Moreover, at a place in Yorkshire, England, Burton Constable by name, a certain Sir Clifford Constable has in his possession the skeleton of a Sperm Whale, but of moderate size, by no means of the full-grown magnitude of my friend King Tranquo’s.
I’m about to share these measurements with you. But first, let me state that I’m not free to just make up any measurements I want. There are actual skeletons you can consult to verify my accuracy. For instance, there’s a Leviathanic Museum in Hull, England—a whaling port in that country—where they have some impressive specimens of finbacks and other whales. I’ve also heard that the museum in Manchester, New Hampshire, claims to have “the only perfect specimen of a Greenland or River Whale in the United States.” Additionally, in a place in Yorkshire, England, called Burton Constable, a man named Sir Clifford Constable owns the skeleton of a Sperm Whale. However, this one is moderately sized and nowhere near the full grandeur of the whale owned by my friend, King Tranquo.
In both cases, the stranded whales to which these two skeletons belonged, were originally claimed by their proprietors upon similar grounds. King Tranquo seizing his because he wanted it; and Sir Clifford, because he was lord of the seignories of those parts. Sir Clifford’s whale has been articulated throughout; so that, like a great chest of drawers, you can open and shut him, in all his bony cavities—spread out his ribs like a gigantic fan—and swing all day upon his lower jaw. Locks are to be put upon some of his trap-doors and shutters; and a footman will show round future visitors with a bunch of keys at his side. Sir Clifford thinks of charging twopence for a peep at the whispering gallery in the spinal column; threepence to hear the echo in the hollow of his cerebellum; and sixpence for the unrivalled view from his forehead.
In both cases, the stranded whales these two skeletons came from were originally claimed by their owners for similar reasons. King Tranquo took his because he wanted it, and Sir Clifford claimed his because he was the lord of the land in that area. Sir Clifford’s whale has been fully put together, so it’s like a giant chest of drawers—you can open and close all the bony sections, spread out its ribs like a massive fan, and swing all day on its lower jaw. Some locks are being added to its trapdoors and shutters, and a footman will guide future visitors around with a bunch of keys. Sir Clifford is thinking of charging two pennies for a look at the whispering gallery in the spinal column, three pennies to hear the echo in the hollow of its cerebellum, and six pennies for the unbeatable view from its forehead.
The skeleton dimensions I shall now proceed to set down are copied verbatim from my right arm, where I had them tattooed; as in my wild wanderings at that period, there was no other secure way of preserving such valuable statistics. But as I was crowded for space, and wished the other parts of my body to remain a blank page for a poem I was then composing—at least, what untattooed parts might remain—I did not trouble myself with the odd inches; nor, indeed, should inches at all enter into a congenial admeasurement of the whale.
The skeleton measurements I’m about to share were copied exactly from my right arm, where I had them tattooed—during my chaotic travels back then, it was the only safe way to keep such important information. However, since I was short on space and wanted to leave the rest of my body as a blank canvas for a poem I was writing—at least, for whatever unmarked parts were left—I didn’t bother with the extra inches. In fact, inches shouldn’t really be part of a natural measurement of the whale anyway.
CHAPTER 103. Measurement of The Whale’s Skeleton.
In the first place, I wish to lay before you a particular, plain statement, touching the living bulk of this leviathan, whose skeleton we are briefly to exhibit. Such a statement may prove useful here.
First of all, I want to give you a clear and straightforward explanation about the living mass of this leviathan, whose skeleton we’re about to briefly show. This explanation might be helpful.
According to a careful calculation I have made, and which I partly base upon Captain Scoresby’s estimate, of seventy tons for the largest sized Greenland whale of sixty feet in length; according to my careful calculation, I say, a Sperm Whale of the largest magnitude, between eighty-five and ninety feet in length, and something less than forty feet in its fullest circumference, such a whale will weigh at least ninety tons; so that, reckoning thirteen men to a ton, he would considerably outweigh the combined population of a whole village of one thousand one hundred inhabitants.
Based on a careful calculation I’ve made, partly relying on Captain Scoresby’s estimate that a sixty-foot Greenland whale weighs about seventy tons, I’ve determined that a Sperm Whale of the largest size—between eighty-five and ninety feet long, and just under forty feet around at its thickest—would weigh at least ninety tons. This means that, estimating thirteen men per ton, such a whale would significantly outweigh the combined population of a village with 1,100 people.
Think you not then that brains, like yoked cattle, should be put to this leviathan, to make him at all budge to any landsman’s imagination?
Don't you think that minds, like yoked oxen, should be harnessed to this leviathan to make it move even slightly in any land-dweller's imagination?
Having already in various ways put before you his skull, spout-hole, jaw, teeth, tail, forehead, fins, and divers other parts, I shall now simply point out what is most interesting in the general bulk of his unobstructed bones. But as the colossal skull embraces so very large a proportion of the entire extent of the skeleton; as it is by far the most complicated part; and as nothing is to be repeated concerning it in this chapter, you must not fail to carry it in your mind, or under your arm, as we proceed, otherwise you will not gain a complete notion of the general structure we are about to view.
Having already shown you his skull, spout hole, jaw, teeth, tail, forehead, fins, and various other parts, I’ll now just focus on what’s most interesting about the overall bulk of his exposed bones. Since the massive skull takes up such a huge portion of the skeleton, is by far the most complex part, and won’t be discussed again in this chapter, make sure you keep it in mind—or imagine carrying it under your arm—as we continue, or you won’t get a full understanding of the overall structure we’re examining.
In length, the Sperm Whale’s skeleton at Tranque measured seventy-two feet; so that when fully invested and extended in life, he must have been ninety feet long; for in the whale, the skeleton loses about one fifth in length compared with the living body. Of this seventy-two feet, his skull and jaw comprised some twenty feet, leaving some fifty feet of plain back-bone. Attached to this back-bone, for something less than a third of its length, was the mighty circular basket of ribs which once enclosed his vitals.
The skeleton of the sperm whale at Tranque measured seventy-two feet long; so when it was alive and fully fleshed out, it must have been about ninety feet in length. This is because a whale's skeleton is roughly a fifth shorter than its living body. Out of those seventy-two feet, the skull and jaw made up about twenty feet, leaving around fifty feet of plain backbone. Connected to this backbone, for a bit less than a third of its length, was the massive circular ribcage that once housed its vital organs.
To me this vast ivory-ribbed chest, with the long, unrelieved spine, extending far away from it in a straight line, not a little resembled the hull of a great ship new-laid upon the stocks, when only some twenty of her naked bow-ribs are inserted, and the keel is otherwise, for the time, but a long, disconnected timber.
To me, this huge ivory-ribbed chest, with its long, unbroken spine stretching out in a straight line, reminded me a lot of the hull of a massive ship newly placed on the stocks, when only about twenty of its bare bow ribs are installed, and the keel is just a long, separate piece of timber for the time being.
The ribs were ten on a side. The first, to begin from the neck, was nearly six feet long; the second, third, and fourth were each successively longer, till you came to the climax of the fifth, or one of the middle ribs, which measured eight feet and some inches. From that part, the remaining ribs diminished, till the tenth and last only spanned five feet and some inches. In general thickness, they all bore a seemly correspondence to their length. The middle ribs were the most arched. In some of the Arsacides they are used for beams whereon to lay footpath bridges over small streams.
The ribs were ten on each side. Starting from the neck, the first rib was nearly six feet long. The second, third, and fourth ribs each got progressively longer until reaching the peak with the fifth rib, one of the middle ribs, which measured over eight feet. From there, the remaining ribs got shorter, with the tenth and last rib spanning just over five feet. Their thickness generally matched their length proportionally. The middle ribs were the most curved. In some parts of the Arsacides, these ribs are used as beams to support footpath bridges over small streams.
In considering these ribs, I could not but be struck anew with the circumstance, so variously repeated in this book, that the skeleton of the whale is by no means the mould of his invested form. The largest of the Tranque ribs, one of the middle ones, occupied that part of the fish which, in life, is greatest in depth. Now, the greatest depth of the invested body of this particular whale must have been at least sixteen feet; whereas, the corresponding rib measured but little more than eight feet. So that this rib only conveyed half of the true notion of the living magnitude of that part. Besides, for some way, where I now saw but a naked spine, all that had been once wrapped round with tons of added bulk in flesh, muscle, blood, and bowels. Still more, for the ample fins, I here saw but a few disordered joints; and in place of the weighty and majestic, but boneless flukes, an utter blank!
When looking at these ribs, I couldn’t help but be struck again by something often mentioned in this book: the skeleton of a whale doesn’t represent the true shape of its body. The largest of the Tranque ribs, one of the middle ones, came from the part of the whale that, when alive, was deepest. The body of this particular whale, when intact, must have been at least sixteen feet deep, but the rib itself was barely over eight feet long. This rib only gave half the true sense of the living size of that section. Furthermore, in a spot where I now saw only a bare spine, there had once been tons of added bulk—flesh, muscle, blood, and organs covering it. And even more strikingly, where the great fins had been, there were now just a few scattered joints. And as for the massive, majestic, but boneless flukes—there was absolutely nothing there at all!
How vain and foolish, then, thought I, for timid untravelled man to try to comprehend aright this wondrous whale, by merely poring over his dead attenuated skeleton, stretched in this peaceful wood. No. Only in the heart of quickest perils; only when within the eddyings of his angry flukes; only on the profound unbounded sea, can the fully invested whale be truly and livingly found out.
How pointless and foolish, I thought, for timid, inexperienced people to try to truly understand this amazing whale just by studying its dead, dried-up skeleton stretched out in this quiet forest. No. Only in the midst of the greatest dangers; only when caught in the swirling fury of its powerful tail; only out on the vast, boundless ocean can the fully alive and real whale be truly discovered.
But the spine. For that, the best way we can consider it is, with a crane, to pile its bones high up on end. No speedy enterprise. But now it’s done, it looks much like Pompey’s Pillar.
But the spine. To really get a good look at it, the best way is to use a crane to stack its bones straight up. Not a quick job. But now that it’s done, it resembles something like Pompey’s Pillar.
There are forty and odd vertebræ in all, which in the skeleton are not locked together. They mostly lie like the great knobbed blocks on a Gothic spire, forming solid courses of heavy masonry. The largest, a middle one, is in width something less than three feet, and in depth more than four. The smallest, where the spine tapers away into the tail, is only two inches in width, and looks something like a white billiard-ball. I was told that there were still smaller ones, but they had been lost by some little cannibal urchins, the priest’s children, who had stolen them to play marbles with. Thus we see how that the spine of even the hugest of living things tapers off at last into simple child’s play.
There are about forty vertebrae in total, which aren’t locked together in the skeleton. They mostly lie stacked like the large, knobby blocks of a Gothic tower, forming solid layers of heavy construction. The largest one, in the middle, is just under three feet wide and more than four feet deep. The smallest, where the spine narrows into the tail, is only two inches wide and resembles a white billiard ball. I was told there were even smaller ones, but they had been lost by some mischievous little kids, the priest’s children, who had stolen them to use as marbles. And so, we see how the spine of even the largest living creature eventually ends up as nothing more than simple child’s play.
CHAPTER 104. The Fossil Whale.
From his mighty bulk the whale affords a most congenial theme whereon to enlarge, amplify, and generally expatiate. Would you, you could not compress him. By good rights he should only be treated of in imperial folio. Not to tell over again his furlongs from spiracle to tail, and the yards he measures about the waist; only think of the gigantic involutions of his intestines, where they lie in him like great cables and hawsers coiled away in the subterranean orlop-deck of a line-of-battle-ship.
With his enormous size, the whale provides a perfect subject to expand on, elaborate, and thoroughly discuss. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t sum him up briefly. Rightfully, he should be covered in a massive, regal volume. Forget measuring his length from blowhole to tail or the circumference of his body—just think about the colossal twists and turns of his intestines, lying inside him like giant ropes and cables coiled up in the lower decks of a huge battleship.
Since I have undertaken to manhandle this Leviathan, it behooves me to approve myself omnisciently exhaustive in the enterprise; not overlooking the minutest seminal germs of his blood, and spinning him out to the uttermost coil of his bowels. Having already described him in most of his present habitatory and anatomical peculiarities, it now remains to magnify him in an archæological, fossiliferous, and antediluvian point of view. Applied to any other creature than the Leviathan—to an ant or a flea—such portly terms might justly be deemed unwarrantably grandiloquent. But when Leviathan is the text, the case is altered. Fain am I to stagger to this emprise under the weightiest words of the dictionary. And here be it said, that whenever it has been convenient to consult one in the course of these dissertations, I have invariably used a huge quarto edition of Johnson, expressly purchased for that purpose; because that famous lexicographer’s uncommon personal bulk more fitted him to compile a lexicon to be used by a whale author like me.
Since I've taken on the task of handling this Leviathan, it's only right that I prove myself to be thoroughly exhaustive in the effort—leaving no detail, no matter how small, unexplored, and covering every last aspect of his being. Having already described him in most of his current habits and physical traits, it’s now time to examine him from an archaeological, fossilized, and ancient perspective. If these grand terms were applied to any other creature, like an ant or a flea, they might seem ridiculously overblown. But when the Leviathan is the subject, the situation is different. I am more than willing to tackle this grand project using the most impressive words in the dictionary. And let me just say, whenever it’s been necessary to consult one for these writings, I’ve relied on a gigantic quarto edition of Johnson’s dictionary, which I specifically bought for this purpose—because that renowned lexicographer’s extraordinary personal size made him uniquely suited to create a lexicon worthy of a whale author like myself.
One often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject, though it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of this Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard capitals. Give me a condor’s quill! Give me Vesuvius’ crater for an inkstand! Friends, hold my arms! For in the mere act of penning my thoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their outreaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and mastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding its suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and liberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it.
People often talk about writers rising and growing with the importance of their subject, even if it seems like an ordinary one. So, what about me, writing about this Leviathan? Without realizing it, my handwriting grows into bold capital letters. Give me a condor's quill! Give me the crater of Mount Vesuvius for an inkstand! Friends, hold me back! Just the act of writing down my thoughts on this Leviathan exhausts me and overwhelms me with their vast scope, trying to cover all the sciences, all the generations of whales, men, and mastodons—past, present, and future—and all the spinning panoramas of empires on Earth and throughout the universe, even its outskirts. That’s how powerful and expansive a big, important subject can be! We grow to match its size. To create a monumental book, you need a monumental topic. No great, lasting work can ever be written about something as small as a flea, though many have tried.
Ere entering upon the subject of Fossil Whales, I present my credentials as a geologist, by stating that in my miscellaneous time I have been a stone-mason, and also a great digger of ditches, canals and wells, wine-vaults, cellars, and cisterns of all sorts. Likewise, by way of preliminary, I desire to remind the reader, that while in the earlier geological strata there are found the fossils of monsters now almost completely extinct; the subsequent relics discovered in what are called the Tertiary formations seem the connecting, or at any rate intercepted links, between the antichronical creatures, and those whose remote posterity are said to have entered the Ark; all the Fossil Whales hitherto discovered belong to the Tertiary period, which is the last preceding the superficial formations. And though none of them precisely answer to any known species of the present time, they are yet sufficiently akin to them in general respects, to justify their taking rank as Cetacean fossils.
Before diving into the topic of fossil whales, I’ll share my qualifications as a geologist by mentioning that I’ve worked as a stonemason and have also spent a lot of time digging ditches, canals, wells, wine vaults, cellars, and cisterns of all kinds. Also, as a bit of background, I want to remind readers that while the earlier geological layers contain fossils of creatures that are now almost entirely extinct, the fossils found in the later Tertiary formations seem to serve as the links—or at least missing connections—between those ancient beings and the ones whose distant descendants are said to have boarded Noah’s Ark. All the fossil whales discovered so far belong to the Tertiary period, which came right before the surface-level geological formations. While none of these fossils exactly match any whale species we know today, they’re still similar enough in general characteristics to be classified as cetacean fossils.
Detached broken fossils of pre-adamite whales, fragments of their bones and skeletons, have within thirty years past, at various intervals, been found at the base of the Alps, in Lombardy, in France, in England, in Scotland, and in the States of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. Among the more curious of such remains is part of a skull, which in the year 1779 was disinterred in the Rue Dauphine in Paris, a short street opening almost directly upon the palace of the Tuileries; and bones disinterred in excavating the great docks of Antwerp, in Napoleon’s time. Cuvier pronounced these fragments to have belonged to some utterly unknown Leviathanic species.
Detached, broken fossils of prehistoric whales, fragments of their bones and skeletons, have been discovered over the past thirty years at various times in places like the base of the Alps, Lombardy, France, England, Scotland, and in the U.S. states of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. Among the more interesting discoveries is part of a skull that was unearthed in 1779 on Rue Dauphine in Paris, a short street that opens almost directly onto the Tuileries Palace; as well as bones found during the construction of the large docks in Antwerp during Napoleon’s era. Cuvier identified these fragments as belonging to a completely unknown giant species.
But by far the most wonderful of all Cetacean relics was the almost complete vast skeleton of an extinct monster, found in the year 1842, on the plantation of Judge Creagh, in Alabama. The awe-stricken credulous slaves in the vicinity took it for the bones of one of the fallen angels. The Alabama doctors declared it a huge reptile, and bestowed upon it the name of Basilosaurus. But some specimen bones of it being taken across the sea to Owen, the English Anatomist, it turned out that this alleged reptile was a whale, though of a departed species. A significant illustration of the fact, again and again repeated in this book, that the skeleton of the whale furnishes but little clue to the shape of his fully invested body. So Owen rechristened the monster Zeuglodon; and in his paper read before the London Geological Society, pronounced it, in substance, one of the most extraordinary creatures which the mutations of the globe have blotted out of existence.
By far the most amazing of all whale-related relics was the nearly complete giant skeleton of an extinct creature, discovered in 1842 on Judge Creagh’s plantation in Alabama. The terrified and superstitious slaves nearby thought it was the skeleton of a fallen angel. The local Alabama doctors identified it as a massive reptile and named it Basilosaurus. However, when some of its bones were sent overseas to the English anatomist Owen, it was revealed that this so-called reptile was actually a whale—though from a long-extinct species. This serves as yet another example, repeatedly highlighted in this book, that a whale’s skeleton gives very little indication of what its fully fleshed-out body looks like. Owen renamed the creature Zeuglodon, and in a paper presented to the London Geological Society, he described it as one of the most remarkable creatures ever erased from existence by the changes of the Earth.
When I stand among these mighty Leviathan skeletons, skulls, tusks, jaws, ribs, and vertebræ, all characterized by partial resemblances to the existing breeds of sea-monsters; but at the same time bearing on the other hand similar affinities to the annihilated antichronical Leviathans, their incalculable seniors; I am, by a flood, borne back to that wondrous period, ere time itself can be said to have begun; for time began with man. Here Saturn’s grey chaos rolls over me, and I obtain dim, shuddering glimpses into those Polar eternities; when wedged bastions of ice pressed hard upon what are now the Tropics; and in all the 25,000 miles of this world’s circumference, not an inhabitable hand’s breadth of land was visible. Then the whole world was the whale’s; and, king of creation, he left his wake along the present lines of the Andes and the Himmalehs. Who can show a pedigree like Leviathan? Ahab’s harpoon had shed older blood than the Pharaoh’s. Methuselah seems a school-boy. I look round to shake hands with Shem. I am horror-struck at this antemosaic, unsourced existence of the unspeakable terrors of the whale, which, having been before all time, must needs exist after all humane ages are over.
When I stand among these massive whale skeletons—skulls, tusks, jaws, ribs, and vertebrae—all partly resembling today’s sea creatures, yet also showing similarities to the long-extinct, ancient Leviathans, their incomprehensibly old ancestors, I’m swept back to that incredible era before time itself could be said to have begun, for time began with humanity. Here, Saturn’s gray chaos engulfs me, and I catch faint, chilling glimpses of those eternal, frozen epochs when polar ice walls pushed down into what we now call the Tropics, and across the entire 25,000 miles of this planet’s circumference, not a single sliver of livable land could be seen. Back then, the whole world belonged to the whale; ruler of creation, he carved his path along what are now the Andes and the Himalayas. Who can claim a lineage like Leviathan? Ahab’s harpoon spilled blood far older than the Pharaohs’. Methuselah seems young in comparison. I almost want to reach out and shake hands with Shem. I’m shaken to the core by this prehistorical, unknowable existence filled with the whale’s indescribable terrors—an existence that, having preceded all human time, must surely persist long after humanity is gone.
But not alone has this Leviathan left his pre-adamite traces in the stereotype plates of nature, and in limestone and marl bequeathed his ancient bust; but upon Egyptian tablets, whose antiquity seems to claim for them an almost fossiliferous character, we find the unmistakable print of his fin. In an apartment of the great temple of Denderah, some fifty years ago, there was discovered upon the granite ceiling a sculptured and painted planisphere, abounding in centaurs, griffins, and dolphins, similar to the grotesque figures on the celestial globe of the moderns. Gliding among them, old Leviathan swam as of yore; was there swimming in that planisphere, centuries before Solomon was cradled.
This Leviathan hasn’t just left his ancient marks in the natural world, etched in limestone and marl with his prehistoric image; we also find clear evidence of him on Egyptian tablets, whose age makes them seem almost fossil-like. About fifty years ago, in a room of the grand temple of Denderah, a sculpted and painted planisphere was discovered on the granite ceiling. It was filled with centaurs, griffins, and dolphins, much like the bizarre shapes on the modern celestial globe. Among these figures, the old Leviathan swam as he always had, depicted there swimming in that planisphere centuries before Solomon was even born.
Nor must there be omitted another strange attestation of the antiquity of the whale, in his own osseous post-diluvian reality, as set down by the venerable John Leo, the old Barbary traveller.
We also can't leave out another strange proof of the whale's ancient existence, found in its own bone structure after the flood, as recorded by the respected John Leo, the old Barbary traveler.
“Not far from the Sea-side, they have a Temple, the Rafters and Beams of which are made of Whale-Bones; for Whales of a monstrous size are oftentimes cast up dead upon that shore. The Common People imagine, that by a secret Power bestowed by God upon the Temple, no Whale can pass it without immediate death. But the truth of the Matter is, that on either side of the Temple, there are Rocks that shoot two Miles into the Sea, and wound the Whales when they light upon ’em. They keep a Whale’s Rib of an incredible length for a Miracle, which lying upon the Ground with its convex part uppermost, makes an Arch, the Head of which cannot be reached by a Man upon a Camel’s Back. This Rib (says John Leo) is said to have layn there a hundred Years before I saw it. Their Historians affirm, that a Prophet who prophesy’d of Mahomet, came from this Temple, and some do not stand to assert, that the Prophet Jonas was cast forth by the Whale at the Base of the Temple.”
Not far from the seashore, there's a temple whose rafters and beams are made of whale bones, since enormous whales often wash up dead on that coast. The locals believe that God has granted the temple a secret power, causing any whale that tries to pass it to die instantly. But in reality, there are rocks extending two miles out into the sea on either side of the temple, which injure the whales when they hit them. They keep a whale's rib of incredible length as a marvel; lying on the ground with its curved side facing up, it forms an arch so high that even a man on a camel's back can't reach the top. This rib, according to John Leo, had been there for a hundred years before he saw it. Their historians claim that a prophet who foretold the coming of Muhammad came from this temple, and some even assert that the prophet Jonah was cast out by the whale at the base of the temple.
In this Afric Temple of the Whale I leave you, reader, and if you be a Nantucketer, and a whaleman, you will silently worship there.
In this African Temple of the Whale, I leave you, reader, and if you’re a Nantucketer and a whaleman, you’ll quietly worship there.
CHAPTER 105. Does the Whale’s Magnitude Diminish?—Will He Perish?
Inasmuch, then, as this Leviathan comes floundering down upon us from the head-waters of the Eternities, it may be fitly inquired, whether, in the long course of his generations, he has not degenerated from the original bulk of his sires.
Given that this Leviathan comes tumbling down toward us from the source of Eternity itself, it's worth asking whether, over the long span of his generations, he has shrunk from the massive size of his ancestors.
But upon investigation we find, that not only are the whales of the present day superior in magnitude to those whose fossil remains are found in the Tertiary system (embracing a distinct geological period prior to man), but of the whales found in that Tertiary system, those belonging to its latter formations exceed in size those of its earlier ones.
But when we look into it, we find that the whales of today are not only bigger than the ones whose fossil remains are found in the Tertiary period (a distinct geological era that came before humans), but also that the whales from the later formations of that Tertiary period are larger than those from its earlier formations.
Of all the pre-adamite whales yet exhumed, by far the largest is the Alabama one mentioned in the last chapter, and that was less than seventy feet in length in the skeleton. Whereas, we have already seen, that the tape-measure gives seventy-two feet for the skeleton of a large sized modern whale. And I have heard, on whalemen’s authority, that Sperm Whales have been captured near a hundred feet long at the time of capture.
Of all the prehistoric whales unearthed so far, the largest by far is the Alabama specimen mentioned in the last chapter, and its skeleton was less than seventy feet long. Meanwhile, as we've already seen, the tape measure shows seventy-two feet for the skeleton of a large modern whale. I've also heard from whalers that Sperm Whales have been caught measuring close to a hundred feet long at the time of capture.
But may it not be, that while the whales of the present hour are an advance in magnitude upon those of all previous geological periods; may it not be, that since Adam’s time they have degenerated?
But could it be that while the whales of today are larger than those of all earlier geological periods, they might have actually declined in size since Adam’s time?
Assuredly, we must conclude so, if we are to credit the accounts of such gentlemen as Pliny, and the ancient naturalists generally. For Pliny tells us of whales that embraced acres of living bulk, and Aldrovandus of others which measured eight hundred feet in length—Rope Walks and Thames Tunnels of Whales! And even in the days of Banks and Solander, Cooke’s naturalists, we find a Danish member of the Academy of Sciences setting down certain Iceland Whales (reydan-siskur, or Wrinkled Bellies) at one hundred and twenty yards; that is, three hundred and sixty feet. And Lacépède, the French naturalist, in his elaborate history of whales, in the very beginning of his work (page 3), sets down the Right Whale at one hundred metres, three hundred and twenty-eight feet. And this work was published so late as A.D. 1825.
Sure, if we’re to believe the reports of people like Pliny and the ancient naturalists in general, we have to agree. Pliny talks about whales that covered acres of living mass, and Aldrovandus mentions others measuring eight hundred feet in length—whales as long as Rope Walks and Thames Tunnels! Even as recently as the era of Banks and Solander, Cook's naturalists, a Danish member of the Academy of Sciences recorded certain Iceland Whales (reydan-siskur, or Wrinkled Bellies) at about one hundred and twenty yards, or three hundred and sixty feet. And Lacépède, the French naturalist, in his detailed history of whales, right at the beginning of his book (page 3), states that the Right Whale reaches one hundred meters, or three hundred and twenty-eight feet. And this book was published as late as 1825.
But will any whaleman believe these stories? No. The whale of to-day is as big as his ancestors in Pliny’s time. And if ever I go where Pliny is, I, a whaleman (more than he was), will make bold to tell him so. Because I cannot understand how it is, that while the Egyptian mummies that were buried thousands of years before even Pliny was born, do not measure so much in their coffins as a modern Kentuckian in his socks; and while the cattle and other animals sculptured on the oldest Egyptian and Nineveh tablets, by the relative proportions in which they are drawn, just as plainly prove that the high-bred, stall-fed, prize cattle of Smithfield, not only equal, but far exceed in magnitude the fattest of Pharaoh’s fat kine; in the face of all this, I will not admit that of all animals the whale alone should have degenerated.
But will any whaler believe these stories? No. Today's whales are just as big as their ancestors from Pliny's time. And if I ever meet Pliny, I—a whaler (which he wasn't)—will confidently tell him that. Because I can't understand how it's possible that Egyptian mummies, buried thousands of years before Pliny was even born, are smaller in their coffins than a modern Kentuckian is in his socks. And while the cattle and other animals sculpted on the oldest Egyptian and Nineveh tablets clearly show, by their proportions, that today's high-bred, well-fed prize cattle of Smithfield not only match but far surpass the size of Pharaoh's fattest cows, I still can’t accept that the whale—of all animals—would be the only one to shrink over time.
But still another inquiry remains; one often agitated by the more recondite Nantucketers. Whether owing to the almost omniscient look-outs at the mast-heads of the whale-ships, now penetrating even through Behring’s straits, and into the remotest secret drawers and lockers of the world; and the thousand harpoons and lances darted along all continental coasts; the moot point is, whether Leviathan can long endure so wide a chase, and so remorseless a havoc; whether he must not at last be exterminated from the waters, and the last whale, like the last man, smoke his last pipe, and then himself evaporate in the final puff.
Yet another question remains, one often debated by the more thoughtful Nantucketers. Is it due to the nearly all-seeing lookouts stationed at the mastheads of whaling ships, now exploring even through the Bering Strait and into the most hidden corners of the world; and the countless harpoons and lances striking along every continental coast? The pressing issue is whether the whale can survive such an extensive hunt and relentless slaughter, or if it will eventually be driven to extinction—until the last whale, like the last man, smokes its final pipe and vanishes in one last breath.
Comparing the humped herds of whales with the humped herds of buffalo, which, not forty years ago, overspread by tens of thousands the prairies of Illinois and Missouri, and shook their iron manes and scowled with their thunder-clotted brows upon the sites of populous river-capitals, where now the polite broker sells you land at a dollar an inch; in such a comparison an irresistible argument would seem furnished, to show that the hunted whale cannot now escape speedy extinction.
Comparing the massive groups of whales with the herds of buffalo that, less than forty years ago, roamed by the tens of thousands across the prairies of Illinois and Missouri, shaking their strong manes and glaring with thunderous brows upon the sites of bustling river cities—where today polite brokers sell land for a dollar per inch—such a comparison seems to make an undeniable case that the hunted whale is headed for rapid extinction.
But you must look at this matter in every light. Though so short a period ago—not a good lifetime—the census of the buffalo in Illinois exceeded the census of men now in London, and though at the present day not one horn or hoof of them remains in all that region; and though the cause of this wondrous extermination was the spear of man; yet the far different nature of the whale-hunt peremptorily forbids so inglorious an end to the Leviathan. Forty men in one ship hunting the Sperm Whales for forty-eight months think they have done extremely well, and thank God, if at last they carry home the oil of forty fish. Whereas, in the days of the old Canadian and Indian hunters and trappers of the West, when the far west (in whose sunset suns still rise) was a wilderness and a virgin, the same number of moccasined men, for the same number of months, mounted on horse instead of sailing in ships, would have slain not forty, but forty thousand and more buffaloes; a fact that, if need were, could be statistically stated.
You need to consider this from every angle. Not that long ago—not even a full lifetime—the number of buffalo in Illinois was greater than the population of people in London today. Yet now, there isn’t a single horn or hoof left in that entire region. The astonishing eradication of the buffalo was caused by human hunting. However, the nature of whale hunting makes such a disgraceful extinction of the Leviathan impossible. Forty men on one ship hunting sperm whales for forty-eight months might consider themselves very fortunate and thank God if they manage to bring home the oil from forty whales. In contrast, back in the days of the old Canadian and Indian hunters and trappers, when the vast western wilderness was untouched and unspoiled, the same number of men, wearing moccasins and riding horses instead of sailing ships, could have killed not forty, but over forty thousand buffalo in the same amount of time—a fact that, if needed, could be backed up statistically.
Nor, considered aright, does it seem any argument in favour of the gradual extinction of the Sperm Whale, for example, that in former years (the latter part of the last century, say) these Leviathans, in small pods, were encountered much oftener than at present, and, in consequence, the voyages were not so prolonged, and were also much more remunerative. Because, as has been elsewhere noticed, those whales, influenced by some views to safety, now swim the seas in immense caravans, so that to a large degree the scattered solitaries, yokes, and pods, and schools of other days are now aggregated into vast but widely separated, unfrequent armies. That is all. And equally fallacious seems the conceit, that because the so-called whale-bone whales no longer haunt many grounds in former years abounding with them, hence that species also is declining. For they are only being driven from promontory to cape; and if one coast is no longer enlivened with their jets, then, be sure, some other and remoter strand has been very recently startled by the unfamiliar spectacle.
Nor, when viewed correctly, does it seem to support the idea that the Sperm Whale is gradually going extinct, for example, just because in earlier times (let’s say the late 1700s) these giants were found in small groups and were encountered much more frequently than now. As a result, those voyages were shorter and more profitable. Because, as mentioned elsewhere, these whales, driven by some instinct for safety, now travel the oceans in massive groups, so that the scattered individuals, pairs, and pods of the past are now gathered into vast but widely separated and infrequent formations. That’s all. Likewise, the assumption seems just as flawed that, because the so-called baleen whales no longer frequent many areas where they were once abundant, this means their species is also declining. They’re simply being pushed from one headland to another; and if one coastline no longer sees their spouts, you can be sure that some other, more remote shore has recently been surprised by the sight.
Furthermore: concerning these last mentioned Leviathans, they have two firm fortresses, which, in all human probability, will for ever remain impregnable. And as upon the invasion of their valleys, the frosty Swiss have retreated to their mountains; so, hunted from the savannas and glades of the middle seas, the whale-bone whales can at last resort to their Polar citadels, and diving under the ultimate glassy barriers and walls there, come up among icy fields and floes; and in a charmed circle of everlasting December, bid defiance to all pursuit from man.
Moreover, regarding these Leviathans mentioned last, they have two solid strongholds that, in all likelihood, will remain unbreachable forever. Just as the frosty Swiss retreated to their mountains when their valleys were invaded, so too, driven out of the savannas and clearings of the central seas, the baleen whales can retreat to their Polar strongholds. There, diving beneath the ultimate icy barriers and walls, they resurface among frozen fields and ice floes, and within a sheltered circle of eternal winter, they defy any pursuit by humans.
But as perhaps fifty of these whale-bone whales are harpooned for one cachalot, some philosophers of the forecastle have concluded that this positive havoc has already very seriously diminished their battalions. But though for some time past a number of these whales, not less than 13,000, have been annually slain on the nor’ west coast by the Americans alone; yet there are considerations which render even this circumstance of little or no account as an opposing argument in this matter.
But since about fifty of these baleen whales are hunted for every one sperm whale, some sailors in the forecastle have speculated that this large-scale destruction has already significantly reduced their numbers. However, even though for some time now, at least 13,000 of these whales have been killed every year along the northwest coast by Americans alone, there are factors that make this fact almost irrelevant as a counterargument in this discussion.
Natural as it is to be somewhat incredulous concerning the populousness of the more enormous creatures of the globe, yet what shall we say to Harto, the historian of Goa, when he tells us that at one hunting the King of Siam took 4,000 elephants; that in those regions elephants are numerous as droves of cattle in the temperate climes. And there seems no reason to doubt that if these elephants, which have now been hunted for thousands of years, by Semiramis, by Porus, by Hannibal, and by all the successive monarchs of the East—if they still survive there in great numbers, much more may the great whale outlast all hunting, since he has a pasture to expatiate in, which is precisely twice as large as all Asia, both Americas, Europe and Africa, New Holland, and all the Isles of the sea combined.
It's natural to be a bit skeptical about how many massive creatures inhabit the earth, but how do we respond to Harto, the historian of Goa, when he claims that during one hunt, the King of Siam captured 4,000 elephants—and that in those regions, elephants are as common as herds of cattle in temperate climates? And there’s no reason to doubt that if these elephants, which have been hunted for thousands of years by figures like Semiramis, Porus, Hannibal, and countless Eastern monarchs, still exist in significant numbers, then the great whale is even more likely to survive all hunting. The whale roams a habitat twice as large as the combined size of Asia, the Americas, Europe, Africa, Australia, and all the islands of the sea.
Moreover: we are to consider, that from the presumed great longevity of whales, their probably attaining the age of a century and more, therefore at any one period of time, several distinct adult generations must be contemporary. And what that is, we may soon gain some idea of, by imagining all the grave-yards, cemeteries, and family vaults of creation yielding up the live bodies of all the men, women, and children who were alive seventy-five years ago; and adding this countless host to the present human population of the globe.
Moreover, we should consider that due to the presumed long lifespan of whales—likely living for a century or more—there must be several distinct adult generations alive at the same time. To get an idea of what that means, imagine every graveyard, cemetery, and family vault in existence bringing back to life all the men, women, and children who were alive seventy-five years ago, and then adding this immense crowd to the current human population of the world.
Wherefore, for all these things, we account the whale immortal in his species, however perishable in his individuality. He swam the seas before the continents broke water; he once swam over the site of the Tuileries, and Windsor Castle, and the Kremlin. In Noah’s flood he despised Noah’s Ark; and if ever the world is to be again flooded, like the Netherlands, to kill off its rats, then the eternal whale will still survive, and rearing upon the topmost crest of the equatorial flood, spout his frothed defiance to the skies.
Therefore, for all these reasons, we consider the whale to be immortal as a species, even though it is mortal as an individual. It swam the oceans long before the continents emerged from the water; it once swam over the spots where the Tuileries, Windsor Castle, and the Kremlin now stand. During Noah’s flood, it disregarded Noah’s Ark; and if the world were ever to be flooded again, like the Netherlands to get rid of its rats, the eternal whale would still endure. Rising atop the highest wave of the equatorial flood, it would spray its frothy defiance toward the sky.
CHAPTER 106. Ahab’s Leg.
The precipitating manner in which Captain Ahab had quitted the Samuel Enderby of London, had not been unattended with some small violence to his own person. He had lighted with such energy upon a thwart of his boat that his ivory leg had received a half-splintering shock. And when after gaining his own deck, and his own pivot-hole there, he so vehemently wheeled round with an urgent command to the steersman (it was, as ever, something about his not steering inflexibly enough); then, the already shaken ivory received such an additional twist and wrench, that though it still remained entire, and to all appearances lusty, yet Ahab did not deem it entirely trustworthy.
The abrupt way Captain Ahab had left the Samuel Enderby of London hadn’t come without a bit of harm to himself. He had landed so forcefully on a seat in his boat that his ivory leg took a semi-splintering blow. And when he got back to his own deck and pivot point, he spun around so fiercely to yell an urgent order at the steersman (as usual, it was about not steering firmly enough) that the already strained ivory took another twist and wrench. Although it remained intact and seemingly sturdy, Ahab didn’t feel it was completely reliable anymore.
And, indeed, it seemed small matter for wonder, that for all his pervading, mad recklessness, Ahab did at times give careful heed to the condition of that dead bone upon which he partly stood. For it had not been very long prior to the Pequod’s sailing from Nantucket, that he had been found one night lying prone upon the ground, and insensible; by some unknown, and seemingly inexplicable, unimaginable casualty, his ivory limb having been so violently displaced, that it had stake-wise smitten, and all but pierced his groin; nor was it without extreme difficulty that the agonizing wound was entirely cured.
And, indeed, it wasn’t all that surprising that, despite his constant, wild recklessness, Ahab sometimes paid close attention to the condition of the artificial leg he partially relied on. Not long before the Pequod set sail from Nantucket, he had been found one night lying face down on the ground, unconscious. Somehow, through an unknown and almost impossible-to-explain accident, his ivory leg had been violently dislodged and driven like a stake into his groin, nearly piercing it. It had been incredibly difficult to fully heal the painful injury.
Nor, at the time, had it failed to enter his monomaniac mind, that all the anguish of that then present suffering was but the direct issue of a former woe; and he too plainly seemed to see, that as the most poisonous reptile of the marsh perpetuates his kind as inevitably as the sweetest songster of the grove; so, equally with every felicity, all miserable events do naturally beget their like. Yea, more than equally, thought Ahab; since both the ancestry and posterity of Grief go further than the ancestry and posterity of Joy. For, not to hint of this: that it is an inference from certain canonic teachings, that while some natural enjoyments here shall have no children born to them for the other world, but, on the contrary, shall be followed by the joy-childlessness of all hell’s despair; whereas, some guilty mortal miseries shall still fertilely beget to themselves an eternally progressive progeny of griefs beyond the grave; not at all to hint of this, there still seems an inequality in the deeper analysis of the thing. For, thought Ahab, while even the highest earthly felicities ever have a certain unsignifying pettiness lurking in them, but, at bottom, all heartwoes, a mystic significance, and, in some men, an archangelic grandeur; so do their diligent tracings-out not belie the obvious deduction. To trail the genealogies of these high mortal miseries, carries us at last among the sourceless primogenitures of the gods; so that, in the face of all the glad, hay-making suns, and soft cymballing, round harvest-moons, we must needs give in to this: that the gods themselves are not for ever glad. The ineffaceable, sad birth-mark in the brow of man, is but the stamp of sorrow in the signers.
It hadn’t escaped his obsessive mind at the time that all the pain of his current suffering was simply the result of a past sorrow; and he seemed to clearly realize that, just as the most poisonous marsh reptile continues its species as surely as the sweetest songbird in the forest, every misery—like every happiness—naturally gives rise to its own kind. Even more so, thought Ahab, since both the origins and descendants of sorrow reach further than those of joy. And not to even mention this: that certain religious teachings suggest natural pleasures here on Earth might leave no offspring for the next world, replaced instead by the childlessness of eternal despair in hell, while some sinful mortal miseries continue to spawn an endlessly growing lineage of grief beyond the grave. Not to dwell on that point, there still seems to be an imbalance when looking deeply into the matter. For, Ahab thought, while even the greatest earthly joys hide some trivial insignificance within them, at their core, all heartaches carry profound meaning, and in some people, a nearly divine majesty. Tracing the origins of these profound human sorrows ultimately leads us back to the ancient, unknowable beginnings of the gods. So, in the face of all the cheerful, sunlit happiness and the soft, musical beauty of full harvest moons, one must accept this: even the gods are not always joyful. The unshakable, sorrowful mark on humanity’s brow is nothing less than the imprint of sadness left by those who created us.
Unwittingly here a secret has been divulged, which perhaps might more properly, in set way, have been disclosed before. With many other particulars concerning Ahab, always had it remained a mystery to some, why it was, that for a certain period, both before and after the sailing of the Pequod, he had hidden himself away with such Grand-Lama-like exclusiveness; and, for that one interval, sought speechless refuge, as it were, among the marble senate of the dead. Captain Peleg’s bruited reason for this thing appeared by no means adequate; though, indeed, as touching all Ahab’s deeper part, every revelation partook more of significant darkness than of explanatory light. But, in the end, it all came out; this one matter did, at least. That direful mishap was at the bottom of his temporary recluseness. And not only this, but to that ever-contracting, dropping circle ashore, who, for any reason, possessed the privilege of a less banned approach to him; to that timid circle the above hinted casualty—remaining, as it did, moodily unaccounted for by Ahab—invested itself with terrors, not entirely underived from the land of spirits and of wails. So that, through their zeal for him, they had all conspired, so far as in them lay, to muffle up the knowledge of this thing from others; and hence it was, that not till a considerable interval had elapsed, did it transpire upon the Pequod’s decks.
A secret has been unintentionally revealed here, one that perhaps should have been explained earlier in a more deliberate way. Among many details about Ahab, it had always puzzled some people why, for a certain time before and after the Pequod set sail, he had secluded himself with an almost monk-like detachment. During that period, he seemed to seek silent retreat among the lifeless marble monuments of the dead. Captain Peleg’s public explanation for this behavior didn’t seem sufficient; but then again, when it came to Ahab’s deeper self, every revelation felt more like ominous obscurity than clear insight. In the end, though, this particular mystery was revealed. That dreadful accident was at the root of his temporary withdrawal. But there was more to it—among the shrinking group of people ashore who, for whatever reason, had the rare privilege of being somewhat closer to him, this hinted-at tragedy—left unexplained by Ahab himself—took on a haunting, almost supernatural aura. Out of their loyalty to Ahab, they had all done their best to keep this knowledge from spreading. As a result, it wasn’t until some time had passed that the truth started to emerge on the decks of the Pequod.
But be all this as it may; let the unseen, ambiguous synod in the air, or the vindictive princes and potentates of fire, have to do or not with earthly Ahab, yet, in this present matter of his leg, he took plain practical procedures;—he called the carpenter.
But whatever the case may be—whether the unseen, mysterious council in the sky or the vengeful rulers of fire have anything to do with earthly Ahab or not—in this particular matter of his leg, he took straightforward, practical steps: he called the carpenter.
And when that functionary appeared before him, he bade him without delay set about making a new leg, and directed the mates to see him supplied with all the studs and joists of jaw-ivory (Sperm Whale) which had thus far been accumulated on the voyage, in order that a careful selection of the stoutest, clearest-grained stuff might be secured. This done, the carpenter received orders to have the leg completed that night; and to provide all the fittings for it, independent of those pertaining to the distrusted one in use. Moreover, the ship’s forge was ordered to be hoisted out of its temporary idleness in the hold; and, to accelerate the affair, the blacksmith was commanded to proceed at once to the forging of whatever iron contrivances might be needed.
When the carpenter showed up, he was immediately told to start crafting a new leg and ordered the mates to supply him with all the pieces of jawbone ivory (from sperm whales) collected so far during the voyage. This was to ensure he could pick the strongest, clearest material for the job. Once that was done, the carpenter was instructed to finish the leg by that night and include all the necessary fittings, separate from those on the current, unreliable one in use. Additionally, the ship's forge, which had been sitting idle in the hold, was ordered to be brought back into action, and the blacksmith was told to start making any iron parts that might be needed right away.
CHAPTER 107. The Carpenter.
Seat thyself sultanically among the moons of Saturn, and take high abstracted man alone; and he seems a wonder, a grandeur, and a woe. But from the same point, take mankind in mass, and for the most part, they seem a mob of unnecessary duplicates, both contemporary and hereditary. But most humble though he was, and far from furnishing an example of the high, humane abstraction; the Pequod’s carpenter was no duplicate; hence, he now comes in person on this stage.
Sit like a sultan among Saturn's moons, focusing on an individual man in isolation, and he seems extraordinary—a marvel, a towering figure, full of sorrow. But from the same vantage point, if you look at humanity as a whole, most people appear like a crowd of redundant copies, both from the present and the past. Yet, humble as he was and far from representing lofty, idealized humanity, the carpenter of the Pequod was no mere replica; and so he steps forward now, taking the stage in person.
Like all sea-going ship carpenters, and more especially those belonging to whaling vessels, he was, to a certain off-handed, practical extent, alike experienced in numerous trades and callings collateral to his own; the carpenter’s pursuit being the ancient and outbranching trunk of all those numerous handicrafts which more or less have to do with wood as an auxiliary material. But, besides the application to him of the generic remark above, this carpenter of the Pequod was singularly efficient in those thousand nameless mechanical emergencies continually recurring in a large ship, upon a three or four years’ voyage, in uncivilized and far-distant seas. For not to speak of his readiness in ordinary duties:—repairing stove boats, sprung spars, reforming the shape of clumsy-bladed oars, inserting bull’s eyes in the deck, or new tree-nails in the side planks, and other miscellaneous matters more directly pertaining to his special business; he was moreover unhesitatingly expert in all manner of conflicting aptitudes, both useful and capricious.
Like all ship carpenters, especially those on whaling vessels, he was, in a straightforward and practical way, skilled in a variety of trades and tasks related to his own. Carpentry, being an ancient and versatile craft, forms the foundation of many trades that involve working with wood as a supporting material. But beyond the general description above, the carpenter of the Pequod was uniquely capable of handling the countless mechanical challenges that regularly came up on a large ship during a three- or four-year voyage through remote and uncivilized seas. Not to mention his efficiency with routine tasks like repairing smashed boats, fixing damaged spars, reshaping awkwardly crafted oars, adding bull’s-eyes to the deck, replacing wooden pins in the side planks, and other jobs specifically tied to his trade—he was also impressively skilled in a wide range of abilities, both practical and unconventional.
The one grand stage where he enacted all his various parts so manifold, was his vice-bench; a long rude ponderous table furnished with several vices, of different sizes, and both of iron and of wood. At all times except when whales were alongside, this bench was securely lashed athwartships against the rear of the Try-works.
The main stage where he performed all his different tasks was his workbench—a long, heavy, rough table equipped with several vices of various sizes, made of both iron and wood. At all times, except when whales were nearby, this bench was firmly secured across the back of the Try-works.
A belaying pin is found too large to be easily inserted into its hole: the carpenter claps it into one of his ever-ready vices, and straightway files it smaller. A lost land-bird of strange plumage strays on board, and is made a captive: out of clean shaved rods of right-whale bone, and cross-beams of sperm whale ivory, the carpenter makes a pagoda-looking cage for it. An oarsman sprains his wrist: the carpenter concocts a soothing lotion. Stubb longed for vermillion stars to be painted upon the blade of his every oar; screwing each oar in his big vice of wood, the carpenter symmetrically supplies the constellation. A sailor takes a fancy to wear shark-bone ear-rings: the carpenter drills his ears. Another has the toothache: the carpenter out pincers, and clapping one hand upon his bench bids him be seated there; but the poor fellow unmanageably winces under the unconcluded operation; whirling round the handle of his wooden vice, the carpenter signs him to clap his jaw in that, if he would have him draw the tooth.
A belaying pin is too big to fit easily into its hole, so the carpenter clamps it in one of his always-ready vices and quickly files it down to size. A lost bird with unusual feathers wanders onto the ship and is captured; using cleanly shaved rods of right-whale bone and cross-beams of sperm whale ivory, the carpenter crafts a pagoda-like cage for it. An oarsman sprains his wrist, and the carpenter mixes up a soothing lotion. Stubb, wanting bright red stars painted on the blade of every oar, has the carpenter secure each oar in his large wooden vice and carefully paint the constellations. A sailor decides he wants shark-bone earrings, so the carpenter drills holes in his ears. Another sailor gets a toothache; the carpenter grabs a pair of pincers and, placing one hand on his bench, tells the man to sit. But the poor sailor flinches too much before the tooth can be pulled. Turning the handle of his wooden vice, the carpenter motions for the man to clamp his jaw in it if he really wants the tooth pulled out.
Thus, this carpenter was prepared at all points, and alike indifferent and without respect in all. Teeth he accounted bits of ivory; heads he deemed but top-blocks; men themselves he lightly held for capstans. But while now upon so wide a field thus variously accomplished and with such liveliness of expertness in him, too; all this would seem to argue some uncommon vivacity of intelligence. But not precisely so. For nothing was this man more remarkable, than for a certain impersonal stolidity as it were; impersonal, I say; for it so shaded off into the surrounding infinite of things, that it seemed one with the general stolidity discernible in the whole visible world; which while pauselessly active in uncounted modes, still eternally holds its peace, and ignores you, though you dig foundations for cathedrals. Yet was this half-horrible stolidity in him, involving, too, as it appeared, an all-ramifying heartlessness;—yet was it oddly dashed at times, with an old, crutch-like, antediluvian, wheezing humorousness, not unstreaked now and then with a certain grizzled wittiness; such as might have served to pass the time during the midnight watch on the bearded forecastle of Noah’s ark. Was it that this old carpenter had been a life-long wanderer, whose much rolling, to and fro, not only had gathered no moss; but what is more, had rubbed off whatever small outward clingings might have originally pertained to him? He was a stript abstract; an unfractioned integral; uncompromised as a new-born babe; living without premeditated reference to this world or the next. You might almost say, that this strange uncompromisedness in him involved a sort of unintelligence; for in his numerous trades, he did not seem to work so much by reason or by instinct, or simply because he had been tutored to it, or by any intermixture of all these, even or uneven; but merely by a kind of deaf and dumb, spontaneous literal process. He was a pure manipulator; his brain, if he had ever had one, must have early oozed along into the muscles of his fingers. He was like one of those unreasoning but still highly useful, multum in parvo, Sheffield contrivances, assuming the exterior—though a little swelled—of a common pocket knife; but containing, not only blades of various sizes, but also screw-drivers, cork-screws, tweezers, awls, pens, rulers, nail-filers, countersinkers. So, if his superiors wanted to use the carpenter for a screw-driver, all they had to do was to open that part of him, and the screw was fast: or if for tweezers, take him up by the legs, and there they were.
This carpenter was ready in every way, indifferent and impartial about everything. He thought of teeth as bits of ivory, heads as mere top-blocks, and regarded men themselves as nothing more than capstans. Yet, with such a wide range of skills and such quick expertise, you might think this hinted at some extraordinary intelligence. But not exactly. What stood out most about this man was his strange, almost impersonal dullness—as if he was so immersed in the vastness of existence that he blended into it, like the quiet, persistent stillness of the world itself, which keeps moving in countless ways but remains silent and unbothered, even if you're digging the foundations for cathedrals. This uncanny dullness, which came with an apparent lack of emotion, was at times oddly seasoned with an old, wheezy sense of humor, and occasionally streaked with a weathered sort of wit—something you could imagine helping pass the time during a midnight watch on Noah’s ark. Maybe this old carpenter had spent his whole life wandering, rolling from place to place, gathering neither moss nor anything else, and shedding even the small things he might have once held onto. He was stripped down to the basics, an unflinching whole, as untouched by compromise as a newborn baby—living without concern for this world or the next. You might almost say this strange straightforwardness revealed a kind of lack of intelligence; for in his many trades, he didn’t seem to act out of reason, instinct, training, or any mix of these. Instead, he functioned through a kind of silent and automatic process. He was a pure craftsman; it was as if his brain, if it ever existed, had long since flowed into the muscles of his fingers. He resembled one of those uncomplicated but surprisingly effective multi-tools from Sheffield—a slightly oversized pocketknife containing not just blades of various sizes, but also screwdrivers, corkscrews, tweezers, awls, pens, rulers, nail files, and countersinkers all in one. If his superiors needed the carpenter to act as a screwdriver, they just had to switch to that part of him, and the screw got tightened. If they needed tweezers, they could grab him by the legs, and there they were.
Yet, as previously hinted, this omnitooled, open-and-shut carpenter, was, after all, no mere machine of an automaton. If he did not have a common soul in him, he had a subtle something that somehow anomalously did its duty. What that was, whether essence of quicksilver, or a few drops of hartshorn, there is no telling. But there it was; and there it had abided for now some sixty years or more. And this it was, this same unaccountable, cunning life-principle in him; this it was, that kept him a great part of the time soliloquizing; but only like an unreasoning wheel, which also hummingly soliloquizes; or rather, his body was a sentry-box and this soliloquizer on guard there, and talking all the time to keep himself awake.
As mentioned earlier, this all-purpose, straightforward carpenter wasn't just some mindless machine or robot. If he didn’t have an ordinary soul inside him, he had some kind of mysterious force that managed to do its job. What that force was—whether a spark of quicksilver or a few drops of ammonia—nobody could say. But it was there, and it had stayed with him for over sixty years. And it was this same inexplicable, clever life force within him that made him spend a lot of time talking to himself; though more like a mindless spinning wheel that hums to itself. Or perhaps his body was a guard shack, and this soliloquizer was the guard inside, constantly talking to stay awake.
CHAPTER 108. Ahab and the Carpenter.
The Deck—First Night Watch.
(Carpenter standing before his vice-bench, and by the light of two lanterns busily filing the ivory joist for the leg, which joist is firmly fixed in the vice. Slabs of ivory, leather straps, pads, screws, and various tools of all sorts lying about the bench. Forward, the red flame of the forge is seen, where the blacksmith is at work.)
(The carpenter stands at his workbench, illuminated by two lanterns, meticulously filing the ivory beam for the leg, which is securely clamped in the vice. Around the bench, there are slabs of ivory, leather straps, padding, screws, and a variety of tools scattered about. Up ahead, the glow of the forge can be seen, where the blacksmith is hard at work.)
Drat the file, and drat the bone! That is hard which should be soft, and that is soft which should be hard. So we go, who file old jaws and shinbones. Let’s try another. Aye, now, this works better (sneezes). Halloa, this bone dust is (sneezes)—why it’s (sneezes)—yes it’s (sneezes)—bless my soul, it won’t let me speak! This is what an old fellow gets now for working in dead lumber. Saw a live tree, and you don’t get this dust; amputate a live bone, and you don’t get it (sneezes). Come, come, you old Smut, there, bear a hand, and let’s have that ferule and buckle-screw; I’ll be ready for them presently. Lucky now (sneezes) there’s no knee-joint to make; that might puzzle a little; but a mere shinbone—why it’s easy as making hop-poles; only I should like to put a good finish on. Time, time; if I but only had the time, I could turn him out as neat a leg now as ever (sneezes) scraped to a lady in a parlor. Those buckskin legs and calves of legs I’ve seen in shop windows wouldn’t compare at all. They soak water, they do; and of course get rheumatic, and have to be doctored (sneezes) with washes and lotions, just like live legs. There; before I saw it off, now, I must call his old Mogulship, and see whether the length will be all right; too short, if anything, I guess. Ha! that’s the heel; we are in luck; here he comes, or it’s somebody else, that’s certain.
Curse the file, and curse the bone! What’s supposed to be soft is hard, and what’s meant to be hard is soft. That’s how it goes when you’re filing old jaws and shinbones. Let’s try another one. Ah, this one’s better (sneezes). Hey, this bone dust is (sneezes)—oh, it’s (sneezes)—yes, it’s (sneezes)—good grief, I can’t even talk! This is what you get for working with old, dead stuff. You saw a live tree, no dust; cut into a live bone, no dust (sneezes). Come on, old Smut, give me a hand here. Let’s get that ferrule and buckle-screw. I’ll need them soon enough. Lucky for me (sneezes) there’s no knee joint to deal with—now that would be tricky. But just a plain shinbone? That’s no harder than making hop-poles. I’d just like to give it a good finish is all. Time, though—if I only had more time, I could make as fine a leg as any (sneezes) gentleman ever bowed on in a parlor. Those fake buckskin legs and calves you see in shop windows? They’re nothing. They soak up water, get all rheumatic, and need a bunch of treatments with washes and lotions like real legs do (sneezes). Alright, before I saw it off, I need to call His Old Mogulship and make sure the length is right. Probably on the short side, if anything. Ah, wait, there’s the heel—looks like we’re in luck. Here he comes now—or someone else, at least.
AHAB (advancing). (During the ensuing scene, the carpenter continues sneezing at times.)
AHAB (walking forward). (During the following scene, the carpenter occasionally sneezes.)
Well, manmaker!
Well, dude!
Just in time, sir. If the captain pleases, I will now mark the length. Let me measure, sir.
Just in time, sir. If it’s alright with the captain, I’ll mark the length now. Let me measure it, sir.
Measured for a leg! good. Well, it’s not the first time. About it! There; keep thy finger on it. This is a cogent vice thou hast here, carpenter; let me feel its grip once. So, so; it does pinch some.
Measured for a leg! Good. Well, it’s not the first time. All right, let’s get to it! There; keep your finger on it. That’s a strong clamp you’ve got there, carpenter; let me feel how tight it holds. Alright, alright; it does squeeze quite a bit.
Oh, sir, it will break bones—beware, beware!
Oh, sir, it’ll break bones—be careful, be careful!
No fear; I like a good grip; I like to feel something in this slippery world that can hold, man. What’s Prometheus about there?—the blacksmith, I mean—what’s he about?
No worries; I like a solid hold. I like to feel something firm in this slippery world that can keep a grip. What's Prometheus up to there—the blacksmith, I mean—what's he doing?
He must be forging the buckle-screw, sir, now.
He's probably working on the buckle screw right now, sir.
Right. It’s a partnership; he supplies the muscle part. He makes a fierce red flame there!
Alright, it's a partnership; he brings the muscle to the table. Look at that fierce red flame he’s making there!
Aye, sir; he must have the white heat for this kind of fine work.
Yes, sir, he needs the intense heat for this kind of precise work.
Um-m. So he must. I do deem it now a most meaning thing, that that old Greek, Prometheus, who made men, they say, should have been a blacksmith, and animated them with fire; for what’s made in fire must properly belong to fire; and so hell’s probable. How the soot flies! This must be the remainder the Greek made the Africans of. Carpenter, when he’s through with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel shoulder-blades; there’s a pedlar aboard with a crushing pack.
Hmm. Yeah, he must. I really think it’s meaningful that the old Greek, Prometheus, who supposedly created humans, was a blacksmith and gave them life with fire. Things made in fire naturally belong to fire, so hell seems pretty likely. Look at all this soot flying around! This must be what the Greek left behind when he created Africans. Carpenter, when he’s done with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel shoulder blades—a peddler on board has a pack so heavy it’s crushing him.
Sir?
Excuse me?
Hold; while Prometheus is about it, I’ll order a complete man after a desirable pattern. Imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks; then, chest modelled after the Thames Tunnel; then, legs with roots to ’em, to stay in one place; then, arms three feet through the wrist; no heart at all, brass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains; and let me see—shall I order eyes to see outwards? No, but put a sky-light on top of his head to illuminate inwards. There, take the order, and away.
Wait; while Prometheus is at it, I’ll request a fully customized man built to my specifications. First, make him fifty feet tall in his shoes; then give him a chest designed like the Thames Tunnel; legs so solid they’re rooted to the ground; arms three feet thick at the wrist; no heart at all, a brass forehead, and about a quarter-acre-sized brain. Hmm, should I ask for outward-facing eyes? No, instead, install a skylight on top of his head to light up the inside. There, write that down and get to work.
Now, what’s he speaking about, and who’s he speaking to, I should like to know? Shall I keep standing here? (aside).
Now, what's he talking about, and who’s he talking to, I’d really like to know. Should I stay standing here? (aside).
’Tis but indifferent architecture to make a blind dome; here’s one. No, no, no; I must have a lantern.
It's not exactly great architecture to build a blind dome; look, here's one. No, no, no—I need a lantern.
Ho, ho! That’s it, hey? Here are two, sir; one will serve my turn.
Haha! That's it, huh? Here are two, sir; one will do for me.
What art thou thrusting that thief-catcher into my face for, man? Thrusted light is worse than presented pistols.
Why are you shoving that thief-catcher in my face, man? Shoved light is worse than pointed guns.
I thought, sir, that you spoke to carpenter.
I thought, sir, that you were talking to the carpenter.
Carpenter? why that’s—but no;—a very tidy, and, I may say, an extremely gentlemanlike sort of business thou art in here, carpenter;—or would’st thou rather work in clay?
Carpenter? Well, that’s—but no;—a really neat and, I might say, quite a respectable and gentlemanly kind of work you’ve got here, carpenter. Or would you prefer working with clay?
Sir?—Clay? clay, sir? That’s mud; we leave clay to ditchers, sir.
Excuse me? — Clay? Clay, sir? That’s just mud; we leave clay to ditch diggers, sir.
The fellow’s impious! What art thou sneezing about?
The guy's disrespectful! What's with you sneezing?
Bone is rather dusty, sir.
Bone is pretty dusty, sir.
Take the hint, then; and when thou art dead, never bury thyself under living people’s noses.
Take the hint, then; and when you’re dead, don’t bury yourself where living people can smell you.
Sir?—oh! ah!—I guess so;—yes—oh, dear!
Sir?—oh! ah!—I suppose so;—yes—oh, no!
Look ye, carpenter, I dare say thou callest thyself a right good workmanlike workman, eh? Well, then, will it speak thoroughly well for thy work, if, when I come to mount this leg thou makest, I shall nevertheless feel another leg in the same identical place with it; that is, carpenter, my old lost leg; the flesh and blood one, I mean. Canst thou not drive that old Adam away?
Listen, carpenter, I guess you consider yourself a pretty skilled worker, huh? Well then, will it really speak well for your craftsmanship if, when I go to use this leg you're making, I still feel another leg in the exact same spot as this one—my old, lost leg; the flesh-and-blood one, I mean. Can't you get rid of that old feeling?
Truly, sir, I begin to understand somewhat now. Yes, I have heard something curious on that score, sir; how that a dismasted man never entirely loses the feeling of his old spar, but it will be still pricking him at times. May I humbly ask if it be really so, sir?
Honestly, sir, I think I'm starting to understand a bit now. Yes, I've heard something interesting about that—how a man who's lost his mast can still feel it sometimes, like it's still there and bothering him. May I respectfully ask if that's really true, sir?
It is, man. Look, put thy live leg here in the place where mine once was; so, now, here is only one distinct leg to the eye, yet two to the soul. Where thou feelest tingling life; there, exactly there, there to a hair, do I. Is’t a riddle?
Sure thing, man. Look, put your real leg here where mine used to be; so now, there’s only one visible leg, but two in spirit. Where you feel that tingling life—right there, exactly there, down to an inch—that’s where I feel it too. Does that sound like a riddle to you?
I should humbly call it a poser, sir.
I would modestly call it a tricky question, sir.
Hist, then. How dost thou know that some entire, living, thinking thing may not be invisibly and uninterpenetratingly standing precisely where thou now standest; aye, and standing there in thy spite? In thy most solitary hours, then, dost thou not fear eavesdroppers? Hold, don’t speak! And if I still feel the smart of my crushed leg, though it be now so long dissolved; then, why mayst not thou, carpenter, feel the fiery pains of hell for ever, and without a body? Hah!
Quiet, now. How do you know that some whole, living, thinking being might not be invisibly and unreachably standing right where you're standing now—yes, even standing there despite you? In your loneliest moments, don't you fear someone listening in? Stop, don't say a word! And if I still feel the pain of my crushed leg, even though it dissolved long ago, then why couldn't you, carpenter, feel the endless burning agony of hell forever, even without a body? Hah!
Good Lord! Truly, sir, if it comes to that, I must calculate over again; I think I didn’t carry a small figure, sir.
Oh my goodness! Honestly, sir, if it’s about that, I’ll have to recalculate; I think I might have missed a small number, sir.
Look ye, pudding-heads should never grant premises.—How long before the leg is done?
Listen, you idiots, don't make assumptions.—How much longer until the leg is ready?
Perhaps an hour, sir.
Maybe an hour, sir.
Bungle away at it then, and bring it to me (turns to go). Oh, Life! Here I am, proud as Greek god, and yet standing debtor to this blockhead for a bone to stand on! Cursed be that mortal inter-indebtedness which will not do away with ledgers. I would be free as air; and I’m down in the whole world’s books. I am so rich, I could have given bid for bid with the wealthiest Prætorians at the auction of the Roman empire (which was the world’s); and yet I owe for the flesh in the tongue I brag with. By heavens! I’ll get a crucible, and into it, and dissolve myself down to one small, compendious vertebra. So.
Go ahead and mess it up, then, and bring it to me (turns to leave). Oh, Life! Here I am, as proud as a Greek god, yet I still owe this fool for a leg to stand on! Curse this miserable web of debts that can’t get rid of ledgers. I wish I were as free as the wind, but I’m stuck in everyone’s accounts. I’m so wealthy, I could’ve competed with the richest Praetorians at the auction of the Roman Empire (which was the world); yet I’m in debt for the very flesh in the tongue I’m using to brag! By heaven! I’ll get a crucible, throw myself in, and melt myself down to one small, simple vertebra. There.
CARPENTER (resuming his work).
CARPENTER (getting back to work).
Well, well, well! Stubb knows him best of all, and Stubb always says he’s queer; says nothing but that one sufficient little word queer; he’s queer, says Stubb; he’s queer—queer, queer; and keeps dinning it into Mr. Starbuck all the time—queer—sir—queer, queer, very queer. And here’s his leg! Yes, now that I think of it, here’s his bedfellow! has a stick of whale’s jaw-bone for a wife! And this is his leg; he’ll stand on this. What was that now about one leg standing in three places, and all three places standing in one hell—how was that? Oh! I don’t wonder he looked so scornful at me! I’m a sort of strange-thoughted sometimes, they say; but that’s only haphazard-like. Then, a short, little old body like me, should never undertake to wade out into deep waters with tall, heron-built captains; the water chucks you under the chin pretty quick, and there’s a great cry for life-boats. And here’s the heron’s leg! long and slim, sure enough! Now, for most folks one pair of legs lasts a lifetime, and that must be because they use them mercifully, as a tender-hearted old lady uses her roly-poly old coach-horses. But Ahab; oh he’s a hard driver. Look, driven one leg to death, and spavined the other for life, and now wears out bone legs by the cord. Halloa, there, you Smut! bear a hand there with those screws, and let’s finish it before the resurrection fellow comes a-calling with his horn for all legs, true or false, as brewery-men go round collecting old beer barrels, to fill ’em up again. What a leg this is! It looks like a real live leg, filed down to nothing but the core; he’ll be standing on this to-morrow; he’ll be taking altitudes on it. Halloa! I almost forgot the little oval slate, smoothed ivory, where he figures up the latitude. So, so; chisel, file, and sand-paper, now!
Well, well, well! Stubb knows him better than anyone, and Stubb always says he’s strange; just uses that one simple word—strange; says it over and over—strange, strange, strange. Stubb keeps drilling it into Mr. Starbuck—strange, sir, strange, very strange. And look at his leg! Yeah, now that I think about it, here’s his companion—a stick of a whale’s jawbone acting as his spouse! And this is his leg; he stands on it. What was that again about one leg standing in three places, and all three places standing in one hell—how did that go? Oh! No wonder he looked so scornful at me! People say I have odd thoughts sometimes, but that’s just kind of random. Then again, a short little guy like me should never try to wade out into deep waters with tall, heron-like captains; the water’s up to your chin in no time, and you end up yelling for lifeboats. And look at the heron’s leg—long and skinny, no doubt about it! Most people get one pair of legs that last a lifetime, probably because they’re gentle with them, like an old lady treating her pudgy old carriage horses carefully. But Ahab—oh, he drives hard. Look at him—he’s run one leg into the ground, wrecked the other for good, and now he’s burning through his wooden legs one after another. Hey, you there, Smut! Help out with those screws so we can get this finished before the resurrection guy shows up blowing his horn, collecting all the legs, fake or real, like brewery workers collecting old beer barrels to refill. What a leg this is! It looks like a real leg, stripped all the way down to the core. He’ll be standing on this tomorrow, even using it to take measurements. Oh, wait! I almost forgot the little oval slate—nice and smooth, like ivory—where he calculates the latitude. All right, time to get to it: chisel, file, and sandpaper! Let’s go!
CHAPTER 109. Ahab and Starbuck in the Cabin.
According to usage they were pumping the ship next morning; and lo! no inconsiderable oil came up with the water; the casks below must have sprung a bad leak. Much concern was shown; and Starbuck went down into the cabin to report this unfavourable affair.*
As part of their routine, they were pumping the ship the next morning, and, surprise! A significant amount of oil came up with the water; the barrels below must have developed a serious leak. Everyone was quite worried, and Starbuck went down to the cabin to report this bad news.
*In Sperm-whalemen with any considerable quantity of oil on board, it is a regular semi-weekly duty to conduct a hose into the hold, and drench the casks with sea-water; which afterwards, at varying intervals, is removed by the ship’s pumps. Hereby the casks are sought to be kept damply tight; while by the changed character of the withdrawn water, the mariners readily detect any serious leakage in the precious cargo.
*On sperm-whaling ships carrying a substantial amount of oil, it’s a routine task done twice a week to insert a hose into the hold and soak the barrels with seawater. Later, at different intervals, this water is pumped out using the ship's pumps. This process is meant to keep the barrels moist and sealed tightly, while the crew can easily spot any major leaks in the valuable cargo by examining the altered condition of the pumped-out water.
Now, from the South and West the Pequod was drawing nigh to Formosa and the Bashee Isles, between which lies one of the tropical outlets from the China waters into the Pacific. And so Starbuck found Ahab with a general chart of the oriental archipelagoes spread before him; and another separate one representing the long eastern coasts of the Japanese islands—Niphon, Matsmai, and Sikoke. With his snow-white new ivory leg braced against the screwed leg of his table, and with a long pruning-hook of a jack-knife in his hand, the wondrous old man, with his back to the gangway door, was wrinkling his brow, and tracing his old courses again.
Now, from the south and west, the Pequod was approaching Formosa and the Bashee Islands, between which lies one of the tropical gateways from the China Seas into the Pacific. Starbuck found Ahab studying a general map of the eastern archipelagos spread out in front of him, along with another smaller map showing the long eastern coasts of the Japanese islands—Nihon, Matsmai, and Shikoku. With his gleaming new ivory leg propped against the bolted leg of the table, and holding a long, sharp jackknife like a pruning hook, the remarkable old man, his back to the gangway door, furrowed his brow and retraced his old sailing routes.
“Who’s there?” hearing the footstep at the door, but not turning round to it. “On deck! Begone!”
"Who's there?" he asked, hearing the footsteps at the door but not turning to look. "Get on deck! Go away!"
“Captain Ahab mistakes; it is I. The oil in the hold is leaking, sir. We must up Burtons and break out.”
"Captain Ahab, you're mistaken; it's me. The oil in the hold is leaking, sir. We need to raise the Burtons and break it out."
“Up Burtons and break out? Now that we are nearing Japan; heave-to here for a week to tinker a parcel of old hoops?”
"Head to Burtons and make a break for it? Now that we're so close to Japan; stop here for a week to fix a bunch of old barrels?"
“Either do that, sir, or waste in one day more oil than we may make good in a year. What we come twenty thousand miles to get is worth saving, sir.”
"Either do that, sir, or waste in one day more oil than we can produce in a year. What we travel twenty thousand miles to collect is worth saving, sir."
“So it is, so it is; if we get it.”
"That's the way it is, that's the way it is—if we get it."
“I was speaking of the oil in the hold, sir.”
"I was talking about the oil in the storage, sir."
“And I was not speaking or thinking of that at all. Begone! Let it leak! I’m all aleak myself. Aye! leaks in leaks! not only full of leaky casks, but those leaky casks are in a leaky ship; and that’s a far worse plight than the Pequod’s, man. Yet I don’t stop to plug my leak; for who can find it in the deep-loaded hull; or how hope to plug it, even if found, in this life’s howling gale? Starbuck! I’ll not have the Burtons hoisted.”
"I wasn’t even talking or thinking about that. Go away! Let it leak! I’m leaking all over the place myself. Yeah, leaks on top of leaks! Not only am I full of leaky barrels, but those leaky barrels are inside a leaky ship—and that’s a much worse situation than the Pequod’s, man. But I don’t bother trying to fix my leak, because who can even find it in the heavily loaded hull? And even if I could find it, how could I hope to fix it in the middle of this life’s raging storm? Starbuck, I don’t want the Burtons hoisted."
“What will the owners say, sir?”
"What will the bosses say, sir?"
“Let the owners stand on Nantucket beach and outyell the Typhoons. What cares Ahab? Owners, owners? Thou art always prating to me, Starbuck, about those miserly owners, as if the owners were my conscience. But look ye, the only real owner of anything is its commander; and hark ye, my conscience is in this ship’s keel.—On deck!”
"Let the owners stand on Nantucket beach and try to outshout the typhoons. What does Ahab care? Owners, owners? You're always going on about those stingy owners, Starbuck, as if they were my conscience. But listen, the only real owner of anything is its commander; and for your information, my conscience is in this ship's keel.—Now get on deck!"
“Captain Ahab,” said the reddening mate, moving further into the cabin, with a daring so strangely respectful and cautious that it almost seemed not only every way seeking to avoid the slightest outward manifestation of itself, but within also seemed more than half distrustful of itself; “A better man than I might well pass over in thee what he would quickly enough resent in a younger man; aye, and in a happier, Captain Ahab.”
"Captain Ahab," said the blushing mate, stepping further into the cabin with a boldness that was oddly respectful and cautious, almost as if he was trying to avoid showing any sign of it, and inside himself, he seemed more than half unsure about it too. "A better man than me might let go of things in you that he’d quickly take offense at in a younger man—yes, and in a happier one, Captain Ahab."
“Devils! Dost thou then so much as dare to critically think of me?—On deck!”
"Devils! Do you actually dare to critically think about me?—Get on deck!"
“Nay, sir, not yet; I do entreat. And I do dare, sir—to be forbearing! Shall we not understand each other better than hitherto, Captain Ahab?”
"No, sir, not yet; I ask you, please. And I dare, sir—to hold back! Can't we come to understand each other better than we have so far, Captain Ahab?"
Ahab seized a loaded musket from the rack (forming part of most South-Sea-men’s cabin furniture), and pointing it towards Starbuck, exclaimed: “There is one God that is Lord over the earth, and one Captain that is lord over the Pequod.—On deck!”
Ahab grabbed a loaded rifle from the rack (a common piece of furniture in most South Sea sailors' cabins) and aimed it at Starbuck, shouting, "There’s one God who rules the earth, and one Captain who commands the Pequod. Get on deck!"
For an instant in the flashing eyes of the mate, and his fiery cheeks, you would have almost thought that he had really received the blaze of the levelled tube. But, mastering his emotion, he half calmly rose, and as he quitted the cabin, paused for an instant and said: “Thou hast outraged, not insulted me, sir; but for that I ask thee not to beware of Starbuck; thou wouldst but laugh; but let Ahab beware of Ahab; beware of thyself, old man.”
For a moment, in the mate's flashing eyes and fiery cheeks, you might have thought he'd actually been hit by the blast of the aimed gun. But controlling his emotions, he rose somewhat calmly, and as he left the cabin, he paused for a moment and said, “You’ve outraged me, not insulted me, sir; and for that, I won’t warn you to beware of Starbuck—you’d just laugh. But let Ahab beware of Ahab; beware of yourself, old man.”
“He waxes brave, but nevertheless obeys; most careful bravery that!” murmured Ahab, as Starbuck disappeared. “What’s that he said—Ahab beware of Ahab—there’s something there!” Then unconsciously using the musket for a staff, with an iron brow he paced to and fro in the little cabin; but presently the thick plaits of his forehead relaxed, and returning the gun to the rack, he went to the deck.
“He’s getting bold, but he still obeys; cautious bravery, indeed!” murmured Ahab as Starbuck walked away. “What did he say—Ahab, beware of Ahab—there’s something to that!” Then, without realizing it, he used the musket as a walking stick, pacing back and forth in the small cabin with a hard expression. But soon, the deep lines on his forehead eased, and after putting the musket back in the rack, he headed up to the deck.
“Thou art but too good a fellow, Starbuck,” he said lowly to the mate; then raising his voice to the crew: “Furl the t’gallant-sails, and close-reef the top-sails, fore and aft; back the main-yard; up Burton, and break out in the main-hold.”
"You're too good of a guy, Starbuck," he said quietly to the mate; then raising his voice to the crew: "Furl the topgallant sails and close-reef the topsails, fore and aft; brace the main yard back; hoist up Burton, and break out in the main hold."
It were perhaps vain to surmise exactly why it was, that as respecting Starbuck, Ahab thus acted. It may have been a flash of honesty in him; or mere prudential policy which, under the circumstance, imperiously forbade the slightest symptom of open disaffection, however transient, in the important chief officer of his ship. However it was, his orders were executed; and the Burtons were hoisted.
It might be pointless to guess exactly why Ahab acted the way he did toward Starbuck. Maybe it was a moment of honesty on his part, or just cautious strategy that, given the situation, absolutely demanded he avoid even the smallest sign of open conflict, no matter how brief, with the crucial first officer of his ship. Whatever the reason, his orders were followed, and the Burtons were raised.
CHAPTER 110. Queequeg in His Coffin.
Upon searching, it was found that the casks last struck into the hold were perfectly sound, and that the leak must be further off. So, it being calm weather, they broke out deeper and deeper, disturbing the slumbers of the huge ground-tier butts; and from that black midnight sending those gigantic moles into the daylight above. So deep did they go; and so ancient, and corroded, and weedy the aspect of the lowermost puncheons, that you almost looked next for some mouldy corner-stone cask containing coins of Captain Noah, with copies of the posted placards, vainly warning the infatuated old world from the flood. Tierce after tierce, too, of water, and bread, and beef, and shooks of staves, and iron bundles of hoops, were hoisted out, till at last the piled decks were hard to get about; and the hollow hull echoed under foot, as if you were treading over empty catacombs, and reeled and rolled in the sea like an air-freighted demijohn. Top-heavy was the ship as a dinnerless student with all Aristotle in his head. Well was it that the Typhoons did not visit them then.
When they searched, they discovered that the barrels most recently loaded into the hold were completely intact, meaning the leak had to be farther away. Since the weather was calm, they dug deeper and deeper, disturbing the massive barrels lying at the bottom, and hauling those monstrous containers up into the daylight from the dark depths below. They went so deep that the oldest, most corroded, and algae-covered barrels at the very bottom looked as if they might contain some ancient treasure—perhaps coins from Captain Noah himself, alongside old warnings about the flood that the stubborn world had ignored. Barrel after barrel of water, bread, beef, stacks of wooden staves, and bundles of iron hoops were hauled out, until the decks were so cluttered it was hard to move around. The ship’s hollow hull echoed beneath their feet as if they were walking through empty catacombs. It swayed and rocked on the sea like a barrel half-filled with air. The ship was as unbalanced as a hungry student overloaded with all the philosophies of Aristotle in his head. It’s a good thing the Typhoons weren’t around to strike them at that time.
Now, at this time it was that my poor pagan companion, and fast bosom-friend, Queequeg, was seized with a fever, which brought him nigh to his endless end.
At this time, my poor pagan friend and close companion, Queequeg, came down with a fever that nearly brought him to his death.
Be it said, that in this vocation of whaling, sinecures are unknown; dignity and danger go hand in hand; till you get to be Captain, the higher you rise the harder you toil. So with poor Queequeg, who, as harpooneer, must not only face all the rage of the living whale, but—as we have elsewhere seen—mount his dead back in a rolling sea; and finally descend into the gloom of the hold, and bitterly sweating all day in that subterraneous confinement, resolutely manhandle the clumsiest casks and see to their stowage. To be short, among whalemen, the harpooneers are the holders, so called.
In the whaling profession, cushy jobs don’t exist; dignity and danger go hand in hand, and the higher you climb, the harder you work—at least until you’re the Captain. Take poor Queequeg, for example. As a harpooner, not only does he have to face the fury of a live whale, but—as we’ve seen before—he has to climb onto its dead, rolling body in the open sea. Then he has to descend into the dark hold, sweating bitterly all day in that cramped space, manhandling the heavy, awkward casks and making sure they’re properly stowed. Simply put, among whalemen, the harpooners are the so-called holders.
Poor Queequeg! when the ship was about half disembowelled, you should have stooped over the hatchway, and peered down upon him there; where, stripped to his woollen drawers, the tattooed savage was crawling about amid that dampness and slime, like a green spotted lizard at the bottom of a well. And a well, or an ice-house, it somehow proved to him, poor pagan; where, strange to say, for all the heat of his sweatings, he caught a terrible chill which lapsed into a fever; and at last, after some days’ suffering, laid him in his hammock, close to the very sill of the door of death. How he wasted and wasted away in those few long-lingering days, till there seemed but little left of him but his frame and tattooing. But as all else in him thinned, and his cheek-bones grew sharper, his eyes, nevertheless, seemed growing fuller and fuller; they became of a strange softness of lustre; and mildly but deeply looked out at you there from his sickness, a wondrous testimony to that immortal health in him which could not die, or be weakened. And like circles on the water, which, as they grow fainter, expand; so his eyes seemed rounding and rounding, like the rings of Eternity. An awe that cannot be named would steal over you as you sat by the side of this waning savage, and saw as strange things in his face, as any beheld who were bystanders when Zoroaster died. For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books. And the drawing near of Death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could adequately tell. So that—let us say it again—no dying Chaldee or Greek had higher and holier thoughts than those, whose mysterious shades you saw creeping over the face of poor Queequeg, as he quietly lay in his swaying hammock, and the rolling sea seemed gently rocking him to his final rest, and the ocean’s invisible flood-tide lifted him higher and higher towards his destined heaven.
Poor Queequeg! When the ship was about halfway emptied, you should have leaned over the hatchway and looked down at him. There he was, stripped down to his woolen underclothes, the tattooed "savage," crawling around in all that dampness and slime like a green-spotted lizard at the bottom of a well. And to him, poor guy, it felt just like a well—or maybe even an icehouse. Strangely, despite all his sweating from the effort, he caught a terrible chill that turned into a fever. Eventually, after a few days of suffering, it left him confined to his hammock, teetering on the edge of death’s door. How thin he became in those last, lingering days, wasting away until there was hardly anything left of him but his frame and those tattoos. But as his body weakened and his cheekbones sharpened, his eyes seemed to grow brighter and more alive. They had an unusual kind of soft, deep glow, and from his sickness, they looked out at you with a quiet, astonishing testament to the immortal energy within him—something that couldn’t be killed or diminished. Like ripples spreading out on water, fading but expanding endlessly, his eyes kept widening, like rings of eternity. An indescribable sense of awe would creep over you as you sat by his side, watching the changes in his fading face—so strange it was, like the expressions seen by those present at Zoroaster’s death. For everything that’s truly extraordinary and profound in a person has never been fully captured in words or books. The approach of death, which equalizes and touches everyone, brings a final, ineffable truth that only a voice from the afterlife could fully explain. So, let me say it again—no dying philosopher, Chaldean or Greek, ever had more noble or elevated thoughts than those you could see reflected in poor Queequeg’s face. As he lay there, quietly resting in his swaying hammock, it was as if the rolling sea was gently cradling him toward his final peace, and the invisible tide of the ocean was lifting him higher and higher, carrying him toward his destined heaven.
Not a man of the crew but gave him up; and, as for Queequeg himself, what he thought of his case was forcibly shown by a curious favour he asked. He called one to him in the grey morning watch, when the day was just breaking, and taking his hand, said that while in Nantucket he had chanced to see certain little canoes of dark wood, like the rich war-wood of his native isle; and upon inquiry, he had learned that all whalemen who died in Nantucket, were laid in those same dark canoes, and that the fancy of being so laid had much pleased him; for it was not unlike the custom of his own race, who, after embalming a dead warrior, stretched him out in his canoe, and so left him to be floated away to the starry archipelagoes; for not only do they believe that the stars are isles, but that far beyond all visible horizons, their own mild, uncontinented seas, interflow with the blue heavens; and so form the white breakers of the milky way. He added, that he shuddered at the thought of being buried in his hammock, according to the usual sea-custom, tossed like something vile to the death-devouring sharks. No: he desired a canoe like those of Nantucket, all the more congenial to him, being a whaleman, that like a whale-boat these coffin-canoes were without a keel; though that involved but uncertain steering, and much lee-way adown the dim ages.
Not one man in the crew had any hope for him; and as for Queequeg himself, his thoughts about his situation were made clear by an unusual request he made. During the grey hours of the early morning watch, as the first light of day appeared, he called someone over, took their hand, and said that while he was in Nantucket, he had noticed some small canoes made of dark wood, similar to the rich war-wood from his native island. When he asked about them, he learned that all whalemen who died in Nantucket were buried in those same dark canoes. The idea had greatly appealed to him because it reminded him of the traditions of his own people, who would embalm a dead warrior, lay him in a canoe, and set him adrift toward the starry archipelagos. His people believed that the stars were islands and that beyond the visible horizons, their peaceful, boundless seas merged with the blue heavens, forming the white waves of the Milky Way. He went on to say that the thought of being buried in his hammock, as was the typical sea custom—thrown to the death-hungry sharks like something worthless—made him shudder. No, he wanted a canoe like those in Nantucket, which felt more fitting to him as a whaleman. These coffin-canoes, like a whaleboat, had no keel, which meant uncertain steering and a lot of drifting over the distant ages—but he still preferred it.
Now, when this strange circumstance was made known aft, the carpenter was at once commanded to do Queequeg’s bidding, whatever it might include. There was some heathenish, coffin-coloured old lumber aboard, which, upon a long previous voyage, had been cut from the aboriginal groves of the Lackaday islands, and from these dark planks the coffin was recommended to be made. No sooner was the carpenter apprised of the order, than taking his rule, he forthwith with all the indifferent promptitude of his character, proceeded into the forecastle and took Queequeg’s measure with great accuracy, regularly chalking Queequeg’s person as he shifted the rule.
When this unusual request was made known to the crew, the carpenter was immediately ordered to carry out Queequeg’s instructions, no matter what they were. There was some old, dark, coffin-like wood on board that had been harvested years ago on a previous voyage from the ancient forests of the Lackaday Islands. It was suggested that the coffin be made from these planks. As soon as the carpenter received his orders, he grabbed his ruler and, with his usual calm and efficient manner, went to the forecastle and meticulously measured Queequeg, marking his body with chalk as he moved the ruler around.
“Ah! poor fellow! he’ll have to die now,” ejaculated the Long Island sailor.
"Ah, poor guy! He's going to have to die now," exclaimed the Long Island sailor.
Going to his vice-bench, the carpenter for convenience sake and general reference, now transferringly measured on it the exact length the coffin was to be, and then made the transfer permanent by cutting two notches at its extremities. This done, he marshalled the planks and his tools, and to work.
Walking over to his workbench, the carpenter, for convenience and easy reference, measured out the exact length the coffin needed to be, marking it permanently by cutting two notches at the ends. With that done, he gathered the planks and tools and got to work.
When the last nail was driven, and the lid duly planed and fitted, he lightly shouldered the coffin and went forward with it, inquiring whether they were ready for it yet in that direction.
When the final nail was hammered in, and the lid properly smoothed and fitted, he casually hoisted the coffin onto his shoulder and walked ahead with it, asking if they needed it over there yet.
Overhearing the indignant but half-humorous cries with which the people on deck began to drive the coffin away, Queequeg, to every one’s consternation, commanded that the thing should be instantly brought to him, nor was there any denying him; seeing that, of all mortals, some dying men are the most tyrannical; and certainly, since they will shortly trouble us so little for evermore, the poor fellows ought to be indulged.
Hearing the angry but somewhat amused shouts from the people on deck as they tried to get rid of the coffin, Queequeg, to everyone’s shock, demanded that it be brought to him right away. No one dared refuse him, since dying men can often be the most demanding of all, and honestly, since they’ll soon no longer be a bother to us forever, they probably deserve to be humored.
Leaning over in his hammock, Queequeg long regarded the coffin with an attentive eye. He then called for his harpoon, had the wooden stock drawn from it, and then had the iron part placed in the coffin along with one of the paddles of his boat. All by his own request, also, biscuits were then ranged round the sides within: a flask of fresh water was placed at the head, and a small bag of woody earth scraped up in the hold at the foot; and a piece of sail-cloth being rolled up for a pillow, Queequeg now entreated to be lifted into his final bed, that he might make trial of its comforts, if any it had. He lay without moving a few minutes, then told one to go to his bag and bring out his little god, Yojo. Then crossing his arms on his breast with Yojo between, he called for the coffin lid (hatch he called it) to be placed over him. The head part turned over with a leather hinge, and there lay Queequeg in his coffin with little but his composed countenance in view. “Rarmai” (it will do; it is easy), he murmured at last, and signed to be replaced in his hammock.
Leaning over in his hammock, Queequeg carefully studied the coffin for a while. Then he asked for his harpoon, had the wooden handle removed from it, and placed the iron tip inside the coffin along with one of the paddles from his boat. At his request, some biscuits were arranged along the inside edges, a flask of fresh water was set near the head, and a small bag of dirt scraped from the hold was placed at the foot. He also had a piece of sailcloth rolled up to use as a pillow. Finally, Queequeg asked to be lifted into his "final bed" so he could test how comfortable it was—if it had any comfort at all. He lay still for a few minutes, then asked someone to fetch his small god, Yojo, from his bag. Crossing his arms over his chest with Yojo in between, he asked for the coffin lid—he called it the "hatch"—to be placed over him. The head section flipped open using a leather hinge, and there lay Queequeg in his coffin, with just his calm face visible. "Rarmai" (it’ll do; it’s fine), he muttered at last, signaling to be put back in his hammock.
But ere this was done, Pip, who had been slily hovering near by all this while, drew nigh to him where he lay, and with soft sobbings, took him by the hand; in the other, holding his tambourine.
But before this happened, Pip, who had been quietly lingering nearby all this time, came closer to him where he was lying and, softly sobbing, took his hand while holding his tambourine in the other.
“Poor rover! will ye never have done with all this weary roving? where go ye now? But if the currents carry ye to those sweet Antilles where the beaches are only beat with water-lilies, will ye do one little errand for me? Seek out one Pip, who’s now been missing long: I think he’s in those far Antilles. If ye find him, then comfort him; for he must be very sad; for look! he’s left his tambourine behind;—I found it. Rig-a-dig, dig, dig! Now, Queequeg, die; and I’ll beat ye your dying march.”
"Poor wanderer! Will you ever stop all this endless roaming? Where are you heading now? But if the currents take you to those lovely Antilles, where the shores are only touched by water lilies, can you do a small favor for me? Look for Pip, who’s been missing for a long time—I think he’s out there in those distant Antilles. If you find him, comfort him, because he must be very sad—just look, he left his tambourine behind; I found it. Tap-tap, tap, tap! Now, Queequeg, die; and I’ll play you your final march."
“I have heard,” murmured Starbuck, gazing down the scuttle, “that in violent fevers, men, all ignorance, have talked in ancient tongues; and that when the mystery is probed, it turns out always that in their wholly forgotten childhood those ancient tongues had been really spoken in their hearing by some lofty scholars. So, to my fond faith, poor Pip, in this strange sweetness of his lunacy, brings heavenly vouchers of all our heavenly homes. Where learned he that, but there?—Hark! he speaks again: but more wildly now.”
"I've heard," murmured Starbuck, looking down the hatch, "that during intense fevers, people, without knowing it, have spoken in ancient languages. And when the mystery is investigated, it always turns out that in their long-forgotten childhood, those ancient tongues were actually spoken around them by some great scholars. So, in my hopeful belief, poor Pip, in the strange sweetness of his madness, brings divine proof of all our heavenly homes. Where else could he have learned that but there?—Listen! He's speaking again, but even more wildly now."
“Form two and two! Let’s make a General of him! Ho, where’s his harpoon? Lay it across here.—Rig-a-dig, dig, dig! huzza! Oh for a game cock now to sit upon his head and crow! Queequeg dies game!—mind ye that; Queequeg dies game!—take ye good heed of that; Queequeg dies game! I say; game, game, game! but base little Pip, he died a coward; died all a’shiver;—out upon Pip! Hark ye; if ye find Pip, tell all the Antilles he’s a runaway; a coward, a coward, a coward! Tell them he jumped from a whale-boat! I’d never beat my tambourine over base Pip, and hail him General, if he were once more dying here. No, no! shame upon all cowards—shame upon them! Let ’em go drown like Pip, that jumped from a whale-boat. Shame! shame!”
"Pair up, two by two! Let’s make him a General! Hey, where’s his harpoon? Lay it across here—bang, bang, bang! Hooray! If only we had a game rooster now to perch on his head and crow! Queequeg dies like a warrior—remember that. Queequeg dies like a warrior! Pay close attention: Queequeg dies like a warrior! I’m telling you—brave, brave, brave! But that cowardly little Pip, he died scared; shivering all over—shame on Pip! Listen, if you find Pip, tell everyone in the Antilles he’s a runaway, a coward, a coward, a coward! Tell them he jumped out of a whaleboat! I wouldn’t pound my tambourine for cowardly Pip and hail him as a General if he were here dying again. No way! Shame on all cowards—shame on them! Let them drown like Pip, who jumped out of a whaleboat. Shame! Shame!"
During all this, Queequeg lay with closed eyes, as if in a dream. Pip was led away, and the sick man was replaced in his hammock.
During all this, Queequeg lay with his eyes closed, as if he were dreaming. Pip was taken away, and the sick man was put back into his hammock.
But now that he had apparently made every preparation for death; now that his coffin was proved a good fit, Queequeg suddenly rallied; soon there seemed no need of the carpenter’s box: and thereupon, when some expressed their delighted surprise, he, in substance, said, that the cause of his sudden convalescence was this;—at a critical moment, he had just recalled a little duty ashore, which he was leaving undone; and therefore had changed his mind about dying: he could not die yet, he averred. They asked him, then, whether to live or die was a matter of his own sovereign will and pleasure. He answered, certainly. In a word, it was Queequeg’s conceit, that if a man made up his mind to live, mere sickness could not kill him: nothing but a whale, or a gale, or some violent, ungovernable, unintelligent destroyer of that sort.
But now that he had seemingly prepared for death in every way, and now that his coffin had been tested and fit perfectly, Queequeg suddenly recovered. Pretty soon, it seemed the carpenter’s box wouldn’t be needed after all. When some people showed their happy surprise at his recovery, he basically explained that the reason for his sudden improvement was this: at a critical moment, he had remembered a small responsibility back on land that he had left unfinished. Because of that, he decided he couldn’t die just yet. He insisted he wasn’t ready. They then asked him if living or dying was something he could decide for himself, entirely under his control. He answered, absolutely. In short, Queequeg believed that if a person made up their mind to live, no ordinary sickness could kill them—only something uncontrollable, like a whale, a storm, or some violent, mindless force of destruction, could end their life.
Now, there is this noteworthy difference between savage and civilized; that while a sick, civilized man may be six months convalescing, generally speaking, a sick savage is almost half-well again in a day. So, in good time my Queequeg gained strength; and at length after sitting on the windlass for a few indolent days (but eating with a vigorous appetite) he suddenly leaped to his feet, threw out his arms and legs, gave himself a good stretching, yawned a little bit, and then springing into the head of his hoisted boat, and poising a harpoon, pronounced himself fit for a fight.
There's this notable difference between uncivilized and civilized people: while a sick, civilized person might take six months to recover, generally speaking, a sick uncivilized person is almost halfway better within a day. So, in due time, my Queequeg regained his strength; and after spending a few lazy days sitting on the windlass (but eating with a strong appetite), he suddenly jumped to his feet, stretched out his arms and legs, gave himself a good stretch, let out a small yawn, and then, springing into the bow of his raised boat and balancing a harpoon, declared himself ready for action.
With a wild whimsiness, he now used his coffin for a sea-chest; and emptying into it his canvas bag of clothes, set them in order there. Many spare hours he spent, in carving the lid with all manner of grotesque figures and drawings; and it seemed that hereby he was striving, in his rude way, to copy parts of the twisted tattooing on his body. And this tattooing had been the work of a departed prophet and seer of his island, who, by those hieroglyphic marks, had written out on his body a complete theory of the heavens and the earth, and a mystical treatise on the art of attaining truth; so that Queequeg in his own proper person was a riddle to unfold; a wondrous work in one volume; but whose mysteries not even himself could read, though his own live heart beat against them; and these mysteries were therefore destined in the end to moulder away with the living parchment whereon they were inscribed, and so be unsolved to the last. And this thought it must have been which suggested to Ahab that wild exclamation of his, when one morning turning away from surveying poor Queequeg—“Oh, devilish tantalization of the gods!”
With a wild sense of whimsy, he started using his coffin as a sea chest. He emptied his canvas bag of clothes into it and carefully organized them there. He spent many spare hours carving all kinds of strange figures and designs into the lid, as if he were trying, in his own rough way, to replicate parts of the intricate tattoos on his body. Those tattoos had been done by a long-dead prophet and seer from his island, who had used those symbolic marks to inscribe a complete theory of the universe and a mystical guide to discovering truth directly on Queequeg’s body. This made Queequeg himself a living puzzle, a remarkable book contained within one person, though even he could not decipher the secrets written on his flesh, despite the fact that his heart beat against them every moment. In the end, these mysteries would inevitably fade away along with the living parchment of his body, remaining unsolved forever. Surely, it was this thought that led Ahab to cry out in frustration the way he did one morning, after taking a long look at poor Queequeg—“Oh, devilish teasing of the gods!”
CHAPTER 111. The Pacific.
When gliding by the Bashee isles we emerged at last upon the great South Sea; were it not for other things, I could have greeted my dear Pacific with uncounted thanks, for now the long supplication of my youth was answered; that serene ocean rolled eastwards from me a thousand leagues of blue.
As we sailed past the Bashee Isles, we finally entered the vast South Sea. If it weren’t for other concerns, I would have welcomed my beloved Pacific with endless gratitude, for the deep longing of my youth had finally been fulfilled. That calm ocean stretched out to the east, a thousand miles of endless blue.
There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St. John. And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters’ Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.
There’s an indescribable and sweet mystery about this sea, whose soothing yet profound movements seem to hint at some hidden soul beneath—like the legendary ripples of the Ephesian ground above the buried St. John the Evangelist. It feels fitting that on these sea pastures—vast, rolling watery prairies and resting grounds for the dead of all continents—the waves should continuously rise, fall, and flow. Here, countless mixed spirits and shadows, drowned dreams, sleepwalking visions, and reveries—everything we call lives and souls—lie endlessly dreaming, drifting like restless sleepers in their beds; the ceaselessly rolling waves made restless by their eternal slumber.
To any meditative Magian rover, this serene Pacific, once beheld, must ever after be the sea of his adoption. It rolls the midmost waters of the world, the Indian ocean and Atlantic being but its arms. The same waves wash the moles of the new-built Californian towns, but yesterday planted by the recentest race of men, and lave the faded but still gorgeous skirts of Asiatic lands, older than Abraham; while all between float milky-ways of coral isles, and low-lying, endless, unknown Archipelagoes, and impenetrable Japans. Thus this mysterious, divine Pacific zones the world’s whole bulk about; makes all coasts one bay to it; seems the tide-beating heart of earth. Lifted by those eternal swells, you needs must own the seductive god, bowing your head to Pan.
To any thoughtful and wandering mystic, this calm Pacific Ocean, once seen, must forever become their adopted sea. It flows as the central waters of the world, with the Indian Ocean and Atlantic serving merely as its extensions. The same waves touch the harbors of newly built Californian towns, established just recently by the youngest of civilizations, and lap against the ancient yet still vibrant shores of Asian lands, older than the era of Abraham. Between these extremes lie vast trails of coral islands, endless low-lying and uncharted archipelagos, and the enigmatic lands of Japan, still veiled in mystery. In this way, the majestic and mystical Pacific encircles the globe, uniting all coasts into one vast bay; it feels like the earth's beating heart. Rising on its eternal waves, you can’t help but surrender to its alluring power, bowing your head in reverence to nature itself.
But few thoughts of Pan stirred Ahab’s brain, as standing like an iron statue at his accustomed place beside the mizen rigging, with one nostril he unthinkingly snuffed the sugary musk from the Bashee isles (in whose sweet woods mild lovers must be walking), and with the other consciously inhaled the salt breath of the new found sea; that sea in which the hated White Whale must even then be swimming. Launched at length upon these almost final waters, and gliding towards the Japanese cruising-ground, the old man’s purpose intensified itself. His firm lips met like the lips of a vice; the Delta of his forehead’s veins swelled like overladen brooks; in his very sleep, his ringing cry ran through the vaulted hull, “Stern all! the White Whale spouts thick blood!”
Few thoughts of Pan crossed Ahab’s mind as he stood like a statue of iron in his usual spot by the mizzen rigging. With one nostril, he absentmindedly caught the sweet musk from the Bashee Isles (where gentle lovers must surely be strolling through the fragrant woods), while with the other nostril, he purposefully drew in the salty air of the uncharted sea—the sea where the despised White Whale must even now be swimming. Now launched onto these nearly final waters and drifting toward the Japanese cruising grounds, the old man’s obsession grew stronger. His determined lips clamped together like a vice; the veins on his forehead swelled like overflowing streams. Even in his sleep, his thundering shout echoed through the ship’s wooden hull: “Turn back! The White Whale is spouting thick blood!”
CHAPTER 112. The Blacksmith.
Availing himself of the mild, summer-cool weather that now reigned in these latitudes, and in preparation for the peculiarly active pursuits shortly to be anticipated, Perth, the begrimed, blistered old blacksmith, had not removed his portable forge to the hold again, after concluding his contributory work for Ahab’s leg, but still retained it on deck, fast lashed to ringbolts by the foremast; being now almost incessantly invoked by the headsmen, and harpooneers, and bowsmen to do some little job for them; altering, or repairing, or new shaping their various weapons and boat furniture. Often he would be surrounded by an eager circle, all waiting to be served; holding boat-spades, pike-heads, harpoons, and lances, and jealously watching his every sooty movement, as he toiled. Nevertheless, this old man’s was a patient hammer wielded by a patient arm. No murmur, no impatience, no petulance did come from him. Silent, slow, and solemn; bowing over still further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil were life itself, and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating of his heart. And so it was.—Most miserable!
Taking advantage of the cool, summer-like weather now prevailing in these regions, and getting ready for the intense work soon to come, Perth, the grimy, blistered old blacksmith, hadn’t moved his portable forge back to the hold after finishing his work on Ahab’s leg. Instead, he kept it on the deck, securely tied to ringbolts by the foremast. It was now in constant demand by the headsmen, harpooners, and bowsmen, who frequently needed small repairs, alterations, or adjustments to their weapons and boat gear. Often, he’d be surrounded by an eager group, all waiting their turn—holding boat-spades, pike-heads, harpoons, and lances—watching his every sooty move as he worked. Yet, despite everything, the old man hammered away patiently with a steady hand. No complaints, no irritation, no outbursts came from him. Quiet, measured, and serious, he bent even further over his perpetually hunched back, working as if the act of labor itself was his life, the heavy strikes of his hammer beating like the rhythm of his heart. And so it was—utterly wretched!
A peculiar walk in this old man, a certain slight but painful appearing yawing in his gait, had at an early period of the voyage excited the curiosity of the mariners. And to the importunity of their persisted questionings he had finally given in; and so it came to pass that every one now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.
The old man had a strange way of walking, a slight but painful-looking sway in his step, which had sparked the sailors' curiosity early in the voyage. After their constant questions, he finally gave in, and now everyone knew the embarrassing story of his miserable fate.
Belated, and not innocently, one bitter winter’s midnight, on the road running between two country towns, the blacksmith half-stupidly felt the deadly numbness stealing over him, and sought refuge in a leaning, dilapidated barn. The issue was, the loss of the extremities of both feet. Out of this revelation, part by part, at last came out the four acts of the gladness, and the one long, and as yet uncatastrophied fifth act of the grief of his life’s drama.
Late one freezing winter night, on a road between two small towns, the blacksmith, half-dazed, felt the harsh numbness creeping over him and took shelter in a leaning, run-down barn. The result was the loss of the ends of both his feet. From this event, little by little, emerged the four chapters of joy and the one long, ongoing fifth chapter of sorrow in the story of his life.
He was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty, had postponedly encountered that thing in sorrow’s technicals called ruin. He had been an artisan of famed excellence, and with plenty to do; owned a house and garden; embraced a youthful, daughter-like, loving wife, and three blithe, ruddy children; every Sunday went to a cheerful-looking church, planted in a grove. But one night, under cover of darkness, and further concealed in a most cunning disguisement, a desperate burglar slid into his happy home, and robbed them all of everything. And darker yet to tell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into his family’s heart. It was the Bottle Conjuror! Upon the opening of that fatal cork, forth flew the fiend, and shrivelled up his home. Now, for prudent, most wise, and economic reasons, the blacksmith’s shop was in the basement of his dwelling, but with a separate entrance to it; so that always had the young and loving healthy wife listened with no unhappy nervousness, but with vigorous pleasure, to the stout ringing of her young-armed old husband’s hammer; whose reverberations, muffled by passing through the floors and walls, came up to her, not unsweetly, in her nursery; and so, to stout Labor’s iron lullaby, the blacksmith’s infants were rocked to slumber.
He was an older man, almost sixty, who had recently faced what is technically known as ruin. He had been a highly skilled artisan with plenty of work, owned a house and garden, had a young, loving wife who felt like a daughter to him, and three cheerful, rosy children. Every Sunday, he attended a bright and welcoming church nestled in a grove. But one night, under the cover of darkness and cleverly disguised, a desperate thief broke into his happy home and stole everything they had. Even worse, the blacksmith himself had unknowingly brought this thief into his family’s heart. The thief? It was the Bottle Conjuror! As soon as that cursed cork was opened, out came the demon that destroyed his home. For practical, sensible, and financial reasons, the blacksmith’s workshop was in the basement of their home, with a separate entrance. So the young, loving, and healthy wife had always listened without fear but with genuine satisfaction to the steady pounding of her husband’s hammer. The sound, softened as it traveled through the floors and walls, reached her nursery pleasantly. To the rhythm of her husband’s steady labor, their children would drift off to sleep, rocked by the iron lullaby of the blacksmith’s craft.
Oh, woe on woe! Oh, Death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely? Hadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came upon him, then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her orphans a truly venerable, legendary sire to dream of in their after years; and all of them a care-killing competency. But Death plucked down some virtuous elder brother, on whose whistling daily toil solely hung the responsibilities of some other family, and left the worse than useless old man standing, till the hideous rot of life should make him easier to harvest.
Oh, misery upon misery! Oh, Death, why can't you sometimes show better timing? If only you had taken this old blacksmith before his complete downfall, the young widow would have had a bittersweet sorrow, her children a truly respectable, legendary father to remember in the years to come, and all of them would have been left with enough to live without worry. But instead, Death snatched away some virtuous older brother whose relentless daily work supported another family entirely, leaving behind the old man who was worse than useless, just waiting for life's decay to make him easier to claim.
Why tell the whole? The blows of the basement hammer every day grew more and more between; and each blow every day grew fainter than the last; the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes, glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows fell; the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold; the mother dived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed her thither; and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a vagabond in crape; his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to flaxen curls!
Why tell the whole story? The pounding of the basement hammer grew less frequent with each day, and each blow became weaker than the one before. The wife sat frozen by the window, her tearless eyes staring blankly at her children's tear-streaked faces. The bellows stopped, the forge became clogged with cinders, and the house was sold. The mother was laid to rest beneath the tall grass of the churchyard, and her children followed her there twice. The old man, now homeless and without family, wandered away as a grieving vagabond in mourning black, his every sorrow ignored, his gray hair mocked by golden curls.
Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite Pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them—“Come hither, broken-hearted; here is another life without the guilt of intermediate death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them. Come hither! bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and abhorring, landed world, is more oblivious than death. Come hither! put up thy gravestone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till we marry thee!”
Death seems like the only fitting end for a life like this; but Death is just a launch into the unknown and unexplored—a first greeting to the possibilities of the vast and distant, the wild, the watery, the boundless. So, to the death-longing eyes of men like these, who still hold back from suicide due to some inner pangs of conscience, the vast, all-embracing ocean stretches out its endless, mysterious expanse, full of terrifying wonders and thrilling new adventures. From the heart of infinite Pacifics, a thousand mermaids sing to them: “Come here, broken-hearted—here’s a new life without the guilt of an in-between death. Here are supernatural wonders that don’t require you to die to experience them. Come here! Leave your hated and hateful world behind; bury yourself in a life more forgetful of the land than even death. Come here! Mark your gravestone in the churchyard, and come here until we make you one of us!”
Hearkening to these voices, East and West, by early sunrise, and by fall of eve, the blacksmith’s soul responded, Aye, I come! And so Perth went a-whaling.
Listening to these voices, from East to West, at early sunrise and at the close of evening, the blacksmith's soul answered, "Yes, I'm coming!" And so Perth set out to go whaling.
CHAPTER 113. The Forge.
With matted beard, and swathed in a bristling shark-skin apron, about mid-day, Perth was standing between his forge and anvil, the latter placed upon an iron-wood log, with one hand holding a pike-head in the coals, and with the other at his forge’s lungs, when Captain Ahab came along, carrying in his hand a small rusty-looking leathern bag. While yet a little distance from the forge, moody Ahab paused; till at last, Perth, withdrawing his iron from the fire, began hammering it upon the anvil—the red mass sending off the sparks in thick hovering flights, some of which flew close to Ahab.
With a tangled beard and wrapped in a rugged shark-skin apron, Perth stood near midday between his forge and anvil. The anvil rested on an iron-wood log. One hand held a pike-head in the coals, while the other worked the forge's bellows. Captain Ahab approached, holding a small, rusty-looking leather bag in his hand. When still a short distance away from the forge, Ahab stopped, brooding. Finally, Perth pulled the glowing iron from the fire and began hammering it on the anvil, sparks flying thickly through the air—some landing dangerously close to Ahab.
“Are these thy Mother Carey’s chickens, Perth? they are always flying in thy wake; birds of good omen, too, but not to all;—look here, they burn; but thou—thou liv’st among them without a scorch.”
"Are these your Mother Carey’s chickens, Perth? They’re always flying behind you; birds of good luck, too, but not for everyone—look here, they burn; but you—you live among them without getting burned."
“Because I am scorched all over, Captain Ahab,” answered Perth, resting for a moment on his hammer; “I am past scorching; not easily can’st thou scorch a scar.”
"Because I'm burned all over, Captain Ahab," replied Perth, pausing for a moment with his hammer. "You can't burn me again; it's not easy to burn a scar."
“Well, well; no more. Thy shrunk voice sounds too calmly, sanely woeful to me. In no Paradise myself, I am impatient of all misery in others that is not mad. Thou should’st go mad, blacksmith; say, why dost thou not go mad? How can’st thou endure without being mad? Do the heavens yet hate thee, that thou can’st not go mad?—What wert thou making there?”
"Alright, enough. Your quiet, somber voice sounds too calm and rational for me. I'm no stranger to my own torment, and I grow restless when others suffer without losing their minds. You should lose your mind, blacksmith; tell me, why don’t you? How can you endure this without going insane? Do the heavens still despise you so much that they won’t let you lose your mind?—What were you working on there?"
“Welding an old pike-head, sir; there were seams and dents in it.”
"Fixing up an old pike-head, sir; it had some cracks and dents in it."
“And can’st thou make it all smooth again, blacksmith, after such hard usage as it had?”
"And can you fix it back up, blacksmith, after it's been through such rough use?"
“I think so, sir.”
"I believe so, sir."
“And I suppose thou can’st smoothe almost any seams and dents; never mind how hard the metal, blacksmith?”
"And I guess you can smooth out almost any seams and dents, no matter how tough the metal, blacksmith?"
“Aye, sir, I think I can; all seams and dents but one.”
"Yes, sir, I think I can; all the seams and dents except one."
“Look ye here, then,” cried Ahab, passionately advancing, and leaning with both hands on Perth’s shoulders; “look ye here—here—can ye smoothe out a seam like this, blacksmith,” sweeping one hand across his ribbed brow; “if thou could’st, blacksmith, glad enough would I lay my head upon thy anvil, and feel thy heaviest hammer between my eyes. Answer! Can’st thou smoothe this seam?”
"Look here, then," Ahab cried passionately, stepping forward and leaning both hands on Perth's shoulders. "Look here—*right here*—can you smooth out a scar like this, blacksmith?" he said, running one hand across his furrowed brow. "If you could, blacksmith, I'd gladly lay my head on your anvil and let you bring your heaviest hammer down between my eyes. Tell me! Can you smooth out this scar?"
“Oh! that is the one, sir! Said I not all seams and dents but one?”
"Oh! That's the one, sir! Didn't I say all seams and dents except for one?"
“Aye, blacksmith, it is the one; aye, man, it is unsmoothable; for though thou only see’st it here in my flesh, it has worked down into the bone of my skull—that is all wrinkles! But, away with child’s play; no more gaffs and pikes to-day. Look ye here!” jingling the leathern bag, as if it were full of gold coins. “I, too, want a harpoon made; one that a thousand yoke of fiends could not part, Perth; something that will stick in a whale like his own fin-bone. There’s the stuff,” flinging the pouch upon the anvil. “Look ye, blacksmith, these are the gathered nail-stubbs of the steel shoes of racing horses.”
"Yeah, blacksmith, that's the one; yeah, man, it's unfixable. Because even though you only see it here in my flesh, it's sunk all the way into the bone of my skull—*that* is all wrinkles! But enough with the games; no more hooks and spears today. Look here!" he said, shaking the leather bag as if it were packed with gold coins. "I need a harpoon too, one that not even a thousand demons could pull apart, Perth; something that will stick in a whale like its own fin bone. Here's the material," he said, tossing the pouch onto the anvil. "Look, blacksmith, these are the collected nail stubs from the steel shoes of racing horses."
“Horse-shoe stubbs, sir? Why, Captain Ahab, thou hast here, then, the best and stubbornest stuff we blacksmiths ever work.”
"Horseshoe nails, sir? Well, Captain Ahab, you've got here the toughest and most stubborn material we blacksmiths ever work with."
“I know it, old man; these stubbs will weld together like glue from the melted bones of murderers. Quick! forge me the harpoon. And forge me first, twelve rods for its shank; then wind, and twist, and hammer these twelve together like the yarns and strands of a tow-line. Quick! I’ll blow the fire.”
"I know it, old man; these stubs will fuse together like glue made from melted bones of killers. Hurry up! Make me the harpoon. And first, make me twelve rods for its shaft; then weave, twist, and hammer these twelve together like the threads and strands of a rope. Hurry! I'll stoke the fire."
When at last the twelve rods were made, Ahab tried them, one by one, by spiralling them, with his own hand, round a long, heavy iron bolt. “A flaw!” rejecting the last one. “Work that over again, Perth.”
When the twelve rods were finally finished, Ahab tested them one by one, twisting them around a long, heavy iron bolt with his own hand. "A flaw!" he said, rejecting the last one. "Do that one over again, Perth."
This done, Perth was about to begin welding the twelve into one, when Ahab stayed his hand, and said he would weld his own iron. As, then, with regular, gasping hems, he hammered on the anvil, Perth passing to him the glowing rods, one after the other, and the hard pressed forge shooting up its intense straight flame, the Parsee passed silently, and bowing over his head towards the fire, seemed invoking some curse or some blessing on the toil. But, as Ahab looked up, he slid aside.
Once that was done, Perth was about to start welding the twelve pieces into one when Ahab stopped him and said he would weld his own iron. With rhythmic, labored breaths, Ahab hammered on the anvil while Perth handed him the glowing rods one by one. The forge roared with its sharp, intense flame shooting upward. The Parsee moved silently, bowing his head toward the fire as if calling down either a curse or a blessing on the work. But when Ahab looked up, the Parsee stepped aside.
“What’s that bunch of lucifers dodging about there for?” muttered Stubb, looking on from the forecastle. “That Parsee smells fire like a fusee; and smells of it himself, like a hot musket’s powder-pan.”
"What's that group of matches darting around over there for?" muttered Stubb, watching from the forecastle. "That Parsee senses fire like a lit match; and he smells like it too, like the pan of a hot musket."
At last the shank, in one complete rod, received its final heat; and as Perth, to temper it, plunged it all hissing into the cask of water near by, the scalding steam shot up into Ahab’s bent face.
Finally, the shank, now a single complete rod, was given its final heat; and as Perth tempered it by plunging it, hissing, into the nearby barrel of water, the scorching steam rose up into Ahab's bent face.
“Would’st thou brand me, Perth?” wincing for a moment with the pain; “have I been but forging my own branding-iron, then?”
"Would you brand me, Perth?" he said, flinching for a moment from the pain. "Have I just been forging my own branding iron, then?"
“Pray God, not that; yet I fear something, Captain Ahab. Is not this harpoon for the White Whale?”
"God forbid, not that; but I’m worried about something, Captain Ahab. Isn’t this harpoon meant for the White Whale?"
“For the white fiend! But now for the barbs; thou must make them thyself, man. Here are my razors—the best of steel; here, and make the barbs sharp as the needle-sleet of the Icy Sea.”
"For the white demon! But now for the harpoons; you’ll have to make them yourself, man. Here are my razors—the finest steel; take them and sharpen the points as sharp as the icy needles of the Arctic Sea."
For a moment, the old blacksmith eyed the razors as though he would fain not use them.
For a moment, the old blacksmith looked at the razors as if he didn’t really want to use them.
“Take them, man, I have no need for them; for I now neither shave, sup, nor pray till—but here—to work!”
"Take them, man, I don’t need them anymore. I don’t shave, eat, or pray now until—but here—get to work!"
Fashioned at last into an arrowy shape, and welded by Perth to the shank, the steel soon pointed the end of the iron; and as the blacksmith was about giving the barbs their final heat, prior to tempering them, he cried to Ahab to place the water-cask near.
Finally shaped into a sharp, arrow-like form and attached by Perth to the shaft, the steel quickly tipped the end of the iron. As the blacksmith prepared to give the barbs their final heat before tempering them, he called out to Ahab to bring the water barrel closer.
“No, no—no water for that; I want it of the true death-temper. Ahoy, there! Tashtego, Queequeg, Daggoo! What say ye, pagans! Will ye give me as much blood as will cover this barb?” holding it high up. A cluster of dark nods replied, Yes. Three punctures were made in the heathen flesh, and the White Whale’s barbs were then tempered.
"No, no—no water for this; I want it tempered with real death. Hey, Tashtego, Queequeg, Daggoo! What do you say, pagans? Will you give me enough blood to cover this barb?" he shouted, holding it high. A group of dark nods signaled agreement. Three cuts were made in the pagan flesh, and the White Whale's barbs were tempered.
“Ego non baptizo te in nomine patris, sed in nomine diaboli!” deliriously howled Ahab, as the malignant iron scorchingly devoured the baptismal blood.
"I don’t baptize you in the name of the Father, but in the name of the Devil!" Ahab howled madly, as the wicked iron fiercely consumed the baptismal blood.
Now, mustering the spare poles from below, and selecting one of hickory, with the bark still investing it, Ahab fitted the end to the socket of the iron. A coil of new tow-line was then unwound, and some fathoms of it taken to the windlass, and stretched to a great tension. Pressing his foot upon it, till the rope hummed like a harp-string, then eagerly bending over it, and seeing no strandings, Ahab exclaimed, “Good! and now for the seizings.”
Now, grabbing the extra poles from below and picking one made of hickory with the bark still on it, Ahab attached the end to the socket of the harpoon. He unwound a coil of new tow-line, took several lengths of it to the windlass, and stretched it tight. Pressing his foot on the rope until it vibrated like a harp string, he leaned over, checked for any fraying, and, seeing none, exclaimed, “Good! Now for the bindings.”
At one extremity the rope was unstranded, and the separate spread yarns were all braided and woven round the socket of the harpoon; the pole was then driven hard up into the socket; from the lower end the rope was traced half-way along the pole’s length, and firmly secured so, with intertwistings of twine. This done, pole, iron, and rope—like the Three Fates—remained inseparable, and Ahab moodily stalked away with the weapon; the sound of his ivory leg, and the sound of the hickory pole, both hollowly ringing along every plank. But ere he entered his cabin, light, unnatural, half-bantering, yet most piteous sound was heard. Oh, Pip! thy wretched laugh, thy idle but unresting eye; all thy strange mummeries not unmeaningly blended with the black tragedy of the melancholy ship, and mocked it!
At one end, the rope was unraveled, and the individual loose strands were braided and wrapped tightly around the harpoon’s socket. The pole was then forced firmly into the socket. From the lower end, the rope was tied halfway up the length of the pole and secured tightly with interwoven twine. Once finished, the pole, iron, and rope—like the Three Fates—were bound together as one. Ahab walked away darkly, carrying the weapon, the sound of his ivory leg and the hickory pole echoing hollowly across every plank. But just before he entered his cabin, a light, unnatural, half-teasing yet deeply sorrowful sound could be heard. Oh, Pip! Your miserable laughter, your restless, vacant gaze; all your bizarre antics, strangely meaningful, mixed with the dark tragedy of the somber ship and mocked it!
CHAPTER 114. The Gilder.
Penetrating further and further into the heart of the Japanese cruising ground, the Pequod was soon all astir in the fishery. Often, in mild, pleasant weather, for twelve, fifteen, eighteen, and twenty hours on the stretch, they were engaged in the boats, steadily pulling, or sailing, or paddling after the whales, or for an interlude of sixty or seventy minutes calmly awaiting their uprising; though with but small success for their pains.
Delving deeper and deeper into the heart of the Japanese whaling waters, the Pequod was soon fully engaged in the hunt. Often, in mild and pleasant weather, they spent twelve, fifteen, eighteen, even twenty hours at a time in the boats, constantly rowing, sailing, or paddling after the whales, or occasionally waiting calmly for an hour or so for the whales to resurface—though their efforts brought little success.
At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearth-stone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.
During these moments, under a softened sun, drifting all day on smooth, gently rolling swells, sitting in his boat as light as a birch canoe, and blending so closely with the calm waves that they purr against the sides like contented house cats—these are the times of peaceful daydreaming. Gazing at the serene beauty and sparkling surface of the ocean, one forgets the fierce, untamed force lurking beneath it and would rather not remember that this gentle touch hides a merciless bite.
These are the times, when in his whale-boat the rover softly feels a certain filial, confident, land-like feeling towards the sea; that he regards it as so much flowery earth; and the distant ship revealing only the tops of her masts, seems struggling forward, not through high rolling waves, but through the tall grass of a rolling prairie: as when the western emigrants’ horses only show their erected ears, while their hidden bodies widely wade through the amazing verdure.
These are the moments when, in his small whaleboat, the wanderer feels a calm, almost familial connection to the sea—like he trusts it as though it were solid ground. He sees it as a field of blooming flowers, and the distant ship, with only the tops of its masts visible, seems to be pushing forward not through huge waves, but through tall grasses on a rolling prairie. It's like when the horses of western pioneers show only their raised ears while their bodies are submerged in the vast green wilderness.
The long-drawn virgin vales; the mild blue hill-sides; as over these there steals the hush, the hum; you almost swear that play-wearied children lie sleeping in these solitudes, in some glad May-time, when the flowers of the woods are plucked. And all this mixes with your most mystic mood; so that fact and fancy, half-way meeting, interpenetrate, and form one seamless whole.
The long, untouched valleys; the gentle blue hillsides; as the quiet and soft hum settle over them, you almost feel as if tired children, worn out from playing, are sleeping peacefully in these secluded places, during a joyful Maytime when the woodland flowers are gathered. And all of this blends with your most reflective mood, so that reality and imagination merge, meeting halfway and becoming one seamless experience.
Nor did such soothing scenes, however temporary, fail of at least as temporary an effect on Ahab. But if these secret golden keys did seem to open in him his own secret golden treasuries, yet did his breath upon them prove but tarnishing.
Nor did such calming moments, though short-lived, fail to have at least a brief effect on Ahab. Yet, if these hidden golden keys seemed to unlock his own secret golden treasures, his very breath on them only tarnished them.
Oh, grassy glades! oh, ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in ye,—though long parched by the dead drought of the earthy life,—in ye, men yet may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some few fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them. Would to God these blessed calms would last. But the mingled, mingling threads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms, a storm for every calm. There is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause:—through infancy’s unconscious spell, boyhood’s thoughtless faith, adolescence’ doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then disbelief, resting at last in manhood’s pondering repose of If. But once gone through, we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and men, and Ifs eternally. Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.
Oh, green meadows! Oh, endless, ever-renewing landscapes within the soul; in you—though long dried out by the lifeless drought of earthly existence—in you, people can still roll like young horses in fresh morning clover; and for a brief, fleeting moment, feel the cool dew of eternal life upon them. If only these blessed moments of calm could last. But life is woven with threads that are both calm and storm: calm disrupted by storm, and a storm following every calm. There’s no steady, straightforward progress in this life; we don’t move through fixed steps, finally stopping at some ultimate level:—from the spellbound innocence of childhood, to the unquestioning faith of youth, to the doubt of adolescence (the universal fate), then skepticism, then disbelief—finally resting in the reflective “what if” of adulthood. But after going through it all, we go in a circle again; we’re children, youths, adults, and “what ifs,” endlessly. Where is the final harbor, the place where we set anchor and never leave? In what higher realm does the world sail, a world so vast that even the most tired soul never grows weary of it? Where is the father of the orphaned soul hidden? Our souls are like orphans whose mothers died giving birth to them: the mystery of our origin lies buried in their grave, and it is there we must go to uncover it.
And that same day, too, gazing far down from his boat’s side into that same golden sea, Starbuck lowly murmured:—
That same day, while looking far down into the golden sea from the side of his boat, Starbuck quietly murmured:—
“Loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride’s eye!—Tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks, and thy kidnapping cannibal ways. Let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; I look deep down and do believe.”
"Loveliness that’s impossible to fully grasp, like what a lover sees in his bride’s eyes!—Don’t talk to me about your rows of shark-like teeth or your savage, man-snatching ways. Let faith replace facts; let imagination replace memories; I look deep within and truly believe."
And Stubb, fish-like, with sparkling scales, leaped up in that same golden light:—
And Stubb, shimmering like a fish with glistening scales, jumped into that same golden light:—
“I am Stubb, and Stubb has his history; but here Stubb takes oaths that he has always been jolly!”
"I'm Stubb, and Stubb's got his own story; but here Stubb swears he's always been cheerful!"
CHAPTER 115. The Pequod Meets The Bachelor.
And jolly enough were the sights and the sounds that came bearing down before the wind, some few weeks after Ahab’s harpoon had been welded.
And lively and cheerful were the sights and sounds carried down by the wind a few weeks after Ahab's harpoon had been forged.
It was a Nantucket ship, the Bachelor, which had just wedged in her last cask of oil, and bolted down her bursting hatches; and now, in glad holiday apparel, was joyously, though somewhat vain-gloriously, sailing round among the widely-separated ships on the ground, previous to pointing her prow for home.
It was a ship from Nantucket, the Bachelor, which had just loaded up its last barrel of oil and sealed its overflowing hatches. Now, dressed up in festive gear, it was happily — though a bit boastfully — cruising around among the scattered ships in the area before setting its course for home.
The three men at her mast-head wore long streamers of narrow red bunting at their hats; from the stern, a whale-boat was suspended, bottom down; and hanging captive from the bowsprit was seen the long lower jaw of the last whale they had slain. Signals, ensigns, and jacks of all colours were flying from her rigging, on every side. Sideways lashed in each of her three basketed tops were two barrels of sperm; above which, in her top-mast cross-trees, you saw slender breakers of the same precious fluid; and nailed to her main truck was a brazen lamp.
The three men at her masthead wore long strips of narrow red fabric streaming from their hats. A whale-boat hung upside down from the stern, and the long lower jaw of the last whale they had killed dangled from the bowsprit. Flags and banners of all colors flew from her rigging on every side. Secured sideways in each of her three basketed tops were two barrels of sperm oil, and above them, in her topmast cross-trees, were narrow containers holding more of the same valuable liquid. A brass lamp was fastened to her main truck.
As was afterwards learned, the Bachelor had met with the most surprising success; all the more wonderful, for that while cruising in the same seas numerous other vessels had gone entire months without securing a single fish. Not only had barrels of beef and bread been given away to make room for the far more valuable sperm, but additional supplemental casks had been bartered for, from the ships she had met; and these were stowed along the deck, and in the captain’s and officers’ state-rooms. Even the cabin table itself had been knocked into kindling-wood; and the cabin mess dined off the broad head of an oil-butt, lashed down to the floor for a centrepiece. In the forecastle, the sailors had actually caulked and pitched their chests, and filled them; it was humorously added, that the cook had clapped a head on his largest boiler, and filled it; that the steward had plugged his spare coffee-pot and filled it; that the harpooneers had headed the sockets of their irons and filled them; that indeed everything was filled with sperm, except the captain’s pantaloons pockets, and those he reserved to thrust his hands into, in self-complacent testimony of his entire satisfaction.
As it was later discovered, the Bachelor had experienced incredible success—especially remarkable since, while sailing in the same waters, plenty of other ships had gone months without catching a single whale. Not only had barrels of beef and bread been given away to make room for the much more valuable sperm oil, but extra casks had been traded for from other ships they encountered, and these were packed along the deck and even in the captain’s and officers’ rooms. They had even dismantled the cabin table and used it for firewood, with the crew eating meals off the broad top of an oil barrel lashed to the floor as a makeshift centerpiece. Up in the forecastle, the sailors had literally caulked and sealed their chests, filling them with oil. It was jokingly said that the cook had fitted a lid to his largest boiler and filled it, the steward had plugged his extra coffee pot and filled it, and the harpooners had sealed the sockets of their harpoons and filled those too. In fact, nearly everything was packed with sperm oil—except for the captain’s pants pockets, which he purposely left empty so he could stuff his hands into them as a satisfied gesture of his complete triumph.
As this glad ship of good luck bore down upon the moody Pequod, the barbarian sound of enormous drums came from her forecastle; and drawing still nearer, a crowd of her men were seen standing round her huge try-pots, which, covered with the parchment-like poke or stomach skin of the black fish, gave forth a loud roar to every stroke of the clenched hands of the crew. On the quarter-deck, the mates and harpooneers were dancing with the olive-hued girls who had eloped with them from the Polynesian Isles; while suspended in an ornamented boat, firmly secured aloft between the foremast and mainmast, three Long Island negroes, with glittering fiddle-bows of whale ivory, were presiding over the hilarious jig. Meanwhile, others of the ship’s company were tumultuously busy at the masonry of the try-works, from which the huge pots had been removed. You would have almost thought they were pulling down the cursed Bastille, such wild cries they raised, as the now useless brick and mortar were being hurled into the sea.
As this joyful ship of good fortune approached the brooding Pequod, the loud beat of enormous drums echoed from her forecastle. As she drew closer, a group of her crew could be seen gathered around the massive try-pots, which were covered with the parchment-like stomach lining of the black fish and roared loudly with each strike of the crew's clenched hands. On the quarterdeck, the mates and harpooners were dancing with the olive-skinned girls who had run away with them from the Polynesian Islands. Suspended in a decorated boat securely fastened between the foremast and mainmast, three Long Island Black men played lively tunes on glittering fiddle-bows made of whale ivory, leading the energetic dance. Meanwhile, other crew members were chaotically busy dismantling the masonry of the try-works, from which the large pots had been removed. The wild cries they let out as they flung the now-useless bricks and mortar into the sea made it seem like they were tearing down the cursed Bastille.
Lord and master over all this scene, the captain stood erect on the ship’s elevated quarter-deck, so that the whole rejoicing drama was full before him, and seemed merely contrived for his own individual diversion.
Lord and master of the entire scene, the captain stood tall on the ship's raised quarterdeck, with the entire lively spectacle spread out before him, as if it had all been planned solely for his personal entertainment.
And Ahab, he too was standing on his quarter-deck, shaggy and black, with a stubborn gloom; and as the two ships crossed each other’s wakes—one all jubilations for things passed, the other all forebodings as to things to come—their two captains in themselves impersonated the whole striking contrast of the scene.
And Ahab, he was also standing on his quarterdeck, rugged and grim, with a stubborn darkness about him; and as the two ships crossed paths—one full of celebrations for what had already happened, the other full of dread for what was ahead—their two captains themselves embodied the stark contrast of the moment.
“Come aboard, come aboard!” cried the gay Bachelor’s commander, lifting a glass and a bottle in the air.
"Come aboard, come aboard!" shouted the cheerful captain of the Bachelor, raising a glass and a bottle in the air.
“Hast seen the White Whale?” gritted Ahab in reply.
"Have you seen the White Whale?" Ahab growled in response.
“No; only heard of him; but don’t believe in him at all,” said the other good-humoredly. “Come aboard!”
"No, I’ve only heard of him, but I don’t believe in him at all," said the other with a friendly laugh. "Come on board!"
“Thou art too damned jolly. Sail on. Hast lost any men?”
"You're way too cheerful. Sail on. Have you lost any men?"
“Not enough to speak of—two islanders, that’s all;—but come aboard, old hearty, come along. I’ll soon take that black from your brow. Come along, will ye (merry’s the play); a full ship and homeward-bound.”
"Not much to talk about—just two locals, that's all. But come aboard, my friend, come on. I'll cheer you up in no time. Come on, will you? (The more, the merrier); a full ship and heading home."
“How wondrous familiar is a fool!” muttered Ahab; then aloud, “Thou art a full ship and homeward bound, thou sayst; well, then, call me an empty ship, and outward-bound. So go thy ways, and I will mine. Forward there! Set all sail, and keep her to the wind!”
"How strangely familiar a fool feels!" muttered Ahab; then aloud, "You say you're a full ship heading home; well, call me an empty ship heading out. So go your way, and I'll go mine. Up ahead there! Set all the sails and keep her steady with the wind!"
And thus, while the one ship went cheerily before the breeze, the other stubbornly fought against it; and so the two vessels parted; the crew of the Pequod looking with grave, lingering glances towards the receding Bachelor; but the Bachelor’s men never heeding their gaze for the lively revelry they were in. And as Ahab, leaning over the taffrail, eyed the homeward-bound craft, he took from his pocket a small vial of sand, and then looking from the ship to the vial, seemed thereby bringing two remote associations together, for that vial was filled with Nantucket soundings.
And so, while one ship sailed happily with the breeze, the other stubbornly fought against it; and the two ships parted ways. The crew of the Pequod watched the fading Bachelor with serious, lingering looks, but the men on the Bachelor paid no attention, caught up in their lively celebration. As Ahab leaned over the taffrail, staring at the homebound ship, he pulled a small vial of sand from his pocket. Looking back and forth between the ship and the vial, he seemed to be connecting two distant memories, as the vial was filled with sand from the Nantucket shores.
CHAPTER 116. The Dying Whale.
Not seldom in this life, when, on the right side, fortune’s favourites sail close by us, we, though all adroop before, catch somewhat of the rushing breeze, and joyfully feel our bagging sails fill out. So seemed it with the Pequod. For next day after encountering the gay Bachelor, whales were seen and four were slain; and one of them by Ahab.
Sometimes in life, when fortune's favorites sail by us on the right side, we—though feeling down before—catch some of their lively breeze and happily feel our sagging sails fill up. That seemed to be the case with the Pequod. The day after meeting the cheerful Bachelor, whales were spotted, and four were killed, one of them by Ahab.
It was far down the afternoon; and when all the spearings of the crimson fight were done: and floating in the lovely sunset sea and sky, sun and whale both stilly died together; then, such a sweetness and such plaintiveness, such inwreathing orisons curled up in that rosy air, that it almost seemed as if far over from the deep green convent valleys of the Manilla isles, the Spanish land-breeze, wantonly turned sailor, had gone to sea, freighted with these vesper hymns.
It was late in the afternoon; and when all the crimson battles had ended, and the sun and the whale floated together in the serene beauty of the sunset sea and sky, both quietly fading away, a profound sweetness and sorrow filled the air. Gentle prayers seemed to rise and curl within the rosy atmosphere, as if a playful breeze from the lush green convent valleys of the Manilla islands had wandered out to sea, carrying these evening hymns with it.
Soothed again, but only soothed to deeper gloom, Ahab, who had sterned off from the whale, sat intently watching his final wanings from the now tranquil boat. For that strange spectacle observable in all sperm whales dying—the turning sunwards of the head, and so expiring—that strange spectacle, beheld of such a placid evening, somehow to Ahab conveyed a wondrousness unknown before.
Calmed once more, but only calmed into a deeper sadness, Ahab, who had pulled away from the whale, sat carefully watching its final moments from the now peaceful boat. That strange sight seen in all dying sperm whales—the way they turn their heads toward the sun as they die—that strange sight, witnessed on such a quiet evening, somehow brought Ahab a sense of wonder he'd never felt before.
“He turns and turns him to it,—how slowly, but how steadfastly, his homage-rendering and invoking brow, with his last dying motions. He too worships fire; most faithful, broad, baronial vassal of the sun!—Oh that these too-favouring eyes should see these too-favouring sights. Look! here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe; in these most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks furnish tablets; where for long Chinese ages, the billows have still rolled on speechless and unspoken to, as stars that shine upon the Niger’s unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith; but see! no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it heads some other way.
He turns himself toward it—so slowly, yet so steadily—his brow showing respect and devotion even in his final moments. He also worships fire; a loyal, noble servant of the sun! Oh, that these overly generous eyes should witness such awe-inspiring sights. Look! Here, surrounded by endless waters, far from the noise of human joy or sorrow, in these open and unbiased seas, where no rocks hold onto past memories; where, for countless Chinese ages, the waves have rolled on, silent and unacknowledged, like the stars shining over the unknown source of the Niger River. Even here, life dies facing the sun, full of faith—but look! As soon as life ends, death spins the body around, pointing it in another direction.
“Oh, thou dark Hindoo half of nature, who of drowned bones hast builded thy separate throne somewhere in the heart of these unverdured seas; thou art an infidel, thou queen, and too truly speakest to me in the wide-slaughtering Typhoon, and the hushed burial of its after calm. Nor has this thy whale sunwards turned his dying head, and then gone round again, without a lesson to me.
"Oh, you dark Hindu half of nature, who built your separate throne from drowned bones somewhere in the heart of these barren seas; you are an unbeliever, a queen, and you speak truth to me in the devastating Typhoon and the silent burial following its calm. Nor has your whale turned its dying head toward the sun and then circled back without teaching me a lesson."
“Oh, trebly hooped and welded hip of power! Oh, high aspiring, rainbowed jet!—that one strivest, this one jettest all in vain! In vain, oh whale, dost thou seek intercedings with yon all-quickening sun, that only calls forth life, but gives it not again. Yet dost thou, darker half, rock me with a prouder, if a darker faith. All thy unnamable imminglings float beneath me here; I am buoyed by breaths of once living things, exhaled as air, but water now.
"Oh, tightly fortified and indestructible core of strength! Oh, high-reaching, rainbow-like spray!—you strive, and this one shoots forth, all in vain! In vain, oh whale, do you seek to commune with that life-giving sun, which only brings life forth but never returns it. Yet, you darker side, cradle me with a deeper, though darker belief. All your indescribable minglings swirl below me here; I am lifted by the breaths of things that once lived, exhaled as air, now transformed into water."
“Then hail, for ever hail, O sea, in whose eternal tossings the wild fowl finds his only rest. Born of earth, yet suckled by the sea; though hill and valley mothered me, ye billows are my foster-brothers!”
"Forever greetings to you, O sea, with your endless waves where the wild birds find their only rest. Born on land but nurtured by the sea; even though the hills and valleys raised me, you waves are like my foster siblings!"
CHAPTER 117. The Whale Watch.
The four whales slain that evening had died wide apart; one, far to windward; one, less distant, to leeward; one ahead; one astern. These last three were brought alongside ere nightfall; but the windward one could not be reached till morning; and the boat that had killed it lay by its side all night; and that boat was Ahab’s.
The four whales killed that evening died far apart—one way upwind, one closer downwind, one ahead, and one behind. The last three were brought alongside the ship before nightfall, but the one upwind couldn’t be reached until morning. The boat that had killed it stayed by its side all night, and that boat belonged to Ahab.
The waif-pole was thrust upright into the dead whale’s spout-hole; and the lantern hanging from its top, cast a troubled flickering glare upon the black, glossy back, and far out upon the midnight waves, which gently chafed the whale’s broad flank, like soft surf upon a beach.
The thin pole was thrust upright into the dead whale’s blowhole, and the lantern hanging from its top cast an unsteady, flickering light on the shiny black back and across the midnight waves, which softly lapped against the whale’s broad side, like gentle waves on a shore.
Ahab and all his boat’s crew seemed asleep but the Parsee; who crouching in the bow, sat watching the sharks, that spectrally played round the whale, and tapped the light cedar planks with their tails. A sound like the moaning in squadrons over Asphaltites of unforgiven ghosts of Gomorrah, ran shuddering through the air.
Ahab and his entire boat crew seemed to be asleep, except for the Parsee, who crouched in the bow, watching the sharks as they eerily swam around the whale, occasionally tapping the light cedar planks with their tails. A sound like the haunting moans of unforgiven ghosts from Gomorrah echoing over the Asphaltites shivered through the air.
Started from his slumbers, Ahab, face to face, saw the Parsee; and hooped round by the gloom of the night they seemed the last men in a flooded world. “I have dreamed it again,” said he.
Waking up suddenly, Ahab found himself face to face with the Parsee; surrounded by the darkness of the night, they looked like the last two men left in a drowned world. "I’ve dreamed it again," he said.
“Of the hearses? Have I not said, old man, that neither hearse nor coffin can be thine?”
"About the hearses? Haven't I already told you, old man, that neither a hearse nor a coffin will be yours?"
“And who are hearsed that die on the sea?”
"And who are buried when they die at sea?"
“But I said, old man, that ere thou couldst die on this voyage, two hearses must verily be seen by thee on the sea; the first not made by mortal hands; and the visible wood of the last one must be grown in America.”
"But I said, old man, that before you could die on this voyage, you’d have to see two hearses on the sea; the first not made by human hands, and the wood of the last one must have grown in America."
“Aye, aye! a strange sight that, Parsee:—a hearse and its plumes floating over the ocean with the waves for the pall-bearers. Ha! Such a sight we shall not soon see.”
"Yeah, yeah! A strange sight, Parsee—a hearse with its plumes drifting over the ocean, with the waves acting as the pallbearers. Ha! We won't see a sight like that again anytime soon."
“Believe it or not, thou canst not die till it be seen, old man.”
"Believe it or not, you can't die until it's your time, old man."
“And what was that saying about thyself?”
"And what were you saying about yourself?"
“Though it come to the last, I shall still go before thee thy pilot.”
"Even if it comes to the end, I will still be your guide, leading the way."
“And when thou art so gone before—if that ever befall—then ere I can follow, thou must still appear to me, to pilot me still?—Was it not so? Well, then, did I believe all ye say, oh my pilot! I have here two pledges that I shall yet slay Moby Dick and survive it.”
"And when you’ve gone ahead of me—if that ever happens—then before I can follow, do you still have to guide me, to lead me? Wasn’t that the promise? Well then, I believed everything you said, oh my guide! I have here two promises that I will still kill Moby Dick and survive it."
“Take another pledge, old man,” said the Parsee, as his eyes lighted up like fire-flies in the gloom—“Hemp only can kill thee.”
"Make another promise, old man," said the Parsee, his eyes glowing like fireflies in the dark. "Only hemp can kill you."
“The gallows, ye mean.—I am immortal then, on land and on sea,” cried Ahab, with a laugh of derision;—“Immortal on land and on sea!”
"The gallows, you mean. — I’m immortal then, on land and at sea," cried Ahab, laughing mockingly; — "Immortal on land and at sea!"
Both were silent again, as one man. The grey dawn came on, and the slumbering crew arose from the boat’s bottom, and ere noon the dead whale was brought to the ship.
Both stayed silent again, as if they were one person. The gray dawn broke, and the sleeping crew woke up from the bottom of the boat. Before noon, the dead whale was brought to the ship.
CHAPTER 118. The Quadrant.
The season for the Line at length drew near; and every day when Ahab, coming from his cabin, cast his eyes aloft, the vigilant helmsman would ostentatiously handle his spokes, and the eager mariners quickly run to the braces, and would stand there with all their eyes centrally fixed on the nailed doubloon; impatient for the order to point the ship’s prow for the equator. In good time the order came. It was hard upon high noon; and Ahab, seated in the bows of his high-hoisted boat, was about taking his wonted daily observation of the sun to determine his latitude.
The time for reaching the Line finally approached; and every day, when Ahab stepped out of his cabin and looked up, the watchful helmsman would dramatically grip the wheel, while the eager sailors would rush to the braces and stand there, their eyes all focused on the nailed doubloon, restless for the command to steer the ship toward the equator. Eventually, the order was given. It was just about noon, and Ahab, seated at the front of his high-raised boat, was preparing to make his usual daily observation of the sun to figure out their latitude.
Now, in that Japanese sea, the days in summer are as freshets of effulgences. That unblinkingly vivid Japanese sun seems the blazing focus of the glassy ocean’s immeasurable burning-glass. The sky looks lacquered; clouds there are none; the horizon floats; and this nakedness of unrelieved radiance is as the insufferable splendors of God’s throne. Well that Ahab’s quadrant was furnished with coloured glasses, through which to take sight of that solar fire. So, swinging his seated form to the roll of the ship, and with his astrological-looking instrument placed to his eye, he remained in that posture for some moments to catch the precise instant when the sun should gain its precise meridian. Meantime while his whole attention was absorbed, the Parsee was kneeling beneath him on the ship’s deck, and with face thrown up like Ahab’s, was eyeing the same sun with him; only the lids of his eyes half hooded their orbs, and his wild face was subdued to an earthly passionlessness. At length the desired observation was taken; and with his pencil upon his ivory leg, Ahab soon calculated what his latitude must be at that precise instant. Then falling into a moment’s revery, he again looked up towards the sun and murmured to himself: “Thou sea-mark! thou high and mighty Pilot! thou tellest me truly where I am—but canst thou cast the least hint where I shall be? Or canst thou tell where some other thing besides me is this moment living? Where is Moby Dick? This instant thou must be eyeing him. These eyes of mine look into the very eye that is even now beholding him; aye, and into the eye that is even now equally beholding the objects on the unknown, thither side of thee, thou sun!”
In the Japanese sea during summer, the days shine with an intense brilliance. The glaring, unyielding Japanese sun feels like the fiery center of the endless ocean, which gleams like a massive burning lens. The sky looks polished, with no clouds in sight, and the horizon seems to float in the distance. This bare, overwhelming radiance feels as magnificent and unbearable as the splendor of God’s throne. It was fortunate that Ahab's quadrant was equipped with colored lenses to observe that blazing sunlight. Sitting and swaying with the ship's motion, he held the astronomer-like instrument to his eye, maintaining that position for several moments to pinpoint the exact moment the sun reached its highest point in the sky. Meanwhile, as Ahab concentrated entirely on his task, the Parsee knelt on the deck beneath him, his face tilted up like Ahab's to look at the same sun. However, his eyes were only half-open, and his wild expression was subdued into a calm that seemed almost otherworldly. Finally, Ahab made the observation he needed. Using his pencil on his ivory leg, he quickly calculated his latitude at that precise moment. Then, slipping into a brief daydream, he glanced back at the sun and murmured to himself: "Oh, great marker of the sea! Mighty Pilot! You show me exactly where I am—but can you give me even the faintest idea of where I will be? Or can you tell me where something else, something beyond myself, is at this very moment? Where is Moby Dick? Right now, your gaze must be upon him. These eyes of mine are looking into the very eye that sees him at this instant—yes, and into the eye that is, even now, gazing upon everything else, on the unknown world beyond you, oh sun!"
Then gazing at his quadrant, and handling, one after the other, its numerous cabalistical contrivances, he pondered again, and muttered: “Foolish toy! babies’ plaything of haughty Admirals, and Commodores, and Captains; the world brags of thee, of thy cunning and might; but what after all canst thou do, but tell the poor, pitiful point, where thou thyself happenest to be on this wide planet, and the hand that holds thee: no! not one jot more! Thou canst not tell where one drop of water or one grain of sand will be to-morrow noon; and yet with thy impotence thou insultest the sun! Science! Curse thee, thou vain toy; and cursed be all the things that cast man’s eyes aloft to that heaven, whose live vividness but scorches him, as these old eyes are even now scorched with thy light, O sun! Level by nature to this earth’s horizon are the glances of man’s eyes; not shot from the crown of his head, as if God had meant him to gaze on his firmament. Curse thee, thou quadrant!” dashing it to the deck, “no longer will I guide my earthly way by thee; the level ship’s compass, and the level dead-reckoning, by log and by line; these shall conduct me, and show me my place on the sea. Aye,” lighting from the boat to the deck, “thus I trample on thee, thou paltry thing that feebly pointest on high; thus I split and destroy thee!”
Then, staring at his quadrant and fiddling with its many mysterious gadgets, he thought about it again and muttered: “Stupid toy! A plaything for arrogant Admirals, Commodores, and Captains; the world boasts about you, your cleverness, and your power. But what can you really do, except tell the small, miserable spot where you happen to be on this vast planet, along with the person holding you? Nothing more, not one bit! You can’t tell where a single drop of water or a grain of sand will be tomorrow at noon. And still, with all your uselessness, you dare to stand against the sun! Science! Damn you, you worthless plaything, and damn all the things that make humans look up at a heaven that burns them, just like how my old eyes are burning now from looking at you, oh Sun! Human eyes are meant to stay level with the earth’s horizon by nature—not aimed upward from the top of his head, as if God intended for him to stare at the sky. Damn you, quadrant!” he exclaimed, slamming it down on the deck. “I won’t navigate my way with you anymore. The straightforward ship’s compass and basic dead-reckoning, with log and line—those will guide me and show me my place at sea. Yes,” he continued, stepping from the boat to the deck, “this is how I tread on you, you pathetic thing that weakly points upward; this is how I smash and destroy you!”
As the frantic old man thus spoke and thus trampled with his live and dead feet, a sneering triumph that seemed meant for Ahab, and a fatalistic despair that seemed meant for himself—these passed over the mute, motionless Parsee’s face. Unobserved he rose and glided away; while, awestruck by the aspect of their commander, the seamen clustered together on the forecastle, till Ahab, troubledly pacing the deck, shouted out—“To the braces! Up helm!—square in!”
As the frantic old man spoke and stomped with both his living and dead feet, a sneering triumph that seemed aimed at Ahab and a hopeless despair that seemed directed at himself flickered across the silent, unmoving Parsee’s face. Unseen, he stood up and slipped away, while the awe-stricken sailors gathered together on the forecastle, stunned by the sight of their captain. Suddenly, Ahab, pacing the deck in agitation, yelled out, “To the braces! Turn the helm! Square the sails!”
In an instant the yards swung round; and as the ship half-wheeled upon her heel, her three firm-seated graceful masts erectly poised upon her long, ribbed hull, seemed as the three Horatii pirouetting on one sufficient steed.
In an instant, the yards turned around, and as the ship spun partially on its heel, its three firmly seated and elegant masts, standing tall on its long, ribbed hull, looked like the three Horatii spinning gracefully on a single sturdy horse.
Standing between the knight-heads, Starbuck watched the Pequod’s tumultuous way, and Ahab’s also, as he went lurching along the deck.
Standing between the bow timbers, Starbuck watched the chaotic path of the Pequod, as well as Ahab’s, as he stumbled along the deck.
“I have sat before the dense coal fire and watched it all aglow, full of its tormented flaming life; and I have seen it wane at last, down, down, to dumbest dust. Old man of oceans! of all this fiery life of thine, what will at length remain but one little heap of ashes!”
"I have sat in front of the blazing coal fire, watching it burn brightly, filled with its intense, flickering energy; and I’ve seen it fade away, slowly, until it’s nothing but silent dust. Old man of the oceans! After all this fiery life of yours, what will ultimately be left but a small pile of ashes?"
“Aye,” cried Stubb, “but sea-coal ashes—mind ye that, Mr. Starbuck—sea-coal, not your common charcoal. Well, well; I heard Ahab mutter, ‘Here some one thrusts these cards into these old hands of mine; swears that I must play them, and no others.’ And damn me, Ahab, but thou actest right; live in the game, and die in it!”
"Yes," shouted Stubb, "but sea-coal ashes—remember that, Mr. Starbuck—sea-coal, not your ordinary charcoal. Well, well; I heard Ahab say, ‘Someone shoved these cards into my old hands and swore I have to play them and no others.’ And damn it, Ahab, you do it right; live for the game and die in it!"
CHAPTER 119. The Candles.
Warmest climes but nurse the cruellest fangs: the tiger of Bengal crouches in spiced groves of ceaseless verdure. Skies the most effulgent but basket the deadliest thunders: gorgeous Cuba knows tornadoes that never swept tame northern lands. So, too, it is, that in these resplendent Japanese seas the mariner encounters the direst of all storms, the Typhoon. It will sometimes burst from out that cloudless sky, like an exploding bomb upon a dazed and sleepy town.
The warmest places often harbor the deadliest dangers: the Bengal tiger hides in lush, fragrant forests of endless greenery. The brightest skies can hold the most destructive storms, like how beautiful Cuba faces tornadoes unknown to calmer northern lands. Similarly, in these dazzling Japanese seas, sailors face the most fearsome of storms—the Typhoon. Sometimes it will erupt suddenly from a clear, blue sky, like a bomb exploding over a quiet, unsuspecting town.
Towards evening of that day, the Pequod was torn of her canvas, and bare-poled was left to fight a Typhoon which had struck her directly ahead. When darkness came on, sky and sea roared and split with the thunder, and blazed with the lightning, that showed the disabled masts fluttering here and there with the rags which the first fury of the tempest had left for its after sport.
Later that day, as evening approached, the Pequod had its sails ripped apart and was left with bare masts to face a typhoon that hit it head-on. When night fell, the sky and sea roared and cracked with thunder, and flashes of lightning lit up the broken masts, waving pieces of shredded canvas left behind by the storm's initial rage.
Holding by a shroud, Starbuck was standing on the quarter-deck; at every flash of the lightning glancing aloft, to see what additional disaster might have befallen the intricate hamper there; while Stubb and Flask were directing the men in the higher hoisting and firmer lashing of the boats. But all their pains seemed naught. Though lifted to the very top of the cranes, the windward quarter boat (Ahab’s) did not escape. A great rolling sea, dashing high up against the reeling ship’s high teetering side, stove in the boat’s bottom at the stern, and left it again, all dripping through like a sieve.
Holding onto a rope, Starbuck stood on the quarterdeck, glancing up with every flash of lightning to check what new damage might have hit the complex rigging above. Meanwhile, Stubb and Flask were directing the crew in raising the boats higher and securing them more tightly. But all their efforts seemed useless. Even though they hoisted the windward quarter boat (Ahab’s) as high as the cranes allowed, it wasn’t spared. A massive wave crashed violently against the ship’s leaning side, smashing in the stern of the boat and leaving it soaked and leaking like a sieve.
“Bad work, bad work! Mr. Starbuck,” said Stubb, regarding the wreck, “but the sea will have its way. Stubb, for one, can’t fight it. You see, Mr. Starbuck, a wave has such a great long start before it leaps, all round the world it runs, and then comes the spring! But as for me, all the start I have to meet it, is just across the deck here. But never mind; it’s all in fun: so the old song says;”—(sings.)
"Bad business, bad business, Mr. Starbuck," said Stubb, looking at the wreck. "But the ocean’s going to do what it wants. Stubb, for one, isn’t about to fight it. You know, Mr. Starbuck, a wave gets such a huge running start before it crashes—it travels all the way around the world and then finally makes its leap! But as for me, the only head start I’ve got to face it is just this short stretch across the deck here. But hey, it doesn’t matter; it’s all just for laughs, like the old song says"—(*starts singing*).
Oh! jolly is the gale, And a joker is the whale, A’ flourishin’ his tail,— Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad, is the Ocean, oh! The scud all a flyin’, That’s his flip only foamin’; When he stirs in the spicin’,— Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad, is the Ocean, oh! Thunder splits the ships, But he only smacks his lips, A tastin’ of this flip,— Such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad, is the Ocean, oh!
Oh! The wind is cheerful, And the whale is a prankster, Flourishing his tail— What a funny, playful, energetic, jokey, lively guy the Ocean is, oh! The spray is all flying, That's just his splash foaming; When he stirs things up— What a funny, playful, energetic, jokey, lively guy the Ocean is, oh! Thunder cracks the ships, But he just smacks his lips, Tasting this splash— What a funny, playful, energetic, jokey, lively guy the Ocean is, oh!
“Avast Stubb,” cried Starbuck, “let the Typhoon sing, and strike his harp here in our rigging; but if thou art a brave man thou wilt hold thy peace.”
"Stop, Stubb," shouted Starbuck. "Let the typhoon howl and play its music in our rigging, but if you're a brave man, you'll stay quiet."
“But I am not a brave man; never said I was a brave man; I am a coward; and I sing to keep up my spirits. And I tell you what it is, Mr. Starbuck, there’s no way to stop my singing in this world but to cut my throat. And when that’s done, ten to one I sing ye the doxology for a wind-up.”
"But I'm not a brave man; never claimed to be; I'm a coward. I sing to keep my spirits up. And I'll tell you something, Mr. Starbuck: the only way to stop me from singing is to slit my throat. And even then, it's likely I'll sing the doxology as a final send-off."
“Madman! look through my eyes if thou hast none of thine own.”
"Madman! Look through my eyes if you can't see with your own."
“What! how can you see better of a dark night than anybody else, never mind how foolish?”
"What? How can you see better on a dark night than anyone else, no matter how ridiculous it sounds?"
“Here!” cried Starbuck, seizing Stubb by the shoulder, and pointing his hand towards the weather bow, “markest thou not that the gale comes from the eastward, the very course Ahab is to run for Moby Dick? the very course he swung to this day noon? now mark his boat there; where is that stove? In the stern-sheets, man; where he is wont to stand—his stand-point is stove, man! Now jump overboard, and sing away, if thou must!
"Look here!" shouted Starbuck, grabbing Stubb by the shoulder and pointing towards the windward bow. "Don't you notice the wind is blowing from the east—the exact direction Ahab is heading to find Moby Dick? The same direction he turned to at noon today? Now look at his boat there; where is it damaged? In the stern-sheets, man—right where he usually stands! His usual spot is smashed, man! Now go ahead, jump overboard, and sing if you feel like it!"
“I don’t half understand ye: what’s in the wind?”
"I don't really understand you—what's going on?"
“Yes, yes, round the Cape of Good Hope is the shortest way to Nantucket,” soliloquized Starbuck suddenly, heedless of Stubb’s question. “The gale that now hammers at us to stave us, we can turn it into a fair wind that will drive us towards home. Yonder, to windward, all is blackness of doom; but to leeward, homeward—I see it lightens up there; but not with the lightning.”
"Yeah, yeah, going around the Cape of Good Hope is the quickest way to Nantucket," muttered Starbuck suddenly, ignoring Stubb's question. "The storm that's pounding us now, threatening to wreck us, we can use it as a fair wind to push us toward home. Over there, upwind, it's all black and ominous, but downwind, towards home—I can see it brightening there; but it's not from lightning."
At that moment in one of the intervals of profound darkness, following the flashes, a voice was heard at his side; and almost at the same instant a volley of thunder peals rolled overhead.
In one of the moments of deep darkness between the flashes, a voice was heard beside him, and almost immediately, a series of thunderclaps rumbled overhead.
“Who’s there?”
“Who’s there?”
“Old Thunder!” said Ahab, groping his way along the bulwarks to his pivot-hole; but suddenly finding his path made plain to him by elbowed lances of fire.
"Old Thunder!" said Ahab, feeling his way along the ship's railing to his usual spot, but suddenly having his path lit up by jagged flashes of lightning.
Now, as the lightning rod to a spire on shore is intended to carry off the perilous fluid into the soil; so the kindred rod which at sea some ships carry to each mast, is intended to conduct it into the water. But as this conductor must descend to considerable depth, that its end may avoid all contact with the hull; and as moreover, if kept constantly towing there, it would be liable to many mishaps, besides interfering not a little with some of the rigging, and more or less impeding the vessel’s way in the water; because of all this, the lower parts of a ship’s lightning-rods are not always overboard; but are generally made in long slender links, so as to be the more readily hauled up into the chains outside, or thrown down into the sea, as occasion may require.
Now, like a lightning rod on a building is designed to channel dangerous electricity safely into the ground, the similar rod some ships use on each mast is meant to direct it into the water. However, this rod needs to go quite deep to keep its end from touching the ship's hull. Additionally, if it's constantly dragging in the water, it could face various problems, interfere with some of the rigging, and slow the ship down. Because of this, the lower parts of a ship's lightning rods aren't always left in the water. Instead, they're usually made of long, flexible links so they can be easily pulled up into the chains on the outside or dropped into the sea when needed.
“The rods! the rods!” cried Starbuck to the crew, suddenly admonished to vigilance by the vivid lightning that had just been darting flambeaux, to light Ahab to his post. “Are they overboard? drop them over, fore and aft. Quick!”
"The rods! The rods!" shouted Starbuck to the crew, suddenly jolted into action by the bright lightning that had just been flashing like torches, guiding Ahab to his spot. "Are they overboard? Throw them over, front and back. Hurry!"
“Avast!” cried Ahab; “let’s have fair play here, though we be the weaker side. Yet I’ll contribute to raise rods on the Himmalehs and Andes, that all the world may be secured; but out on privileges! Let them be, sir.”
"Hold on!" shouted Ahab. "Let’s play fair here, even if we’re the weaker side. Still, I’d help build poles on the Himalayas and Andes so the whole world can be safe; but forget about privileges! Leave them be, sir."
“Look aloft!” cried Starbuck. “The corpusants! the corpusants!”
"Look up!" shouted Starbuck. "The St. Elmo's fires! The St. Elmo's fires!"
All the yard-arms were tipped with a pallid fire; and touched at each tri-pointed lightning-rod-end with three tapering white flames, each of the three tall masts was silently burning in that sulphurous air, like three gigantic wax tapers before an altar.
All the yardarms glowed with a pale fire, and at the tip of every three-pronged lightning rod, three slender white flames flickered. Each of the three tall masts stood silently burning in the sulfurous air, like three massive wax candles before an altar.
“Blast the boat! let it go!” cried Stubb at this instant, as a swashing sea heaved up under his own little craft, so that its gunwale violently jammed his hand, as he was passing a lashing. “Blast it!”—but slipping backward on the deck, his uplifted eyes caught the flames; and immediately shifting his tone he cried—“The corpusants have mercy on us all!”
“Forget the boat! Let it go!” shouted Stubb at that moment, as a crashing wave surged beneath his small craft, slamming the gunwale hard against his hand while he was fastening a rope. “Damn it!”—but as he slipped backward on the deck, his eyes shot up and caught sight of the flames; instantly changing his tone, he yelled, “The St. Elmo’s fire, have mercy on us all!”
To sailors, oaths are household words; they will swear in the trance of the calm, and in the teeth of the tempest; they will imprecate curses from the topsail-yard-arms, when most they teeter over to a seething sea; but in all my voyagings, seldom have I heard a common oath when God’s burning finger has been laid on the ship; when His “Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin” has been woven into the shrouds and the cordage.
For sailors, swearing is second nature; they'll curse during the stillness of calm seas and in the middle of a raging storm. They’ll shout out curses from the topsail yards, even when they’re dangling precariously over a boiling sea. But in all my travels, I’ve rarely heard anyone swear when God’s fiery judgment seems to have touched the ship—when His “Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin” is etched into the rigging and ropes.
While this pallidness was burning aloft, few words were heard from the enchanted crew; who in one thick cluster stood on the forecastle, all their eyes gleaming in that pale phosphorescence, like a far away constellation of stars. Relieved against the ghostly light, the gigantic jet negro, Daggoo, loomed up to thrice his real stature, and seemed the black cloud from which the thunder had come. The parted mouth of Tashtego revealed his shark-white teeth, which strangely gleamed as if they too had been tipped by corpusants; while lit up by the preternatural light, Queequeg’s tattooing burned like Satanic blue flames on his body.
As this pale light blazed above, only a few words were spoken by the mesmerized crew, who stood tightly gathered on the forecastle, their eyes shining in the faint glow like a distant constellation of stars. Against the eerie light, the towering figure of Daggoo, the massive jet-black man, appeared three times his actual size, looking like the dark cloud that thunder had emerged from. Tashtego's parted mouth revealed his shark-like white teeth, which gleamed oddly as if they, too, were tipped with electricity; while Queequeg's tattoos, illuminated by the unnatural glow, seemed to burn like demonic blue flames on his body.
The tableau all waned at last with the pallidness aloft; and once more the Pequod and every soul on her decks were wrapped in a pall. A moment or two passed, when Starbuck, going forward, pushed against some one. It was Stubb. “What thinkest thou now, man; I heard thy cry; it was not the same in the song.”
The scene finally faded away into a pale stillness above; and once again the Pequod and everyone on deck were shrouded in gloom. A moment or two passed, and as Starbuck moved forward, he bumped into someone. It was Stubb. “What do you think now, man? I heard your cry; it wasn’t the same as in the song.”
“No, no, it wasn’t; I said the corpusants have mercy on us all; and I hope they will, still. But do they only have mercy on long faces?—have they no bowels for a laugh? And look ye, Mr. Starbuck—but it’s too dark to look. Hear me, then: I take that mast-head flame we saw for a sign of good luck; for those masts are rooted in a hold that is going to be chock a’ block with sperm-oil, d’ye see; and so, all that sperm will work up into the masts, like sap in a tree. Yes, our three masts will yet be as three spermaceti candles—that’s the good promise we saw.”
"No, no, it wasn’t; I said may the St. Elmo’s fire have mercy on us all, and I still hope they will. But do they only show mercy to serious faces? Don’t they have any sympathy for a laugh? And listen, Mr. Starbuck—it’s too dark to see, so hear me instead: I take that masthead flame we saw as a sign of good luck. Those masts are rooted in a ship’s hold that’s going to be packed full of sperm oil, you see. And all that oil will rise up into the masts, like sap in a tree. Yes, our three masts will become like three spermaceti candles—that’s the good omen we witnessed."
At that moment Starbuck caught sight of Stubb’s face slowly beginning to glimmer into sight. Glancing upwards, he cried: “See! see!” and once more the high tapering flames were beheld with what seemed redoubled supernaturalness in their pallor.
At that moment, Starbuck noticed Stubb’s face slowly coming into view. Looking up, he shouted, “Look! Look!” and once again, the tall, flickering flames appeared, seeming even more supernatural in their pale glow.
“The corpusants have mercy on us all,” cried Stubb, again.
"The St. Elmo's fire have mercy on us all," Stubb shouted again.
At the base of the mainmast, full beneath the doubloon and the flame, the Parsee was kneeling in Ahab’s front, but with his head bowed away from him; while near by, from the arched and overhanging rigging, where they had just been engaged securing a spar, a number of the seamen, arrested by the glare, now cohered together, and hung pendulous, like a knot of numbed wasps from a drooping, orchard twig. In various enchanted attitudes, like the standing, or stepping, or running skeletons in Herculaneum, others remained rooted to the deck; but all their eyes upcast.
At the base of the mainmast, directly under the doubloon and the flame, the Parsee was kneeling in front of Ahab, his head turned away from him. Nearby, from the curved, overhanging rigging, where they had just been working to secure a spar, several sailors—stopped in their tracks by the bright light—had gathered together and now hung motionless, like a cluster of frozen wasps clinging to a drooping orchard branch. Others stood frozen on the deck in various hypnotized poses, like the skeletons caught mid-motion in Herculaneum, but every single one of them had their eyes fixed upward.
“Aye, aye, men!” cried Ahab. “Look up at it; mark it well; the white flame but lights the way to the White Whale! Hand me those mainmast links there; I would fain feel this pulse, and let mine beat against it; blood against fire! So.”
"Alright, men!" shouted Ahab. "Look up at it; take a good look; the white flame only lights the path to the White Whale! Pass me those mainmast links there; I want to feel this pulse and let mine beat against it—blood against fire! There."
Then turning—the last link held fast in his left hand, he put his foot upon the Parsee; and with fixed upward eye, and high-flung right arm, he stood erect before the lofty tri-pointed trinity of flames.
Then turning, holding the last link tightly in his left hand, he stepped onto the Parsee; with his eyes fixed upward and his right arm raised high, he stood tall before the towering three-pronged flames.
“Oh! thou clear spirit of clear fire, whom on these seas I as Persian once did worship, till in the sacramental act so burned by thee, that to this hour I bear the scar; I now know thee, thou clear spirit, and I now know that thy right worship is defiance. To neither love nor reverence wilt thou be kind; and e’en for hate thou canst but kill; and all are killed. No fearless fool now fronts thee. I own thy speechless, placeless power; but to the last gasp of my earthquake life will dispute its unconditional, unintegral mastery in me. In the midst of the personified impersonal, a personality stands here. Though but a point at best; whencesoe’er I came; wheresoe’er I go; yet while I earthly live, the queenly personality lives in me, and feels her royal rights. But war is pain, and hate is woe. Come in thy lowest form of love, and I will kneel and kiss thee; but at thy highest, come as mere supernal power; and though thou launchest navies of full-freighted worlds, there’s that in here that still remains indifferent. Oh, thou clear spirit, of thy fire thou madest me, and like a true child of fire, I breathe it back to thee.”
"Oh, you pure spirit of clear fire, whom I once worshiped on these seas, like a Persian of old, until during that sacred ritual you burned me so terribly that even now I carry the scar. I understand you now, pure spirit, and I see that the only way to honor you is through defiance. You offer neither love nor respect to anyone; you can't even truly hate—only kill. And in the end, all are destroyed. No reckless fool stands against you now. I acknowledge your silent, unbound power, but until the final breath of my tumultuous life, I will challenge your absolute control over me. In the midst of all that is impersonal and unfeeling, a personality still stands here. Small as I may be, no matter where I came from or where I am going, as long as I live on this earth, the dignity of that personality survives in me and recognizes its royal rights. But war brings suffering, and hate leads to despair. Come to me in your gentlest form of love, and I will kneel and embrace you. But in your most exalted, godlike form, if you rain down entire fleets of universe-laden worlds, there is something in me that will remain unmoved. Oh, pure spirit, you made me with your fire, and like a true child of fire, I give it back to you."
[Sudden, repeated flashes of lightning; the nine flames leap lengthwise to thrice their previous height; Ahab, with the rest, closes his eyes, his right hand pressed hard upon them.]
[Sudden, repeated flashes of lightning; the nine flames shoot up to three times their previous height; Ahab, along with the others, shuts his eyes tightly, pressing hard over them with his right hand.]
“I own thy speechless, placeless power; said I not so? Nor was it wrung from me; nor do I now drop these links. Thou canst blind; but I can then grope. Thou canst consume; but I can then be ashes. Take the homage of these poor eyes, and shutter-hands. I would not take it. The lightning flashes through my skull; mine eye-balls ache and ache; my whole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground. Oh, oh! Yet blindfold, yet will I talk to thee. Light though thou be, thou leapest out of darkness; but I am darkness leaping out of light, leaping out of thee! The javelins cease; open eyes; see, or not? There burn the flames! Oh, thou magnanimous! now I do glory in my genealogy. But thou art but my fiery father; my sweet mother, I know not. Oh, cruel! what hast thou done with her? There lies my puzzle; but thine is greater. Thou knowest not how came ye, hence callest thyself unbegotten; certainly knowest not thy beginning, hence callest thyself unbegun. I know that of me, which thou knowest not of thyself, oh, thou omnipotent. There is some unsuffusing thing beyond thee, thou clear spirit, to whom all thy eternity is but time, all thy creativeness mechanical. Through thee, thy flaming self, my scorched eyes do dimly see it. Oh, thou foundling fire, thou hermit immemorial, thou too hast thy incommunicable riddle, thy unparticipated grief. Here again with haughty agony, I read my sire. Leap! leap up, and lick the sky! I leap with thee; I burn with thee; would fain be welded with thee; defyingly I worship thee!”
“I possess your silent, unplaceable power—didn’t I say so? It wasn’t forced from me, and I’m not letting go of these chains now. You can blind me, but I can still grope in the dark. You can burn me, but I can still exist as ashes. Take the homage of these weak eyes and trembling hands. But I wouldn’t accept it if I were you. Lightning flashes through my skull; my eyes throb endlessly, and my entire battered brain feels severed, rolling across some pounding ground. Oh, oh! Yet, even blinded, I will still speak to you. You are light, but you leap out of darkness—whereas I am darkness leaping out of light, leaping out of you! The strikes have stopped; my eyes open—do I see, or not? The flames burn on! Oh, magnificent one! Now I take pride in my lineage. Yet you are only my fiery father; my sweet mother—I don’t know her. Oh, cruel being! What have you done with her? That’s my mystery. But yours is bigger. You don’t know how you came to exist, so you call yourself uncreated; nor do you know your beginning, so you call yourself without origin. I know something about myself that you don’t know about yourself, oh mighty one. There’s something beyond you, some force you can’t touch, oh clear spirit, to whom all your eternity is just fleeting time, and all your creativity is mechanical. Through you, through your fiery self, my scorched eyes catch a faint glimpse of it. Oh, abandoned fire, ancient hermit, you too have your own mysterious riddle, your unshared grief. Once more, in proud agony, I see myself in my father. Leap! Leap and lick the sky! I leap with you; I burn with you. I long to fuse with you. In defiance, I worship you!”
“The boat! the boat!” cried Starbuck, “look at thy boat, old man!”
"The boat! The boat!" shouted Starbuck. "Look at your boat, old man!"
Ahab’s harpoon, the one forged at Perth’s fire, remained firmly lashed in its conspicuous crotch, so that it projected beyond his whale-boat’s bow; but the sea that had stove its bottom had caused the loose leather sheath to drop off; and from the keen steel barb there now came a levelled flame of pale, forked fire. As the silent harpoon burned there like a serpent’s tongue, Starbuck grasped Ahab by the arm—“God, God is against thee, old man; forbear! ’tis an ill voyage! ill begun, ill continued; let me square the yards, while we may, old man, and make a fair wind of it homewards, to go on a better voyage than this.”
Ahab’s harpoon, the one forged at Perth’s fire, stayed firmly secured in its prominent spot, sticking out beyond the bow of his whale-boat. However, the sea that had smashed the boat’s bottom had caused the loose leather sheath to fall off. Now, from the sharp steel tip, a pale, forked flame flickered like a steady tongue of fire. As the silent harpoon burned there like a serpent’s tongue, Starbuck grabbed Ahab by the arm. “God, God is against you, old man; stop! This is a cursed voyage! Bad from the start, and it keeps getting worse. Let me adjust the sails while we still can, old man, and catch a fair wind homewards, so we can start a better journey than this one.”
Overhearing Starbuck, the panic-stricken crew instantly ran to the braces—though not a sail was left aloft. For the moment all the aghast mate’s thoughts seemed theirs; they raised a half mutinous cry. But dashing the rattling lightning links to the deck, and snatching the burning harpoon, Ahab waved it like a torch among them; swearing to transfix with it the first sailor that but cast loose a rope’s end. Petrified by his aspect, and still more shrinking from the fiery dart that he held, the men fell back in dismay, and Ahab again spoke:—
Overhearing Starbuck, the terrified crew immediately rushed to the ropes—even though there wasn’t a sail left above. For a moment, all the mate’s horrified thoughts seemed to consume them; they started shouting in near rebellion. But Ahab slammed the sparking lightning chains onto the deck, grabbed the burning harpoon, and waved it like a torch before them, swearing he’d skewer the first sailor who dared to touch a rope. Frozen by his fierce appearance and even more intimidated by the flaming weapon he held, the men shrank back in fear. Then Ahab spoke again:—
“All your oaths to hunt the White Whale are as binding as mine; and heart, soul, and body, lungs and life, old Ahab is bound. And that ye may know to what tune this heart beats; look ye here; thus I blow out the last fear!” And with one blast of his breath he extinguished the flame.
"All your vows to chase the White Whale are as binding as mine; heart, soul, body, lungs, and life—old Ahab is committed. And so you'll know the rhythm this heart beats to, look here—this is how I blow away the last shred of fear!" And with one breath, he snuffed out the flame.
As in the hurricane that sweeps the plain, men fly the neighborhood of some lone, gigantic elm, whose very height and strength but render it so much the more unsafe, because so much the more a mark for thunderbolts; so at those last words of Ahab’s many of the mariners did run from him in a terror of dismay.
Like in a hurricane ripping across the plains, where people avoid a massive, solitary elm tree because its towering height and strength make it a prime target for lightning strikes, Ahab's last words caused many sailors to run from him, gripped by sheer terror and panic.
CHAPTER 120. The Deck Towards the End of the First Night Watch.
Ahab standing by the helm. Starbuck approaching him.
Ahab standing by the wheel. Starbuck walking up to him.
“We must send down the main-top-sail yard, sir. The band is working loose and the lee lift is half-stranded. Shall I strike it, sir?”
"We need to lower the main topsail yard, sir. The band is coming loose, and the lee lift is half broken. Should I take it down, sir?"
“Strike nothing; lash it. If I had sky-sail poles, I’d sway them up now.”
"Don't strike anything; whip it. If I had sky-sail poles, I'd hoist them up right now."
“Sir!—in God’s name!—sir?”
“Excuse me, sir?—for God's sake!”
“Well.”
"Okay."
“The anchors are working, sir. Shall I get them inboard?”
"The anchors are holding, sir. Should I bring them on board?"
“Strike nothing, and stir nothing, but lash everything. The wind rises, but it has not got up to my table-lands yet. Quick, and see to it.—By masts and keels! he takes me for the hunch-backed skipper of some coasting smack. Send down my main-top-sail yard! Ho, gluepots! Loftiest trucks were made for wildest winds, and this brain-truck of mine now sails amid the cloud-scud. Shall I strike that? Oh, none but cowards send down their brain-trucks in tempest time. What a hooroosh aloft there! I would e’en take it for sublime, did I not know that the colic is a noisy malady. Oh, take medicine, take medicine!”
"Strike nothing, and don’t mess with anything, but hit everything hard. The wind is picking up, but it hasn’t reached my level yet. Hurry up and deal with it. By masts and hulls! He thinks I’m the hunchbacked captain of some small coastal boat. Lower my main-top-sail yard! Hey, gluepots! The highest peaks are made for the wildest winds, and this brain of mine is sailing through the stormy clouds right now. Should I back down? No way—only cowards lower their minds during stormy times. What a commotion up there! I’d call it majestic if I didn’t know that a stomachache makes a lot of noise. Oh, take some medicine, take some medicine!"
CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.
Stubb and Flask mounted on them, and passing additional lashings over the anchors there hanging.
Stubb and Flask climbed onto them and secured extra lashings over the anchors that were hanging there.
“No, Stubb; you may pound that knot there as much as you please, but you will never pound into me what you were just now saying. And how long ago is it since you said the very contrary? Didn’t you once say that whatever ship Ahab sails in, that ship should pay something extra on its insurance policy, just as though it were loaded with powder barrels aft and boxes of lucifers forward? Stop, now; didn’t you say so?”
"No, Stubb; you can keep pounding that knot all you want, but you’re never going to convince me of what you were just saying. And how long ago was it that you said the exact opposite? Didn’t you once say that any ship Ahab sails on should pay extra on its insurance policy, like it was loaded with barrels of gunpowder in the back and boxes of matches in the front? Hold on now—didn’t you say that?"
“Well, suppose I did? What then? I’ve part changed my flesh since that time, why not my mind? Besides, supposing we are loaded with powder barrels aft and lucifers forward; how the devil could the lucifers get afire in this drenching spray here? Why, my little man, you have pretty red hair, but you couldn’t get afire now. Shake yourself; you’re Aquarius, or the water-bearer, Flask; might fill pitchers at your coat collar. Don’t you see, then, that for these extra risks the Marine Insurance companies have extra guarantees? Here are hydrants, Flask. But hark, again, and I’ll answer ye the other thing. First take your leg off from the crown of the anchor here, though, so I can pass the rope; now listen. What’s the mighty difference between holding a mast’s lightning-rod in the storm, and standing close by a mast that hasn’t got any lightning-rod at all in a storm? Don’t you see, you timber-head, that no harm can come to the holder of the rod, unless the mast is first struck? What are you talking about, then? Not one ship in a hundred carries rods, and Ahab,—aye, man, and all of us,—were in no more danger then, in my poor opinion, than all the crews in ten thousand ships now sailing the seas. Why, you King-Post, you, I suppose you would have every man in the world go about with a small lightning-rod running up the corner of his hat, like a militia officer’s skewered feather, and trailing behind like his sash. Why don’t ye be sensible, Flask? it’s easy to be sensible; why don’t ye, then? any man with half an eye can be sensible.”
"Well, what if I did? So what? I’ve changed my body a bit since then, so why not my mind? And besides, say we *do* have barrels of gunpowder in the back and matches up front—how on earth would the matches catch fire with all this pouring rain drenching everything? Look here, my little man, your hair might be fiery red, but even you couldn’t catch fire right now. Shake yourself off; you’re like Aquarius, the water-bearer, Flask—you could fill pitchers with the water dripping from your coat collar. Don’t you get it? For extra risks, the marine insurance companies provide extra safeguards. See? Here are the hydrants, Flask. But wait, listen, I’ll explain the other thing too. First, take your foot off the top of the anchor here so I can pass the rope. Now listen. What’s the big difference between holding onto a mast’s lightning rod during a storm and standing next to a mast without a rod at all in the same storm? Don’t you get it, you blockhead? The person holding the rod won’t get hurt unless the mast itself is struck. So what’s your fuss about? Only one ship in a hundred even has lightning rods, and Ahab—yeah, him, and the rest of us—weren’t in any more danger back then, as far as I see it, than the crews of ten thousand ships sailing the oceans right now. Why, you ridiculous King-Post, are you saying every man in the world should walk around with a little lightning rod sticking up from the corner of his hat, like a militia officer’s feather, with the rod dragging behind him like his sash? Why don’t you just try being reasonable, Flask? It’s not that hard to be reasonable—so why don’t you? Even someone half-blind could manage that."
“I don’t know that, Stubb. You sometimes find it rather hard.”
"I’m not sure about that, Stubb. Sometimes you find it a bit tough."
“Yes, when a fellow’s soaked through, it’s hard to be sensible, that’s a fact. And I am about drenched with this spray. Never mind; catch the turn there, and pass it. Seems to me we are lashing down these anchors now as if they were never going to be used again. Tying these two anchors here, Flask, seems like tying a man’s hands behind him. And what big generous hands they are, to be sure. These are your iron fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the world is anchored anywhere; if she is, she swings with an uncommon long cable, though. There, hammer that knot down, and we’ve done. So; next to touching land, lighting on deck is the most satisfactory. I say, just wring out my jacket skirts, will ye? Thank ye. They laugh at long-togs so, Flask; but seems to me, a long tailed coat ought always to be worn in all storms afloat. The tails tapering down that way, serve to carry off the water, d’ye see. Same with cocked hats; the cocks form gable-end eave-troughs, Flask. No more monkey-jackets and tarpaulins for me; I must mount a swallow-tail, and drive down a beaver; so. Halloa! whew! there goes my tarpaulin overboard; Lord, Lord, that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly! This is a nasty night, lad.”
"Yeah, when a guy’s completely soaked, it’s hard to think straight, that’s for sure. And I’m just about drenched with all this spray. Oh well, grab that turn there and pass it along. Feels like we’re tying down these anchors as if we’ll never need them again. Lashing these two anchors here, Flask, is like tying a man’s hands behind his back. And what big, strong hands they are, too. These are like iron fists, huh? What a grip they’ve got! You know, Flask, I wonder if the world itself is anchored to anything. If it is, it must be swinging on an extremely long rope. There, hammer down that knot, and we’re done. Alright, next to stepping onto land, getting back up on deck feels just about as good. Hey, can you wring out the bottom of my jacket for me? Thanks. People make fun of long coats, Flask, but to me, a long-tailed coat seems like the right choice for any storm at sea. The tails hanging down sort of channel the water away, you know? Same thing with those tri-cornered hats—they work like little gutters. Forget monkey-jackets and tarpaulins for me; I’ll have to switch to a tailcoat and a proper beaver hat. Wait—oh no! There goes my tarpaulin overboard! Good grief, isn’t it crazy how the winds from above can behave so rudely? This is a rough night, my friend."
CHAPTER 122. Midnight Aloft.—Thunder and Lightning.
The main-top-sail yard.—Tashtego passing new lashings around it.
The main-top-sail yard.—Tashtego securing it with new ropes.
“Um, um, um. Stop that thunder! Plenty too much thunder up here. What’s the use of thunder? Um, um, um. We don’t want thunder; we want rum; give us a glass of rum. Um, um, um!”
"Uh, uh, uh. Stop that thunder! Way too much thunder up here. What's the point of all this thunder? Uh, uh, uh. We don't want thunder; we want rum. Give us a glass of rum. Uh, uh, uh!"
CHAPTER 123. The Musket.
During the most violent shocks of the Typhoon, the man at the Pequod’s jaw-bone tiller had several times been reelingly hurled to the deck by its spasmodic motions, even though preventer tackles had been attached to it—for they were slack—because some play to the tiller was indispensable.
During the strongest jolts of the Typhoon, the man steering the Pequod at the jawbone tiller was thrown to the deck several times by its sudden, jerking movements, even though safety tackles had been attached to it—since they were loose—because the tiller needed some range of movement to work properly.
In a severe gale like this, while the ship is but a tossed shuttlecock to the blast, it is by no means uncommon to see the needles in the compasses, at intervals, go round and round. It was thus with the Pequod’s; at almost every shock the helmsman had not failed to notice the whirling velocity with which they revolved upon the cards; it is a sight that hardly anyone can behold without some sort of unwonted emotion.
In a violent storm like this, when the ship is nothing more than a toy being tossed around by the wind, it’s not unusual to see the compass needles spinning wildly at times. That’s exactly what happened on the Pequod; with almost every jolt, the helmsman couldn’t help but notice the rapid spinning of the needles on the compass cards. It’s a sight that almost no one can witness without feeling something unusual stirring inside.
Some hours after midnight, the Typhoon abated so much, that through the strenuous exertions of Starbuck and Stubb—one engaged forward and the other aft—the shivered remnants of the jib and fore and main-top-sails were cut adrift from the spars, and went eddying away to leeward, like the feathers of an albatross, which sometimes are cast to the winds when that storm-tossed bird is on the wing.
A few hours after midnight, the typhoon died down enough that, thanks to the hard work of Starbuck and Stubb—one working at the front and the other at the back—the torn remains of the jib and fore and main topsails were cut loose from the masts and drifted away to leeward, swirling like the feathers of an albatross, which are sometimes carried off by the wind when the storm-battered bird is in flight.
The three corresponding new sails were now bent and reefed, and a storm-trysail was set further aft; so that the ship soon went through the water with some precision again; and the course—for the present, East-south-east—which he was to steer, if practicable, was once more given to the helmsman. For during the violence of the gale, he had only steered according to its vicissitudes. But as he was now bringing the ship as near her course as possible, watching the compass meanwhile, lo! a good sign! the wind seemed coming round astern; aye, the foul breeze became fair!
The three new sails were now attached and partly furled, and a storm trysail was set up further back; so the ship began moving steadily through the water again. The course—currently East-southeast, if possible—was once more given to the helmsman. During the worst of the storm, he had only been steering based on the shifting winds. But now, as he worked to bring the ship as close to its course as possible while keeping an eye on the compass, a good sign appeared! The wind seemed to be shifting to blow from behind; yes, the unfavorable breeze had turned favorable!
Instantly the yards were squared, to the lively song of “Ho! the fair wind! oh-ye-ho, cheerly men!” the crew singing for joy, that so promising an event should so soon have falsified the evil portents preceding it.
Immediately, the sails were adjusted to the spirited tune of "Ho! the fair wind! Oh-ye-ho, cheer up, everyone!" The crew sang joyfully, thrilled that such a good omen had quickly proven the earlier bad signs to be wrong.
In compliance with the standing order of his commander—to report immediately, and at any one of the twenty-four hours, any decided change in the affairs of the deck,—Starbuck had no sooner trimmed the yards to the breeze—however reluctantly and gloomily,—than he mechanically went below to apprise Captain Ahab of the circumstance.
Following the standing order from his commander—to report immediately, at any hour of the day or night, any significant change in the situation on deck—Starbuck, as soon as he had adjusted the sails to the wind, though reluctantly and gloomily, automatically went below to inform Captain Ahab of the situation.
Ere knocking at his state-room, he involuntarily paused before it a moment. The cabin lamp—taking long swings this way and that—was burning fitfully, and casting fitful shadows upon the old man’s bolted door,—a thin one, with fixed blinds inserted, in place of upper panels. The isolated subterraneousness of the cabin made a certain humming silence to reign there, though it was hooped round by all the roar of the elements. The loaded muskets in the rack were shiningly revealed, as they stood upright against the forward bulkhead. Starbuck was an honest, upright man; but out of Starbuck’s heart, at that instant when he saw the muskets, there strangely evolved an evil thought; but so blent with its neutral or good accompaniments that for the instant he hardly knew it for itself.
Before knocking on his cabin door, he stopped for a moment without meaning to. The cabin lamp—swinging back and forth in long arcs—flickered unsteadily, casting restless shadows on the old man’s bolted door. It was a thin door with fixed slats instead of upper panels. The cabin’s isolation below deck created an eerie, humming silence that lingered, even though the raging noise of the storm surrounded it. The loaded muskets in the rack gleamed as they stood upright against the forward wall. Starbuck was an honest and straightforward man, but in that moment, as he saw the muskets, a strange, dark thought emerged in his mind. It was so mixed with neutral or even noble feelings that, for a moment, he could hardly recognize it for what it was.
“He would have shot me once,” he murmured, “yes, there’s the very musket that he pointed at me;—that one with the studded stock; let me touch it—lift it. Strange, that I, who have handled so many deadly lances, strange, that I should shake so now. Loaded? I must see. Aye, aye; and powder in the pan;—that’s not good. Best spill it?—wait. I’ll cure myself of this. I’ll hold the musket boldly while I think.—I come to report a fair wind to him. But how fair? Fair for death and doom,—that’s fair for Moby Dick. It’s a fair wind that’s only fair for that accursed fish.—The very tube he pointed at me!—the very one; this one—I hold it here; he would have killed me with the very thing I handle now.—Aye and he would fain kill all his crew. Does he not say he will not strike his spars to any gale? Has he not dashed his heavenly quadrant? and in these same perilous seas, gropes he not his way by mere dead reckoning of the error-abounding log? and in this very Typhoon, did he not swear that he would have no lightning-rods? But shall this crazed old man be tamely suffered to drag a whole ship’s company down to doom with him?—Yes, it would make him the wilful murderer of thirty men and more, if this ship come to any deadly harm; and come to deadly harm, my soul swears this ship will, if Ahab have his way. If, then, he were this instant—put aside, that crime would not be his. Ha! is he muttering in his sleep? Yes, just there,—in there, he’s sleeping. Sleeping? aye, but still alive, and soon awake again. I can’t withstand thee, then, old man. Not reasoning; not remonstrance; not entreaty wilt thou hearken to; all this thou scornest. Flat obedience to thy own flat commands, this is all thou breathest. Aye, and say’st the men have vow’d thy vow; say’st all of us are Ahabs. Great God forbid!—But is there no other way? no lawful way?—Make him a prisoner to be taken home? What! hope to wrest this old man’s living power from his own living hands? Only a fool would try it. Say he were pinioned even; knotted all over with ropes and hawsers; chained down to ring-bolts on this cabin floor; he would be more hideous than a caged tiger, then. I could not endure the sight; could not possibly fly his howlings; all comfort, sleep itself, inestimable reason would leave me on the long intolerable voyage. What, then, remains? The land is hundreds of leagues away, and locked Japan the nearest. I stand alone here upon an open sea, with two oceans and a whole continent between me and law.—Aye, aye, ’tis so.—Is heaven a murderer when its lightning strikes a would-be murderer in his bed, tindering sheets and skin together?—And would I be a murderer, then, if”—and slowly, stealthily, and half sideways looking, he placed the loaded musket’s end against the door.
"He would have shot me once," he muttered. "Yeah, that’s the exact musket he aimed at me—right there, the one with the studded stock. Let me touch it—lift it up. Strange, isn’t it? I’ve handled so many deadly weapons before, but now my hands are shaking. Is it loaded? I have to check. Yeah, it is; and there’s still powder in the pan. That’s not good. Should I just spill it out?—wait. No, I’ll get through this. I’ll hold the musket firmly while I think. I came to give him news of a fair wind. But how fair is it? Fair for death and destruction—that’s what’s fair for Moby Dick. A fair wind, sure, but only fair for that damned whale. This is the very gun he pointed at me—the same one. And now I’m holding it, the very weapon he would’ve used to kill me. Aye, and he’d be willing to kill all of us, too. Didn’t he swear he wouldn’t lower his masts for any storm? Didn’t he smash his heavenly quadrant to pieces? And here, in these dangerous waters, isn’t he blindly navigating by the faulty readings of a log? And didn’t he declare during the typhoon that he wouldn’t use lightning rods to protect the ship? But can we just sit back and let this madman pull the entire crew into ruin with him? If anything happens to this ship, and I swear something will if Ahab has his way, it’ll make him the murderer of over thirty men. And if he were stopped now, that crime wouldn’t fall on him. Ha! Is he mumbling in his sleep? Yeah, he’s sleeping in there, right now. Sleeping? Yes—but still alive, and soon to wake again. I can’t stand up to you, old man. You won’t listen to reason, or pleading, or protests—you dismiss all of it. You only demand blind obedience to your wild commands, and you insist the crew is bound by the same vow you’ve taken, claiming we’re all as mad as you are. God forbid! But isn’t there another way? Some lawful solution? Could we make him a prisoner, take him back home? What? Take his authority away while he’s still alive and in command? That’s impossible. Even if we tied him up—roped him, chained him to the bolts in this cabin—he’d be more terrifying than a caged tiger. I couldn’t bear to see it—I couldn’t handle his cries. It would drive me mad during the long, unbearable journey. So, what’s left? There’s no land in sight, and Japan is the closest, locked away hundreds of miles. I’m completely alone out here, in the middle of the open sea, with two oceans and an entire continent between me and civilization. Yeah, that’s the truth. But would heaven be a murderer when it strikes down a would-be killer with lightning in his bed, burning everything to ash? And would I be a murderer if—” Slowly, carefully, and casting half-glances around him, he pressed the loaded musket’s barrel against the door.
“On this level, Ahab’s hammock swings within; his head this way. A touch, and Starbuck may survive to hug his wife and child again.—Oh Mary! Mary!—boy! boy! boy!—But if I wake thee not to death, old man, who can tell to what unsounded deeps Starbuck’s body this day week may sink, with all the crew! Great God, where art Thou? Shall I? shall I?—The wind has gone down and shifted, sir; the fore and main topsails are reefed and set; she heads her course.”
"Right here, Ahab’s hammock swings, his head facing this way. Just one touch, and Starbuck might live to embrace his wife and child again. Oh Mary! Mary!—my boy! my boy! my boy!—But if I don’t wake you to death, old man, who knows how deep Starbuck’s body might sink this time next week, along with the whole crew! Dear God, where are You? Should I? Should I?—The wind has calmed and shifted, sir; the fore and main topsails are reefed and set; she’s back on course."
“Stern all! Oh Moby Dick, I clutch thy heart at last!”
"Back off, everyone! Oh Moby Dick, I’ve finally got hold of your heart!"
Such were the sounds that now came hurtling from out the old man’s tormented sleep, as if Starbuck’s voice had caused the long dumb dream to speak.
Those were the sounds now erupting from the old man's troubled sleep, as if Starbuck's voice had awakened the long-silent dream to speak.
The yet levelled musket shook like a drunkard’s arm against the panel; Starbuck seemed wrestling with an angel; but turning from the door, he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left the place.
The still-raised musket trembled like a drunkard's arm against the panel; Starbuck looked like he was battling with an angel. But after turning away from the door, he put the deadly weapon back in its rack and left the room.
“He’s too sound asleep, Mr. Stubb; go thou down, and wake him, and tell him. I must see to the deck here. Thou know’st what to say.”
"He's too sound asleep, Mr. Stubb. Go downstairs and wake him up, and tell him. I have to take care of things on deck here. You know what to say."
CHAPTER 124. The Needle.
Next morning the not-yet-subsided sea rolled in long slow billows of mighty bulk, and striving in the Pequod’s gurgling track, pushed her on like giants’ palms outspread. The strong, unstaggering breeze abounded so, that sky and air seemed vast outbellying sails; the whole world boomed before the wind. Muffled in the full morning light, the invisible sun was only known by the spread intensity of his place; where his bayonet rays moved on in stacks. Emblazonings, as of crowned Babylonian kings and queens, reigned over everything. The sea was as a crucible of molten gold, that bubblingly leaps with light and heat.
The next morning, the still-restless sea rolled in with long, slow waves of massive size, pushing the Pequod forward in its bubbling wake, like the outstretched palms of giants. The strong, unwavering wind was so abundant that the sky and air seemed like enormous, swelling sails; the whole world surged ahead with the wind. Shrouded in the bright morning light, the invisible sun was only noticeable by the intense glow marking its place, where its sharp rays spread out in layers. Ornate patterns, like those of crowned Babylonian kings and queens, seemed to dominate everything. The sea shimmered like a cauldron of molten gold, leaping and bubbling with light and heat.
Long maintaining an enchanted silence, Ahab stood apart; and every time the tetering ship loweringly pitched down her bowsprit, he turned to eye the bright sun’s rays produced ahead; and when she profoundly settled by the stern, he turned behind, and saw the sun’s rearward place, and how the same yellow rays were blending with his undeviating wake.
Ahab stood silently, seeming almost spellbound, standing apart from everyone else. Each time the unsteady ship dipped its bow into the waves, he turned to look at the bright rays of sunlight shining ahead. And when the ship sank deeply at the stern, he turned to look back, watching the sun behind him and how its golden rays blended seamlessly with the straight path of his ship's wake.
“Ha, ha, my ship! thou mightest well be taken now for the sea-chariot of the sun. Ho, ho! all ye nations before my prow, I bring the sun to ye! Yoke on the further billows; hallo! a tandem, I drive the sea!”
"Ha, ha, my ship! You could easily be seen now as the sea chariot of the sun. Ho, ho! All you nations before my prow, I bring the sun to you! Harness the waves ahead; hey! Like a tandem, I steer the sea!"
But suddenly reined back by some counter thought, he hurried towards the helm, huskily demanding how the ship was heading.
But suddenly stopped by a conflicting thought, he rushed toward the helm, hoarsely asking which direction the ship was heading.
“East-sou-east, sir,” said the frightened steersman.
"East-southeast, sir," said the scared helmsman.
“Thou liest!” smiting him with his clenched fist. “Heading East at this hour in the morning, and the sun astern?”
"You lie!" he shouted, punching him with his clenched fist. "Heading east at this hour in the morning, with the sun behind you?"
Upon this every soul was confounded; for the phenomenon just then observed by Ahab had unaccountably escaped every one else; but its very blinding palpableness must have been the cause.
At that moment, everyone was stunned, because the strange event Ahab had just noticed had somehow escaped everyone else's attention. Its sheer, blinding obviousness must have been the reason why.
Thrusting his head half way into the binnacle, Ahab caught one glimpse of the compasses; his uplifted arm slowly fell; for a moment he almost seemed to stagger. Standing behind him Starbuck looked, and lo! the two compasses pointed East, and the Pequod was as infallibly going West.
Ahab thrust his head halfway into the binnacle and took one quick look at the compasses. His raised arm slowly dropped, and for a moment, he seemed to stumble. Standing behind him, Starbuck looked as well, and there it was—the two compasses pointed East, even though the Pequod was unmistakably heading West.
But ere the first wild alarm could get out abroad among the crew, the old man with a rigid laugh exclaimed, “I have it! It has happened before. Mr. Starbuck, last night’s thunder turned our compasses—that’s all. Thou hast before now heard of such a thing, I take it.”
But before the first wave of panic could spread among the crew, the old man let out a stiff laugh and said, "I know what it is! It's happened before. Mr. Starbuck, last night's thunderstorm messed up our compasses—that's all. You've heard of that happening before, haven’t you?"
“Aye; but never before has it happened to me, sir,” said the pale mate, gloomily.
"Yeah, but this has never happened to me before, sir," said the pale mate, grimly.
Here, it must needs be said, that accidents like this have in more than one case occurred to ships in violent storms. The magnetic energy, as developed in the mariner’s needle, is, as all know, essentially one with the electricity beheld in heaven; hence it is not to be much marvelled at, that such things should be. Instances where the lightning has actually struck the vessel, so as to smite down some of the spars and rigging, the effect upon the needle has at times been still more fatal; all its loadstone virtue being annihilated, so that the before magnetic steel was of no more use than an old wife’s knitting needle. But in either case, the needle never again, of itself, recovers the original virtue thus marred or lost; and if the binnacle compasses be affected, the same fate reaches all the others that may be in the ship; even were the lowermost one inserted into the kelson.
It’s worth mentioning here that accidents like this have happened to ships during violent storms more than once. The magnetic energy in the ship's compass—something everyone knows is closely connected to the electricity seen in lightning—makes it less surprising that such incidents occur. There have been cases where lightning directly struck a ship, destroying parts of the masts and rigging, and causing even worse effects on the compass needle. Sometimes the needle's magnetism is completely wiped out, leaving it as useless as an old knitting needle. In such situations, the needle never regains its original magnetic properties on its own. If the main compasses in the binnacle are affected, the same problem spreads to every other compass on the ship, even the one installed deep down in the keel.
Deliberately standing before the binnacle, and eyeing the transpointed compasses, the old man, with the sharp of his extended hand, now took the precise bearing of the sun, and satisfied that the needles were exactly inverted, shouted out his orders for the ship’s course to be changed accordingly. The yards were hard up; and once more the Pequod thrust her undaunted bows into the opposing wind, for the supposed fair one had only been juggling her.
Standing deliberately in front of the binnacle, closely watching the shifted compasses, the old man, with the edge of his outstretched hand, took the exact bearing of the sun. Once satisfied that the needles were completely reversed, he shouted orders to adjust the ship’s course. The yards were swung hard, and once again, the Pequod pushed her fearless bow into the headwind, as the so-called favorable wind had only been tricking her.
Meanwhile, whatever were his own secret thoughts, Starbuck said nothing, but quietly he issued all requisite orders; while Stubb and Flask—who in some small degree seemed then to be sharing his feelings—likewise unmurmuringly acquiesced. As for the men, though some of them lowly rumbled, their fear of Ahab was greater than their fear of Fate. But as ever before, the pagan harpooneers remained almost wholly unimpressed; or if impressed, it was only with a certain magnetism shot into their congenial hearts from inflexible Ahab’s.
In the meantime, whatever Starbuck’s private thoughts were, he stayed silent and calmly gave all the necessary orders. Stubb and Flask—who seemed to share some of his feelings in a small way—also quietly complied without complaint. As for the crew, though a few of them muttered under their breath, their fear of Ahab outweighed their fear of fate. However, as usual, the pagan harpooneers were almost entirely unfazed; and if they were affected at all, it was only by a certain magnetism that resonated with their kindred spirits, radiating from Ahab’s unyielding presence.
For a space the old man walked the deck in rolling reveries. But chancing to slip with his ivory heel, he saw the crushed copper sight-tubes of the quadrant he had the day before dashed to the deck.
For a while, the old man paced the deck lost in deep thoughts. But when he happened to slip on his ivory heel, he noticed the smashed copper sight tubes of the quadrant he had thrown to the deck the day before.
“Thou poor, proud heaven-gazer and sun’s pilot! yesterday I wrecked thee, and to-day the compasses would fain have wrecked me. So, so. But Ahab is lord over the level loadstone yet. Mr. Starbuck—a lance without a pole; a top-maul, and the smallest of the sail-maker’s needles. Quick!”
"You poor, proud sky-gazer and sun chaser! Yesterday I wrecked you, and today the compasses almost wrecked me. Ah, well. But Ahab is still master of the steady lodestone. Mr. Starbuck—get me a lance without a pole, a heavy mallet, and the smallest of the sailmaker’s needles. Quickly!"
Accessory, perhaps, to the impulse dictating the thing he was now about to do, were certain prudential motives, whose object might have been to revive the spirits of his crew by a stroke of his subtile skill, in a matter so wondrous as that of the inverted compasses. Besides, the old man well knew that to steer by transpointed needles, though clumsily practicable, was not a thing to be passed over by superstitious sailors, without some shudderings and evil portents.
Maybe contributing to the urge driving what he was about to do were some practical reasons aimed at lifting his crew’s spirits through a clever display of skill in something as extraordinary as the reversed compasses. Besides, the old man knew full well that steering with altered needles—though awkwardly possible—was not something superstitious sailors could overlook without chills and ominous feelings.
“Men,” said he, steadily turning upon the crew, as the mate handed him the things he had demanded, “my men, the thunder turned old Ahab’s needles; but out of this bit of steel Ahab can make one of his own, that will point as true as any.”
"Men," he said, calmly looking at the crew as the mate gave him what he had asked for, "my men, the lightning messed with old Ahab's compass; but with this piece of steel, Ahab can make his own, one that'll point just as accurately as any."
Abashed glances of servile wonder were exchanged by the sailors, as this was said; and with fascinated eyes they awaited whatever magic might follow. But Starbuck looked away.
Embarrassed glances of submissive wonder were exchanged by the sailors as these words were spoken; their captivated eyes eagerly waited to see whatever extraordinary thing might happen next. But Starbuck looked away.
With a blow from the top-maul Ahab knocked off the steel head of the lance, and then handing to the mate the long iron rod remaining, bade him hold it upright, without its touching the deck. Then, with the maul, after repeatedly smiting the upper end of this iron rod, he placed the blunted needle endwise on the top of it, and less strongly hammered that, several times, the mate still holding the rod as before. Then going through some small strange motions with it—whether indispensable to the magnetizing of the steel, or merely intended to augment the awe of the crew, is uncertain—he called for linen thread; and moving to the binnacle, slipped out the two reversed needles there, and horizontally suspended the sail-needle by its middle, over one of the compass-cards. At first, the steel went round and round, quivering and vibrating at either end; but at last it settled to its place, when Ahab, who had been intently watching for this result, stepped frankly back from the binnacle, and pointing his stretched arm towards it, exclaimed,—“Look ye, for yourselves, if Ahab be not lord of the level loadstone! The sun is East, and that compass swears it!”
With a strike from the top-maul, Ahab knocked off the steel tip of the lance. Then, handing the long iron rod that remained to the mate, he told him to hold it upright without letting it touch the deck. Using the maul, Ahab repeatedly struck the upper end of the iron rod, then placed the blunted needle upright on top of it and gently hammered it several times while the mate held the rod steady. After that, Ahab went through a few odd motions with the rod—whether to magnetize the steel or just to add to the awe of the crew wasn’t clear. He then asked for some linen thread and, moving to the binnacle, removed the two reversed needles inside and suspended the sail-needle horizontally by its middle over one of the compass cards. At first, the needle spun and quivered at both ends, but eventually, it settled into place. Watching closely, Ahab suddenly stepped back from the binnacle, raised his arm toward it, and declared, "See for yourselves if Ahab isn’t master of the true loadstone! The sun’s in the East, and that compass confirms it!"
One after another they peered in, for nothing but their own eyes could persuade such ignorance as theirs, and one after another they slunk away.
One by one, they looked inside, because only seeing with their own eyes could convince them out of their ignorance, and one by one, they backed away.
In his fiery eyes of scorn and triumph, you then saw Ahab in all his fatal pride.
In his blazing eyes full of contempt and victory, you could see Ahab's complete and tragic pride.
CHAPTER 125. The Log and Line.
While now the fated Pequod had been so long afloat this voyage, the log and line had but very seldom been in use. Owing to a confident reliance upon other means of determining the vessel’s place, some merchantmen, and many whalemen, especially when cruising, wholly neglect to heave the log; though at the same time, and frequently more for form’s sake than anything else, regularly putting down upon the customary slate the course steered by the ship, as well as the presumed average rate of progression every hour. It had been thus with the Pequod. The wooden reel and angular log attached hung, long untouched, just beneath the railing of the after bulwarks. Rains and spray had damped it; sun and wind had warped it; all the elements had combined to rot a thing that hung so idly. But heedless of all this, his mood seized Ahab, as he happened to glance upon the reel, not many hours after the magnet scene, and he remembered how his quadrant was no more, and recalled his frantic oath about the level log and line. The ship was sailing plungingly; astern the billows rolled in riots.
While the doomed Pequod had been at sea for so long on this voyage, the log and line were rarely used. Relying confidently on other methods to determine the ship's location, some merchant ships, and many whaling ships, especially when cruising, often skip using the log altogether. Instead, they routinely write down the ship's course and the assumed average speed on the traditional slate—more out of habit than necessity. This was the case with the Pequod. The wooden reel and the angular log attached to it hung untouched for ages beneath the railing of the aft bulwarks. Rain and seawater had soaked it, the sun and wind had warped it, and all the elements had combined to ruin something left so neglected. But oblivious to its condition, Ahab's mood shifted as he caught sight of the reel not long after the dramatic magnet scene. He remembered that his quadrant was gone and recalled the wild vow he'd made about using the log and line. The ship plunged onward through the waves, while the sea behind churned in chaos.
“Forward, there! Heave the log!”
"Forward, there! Lift the log!"
Two seamen came. The golden-hued Tahitian and the grizzly Manxman. “Take the reel, one of ye, I’ll heave.”
Two sailors arrived: the golden-skinned Tahitian and the grizzled Manxman. "One of you take the reel, I'll do the heaving."
They went towards the extreme stern, on the ship’s lee side, where the deck, with the oblique energy of the wind, was now almost dipping into the creamy, sidelong-rushing sea.
They moved to the far back of the ship on the sheltered side, where the deck, tilted sharply by the wind, was almost touching the frothy, sideways-rushing sea.
The Manxman took the reel, and holding it high up, by the projecting handle-ends of the spindle, round which the spool of line revolved, so stood with the angular log hanging downwards, till Ahab advanced to him.
The Manxman grabbed the reel and held it high by the handle ends of the spindle, around which the spool of line spun. He stood there with the angled log hanging down until Ahab walked up to him.
Ahab stood before him, and was lightly unwinding some thirty or forty turns to form a preliminary hand-coil to toss overboard, when the old Manxman, who was intently eyeing both him and the line, made bold to speak.
Ahab stood in front of him, casually unwinding about thirty or forty loops to make a quick hand coil to throw overboard, when the old Manxman, who was watching both him and the line closely, spoke up boldly.
“Sir, I mistrust it; this line looks far gone, long heat and wet have spoiled it.”
"Sir, I don't trust it; this rope looks seriously worn out—too much heat and moisture have ruined it."
“’Twill hold, old gentleman. Long heat and wet, have they spoiled thee? Thou seem’st to hold. Or, truer perhaps, life holds thee; not thou it.”
"It'll hold, old man. Has long heat and wet weather ruined you? You seem to hold on. Or maybe, more accurately, life holds on to you, not the other way around."
“I hold the spool, sir. But just as my captain says. With these grey hairs of mine ’tis not worth while disputing, ’specially with a superior, who’ll ne’er confess.”
"I’m holding the spool, sir. But just like my captain says—with these gray hairs of mine, it’s not worth arguing, especially with a superior who’ll never admit it."
“What’s that? There now’s a patched professor in Queen Nature’s granite-founded College; but methinks he’s too subservient. Where wert thou born?”
"What’s that? Now there’s a patched-up professor in Queen Nature’s rock-solid College; but I think he’s too obedient. Where were you born?"
“In the little rocky Isle of Man, sir.”
"In the small rocky Isle of Man, sir."
“Excellent! Thou’st hit the world by that.”
"Excellent! You’ve nailed it with that."
“I know not, sir, but I was born there.”
"I don't know, sir, but I was born there."
“In the Isle of Man, hey? Well, the other way, it’s good. Here’s a man from Man; a man born in once independent Man, and now unmanned of Man; which is sucked in—by what? Up with the reel! The dead, blind wall butts all inquiring heads at last. Up with it! So.”
"In the Isle of Man, huh? Well, looking at it differently, it’s fine. Here’s a guy from Man; a man born in what used to be independent Man, now stripped of his Man heritage; drawn into—by what? Pull up the reel! The unseeing, unyielding wall eventually stops every questioning mind. Pull it up! There."
The log was heaved. The loose coils rapidly straightened out in a long dragging line astern, and then, instantly, the reel began to whirl. In turn, jerkingly raised and lowered by the rolling billows, the towing resistance of the log caused the old reelman to stagger strangely.
The log was thrown overboard. The loose coils quickly straightened into a long, trailing line behind the ship, and suddenly, the reel started spinning. Rocked up and down by the rolling waves, the drag of the log made the old reel operator stumble awkwardly.
“Hold hard!”
"Wait a second!"
Snap! the overstrained line sagged down in one long festoon; the tugging log was gone.
Snap! The overtightened line suddenly drooped into a long curve; the log it was pulling had disappeared.
“I crush the quadrant, the thunder turns the needles, and now the mad sea parts the log-line. But Ahab can mend all. Haul in here, Tahitian; reel up, Manxman. And look ye, let the carpenter make another log, and mend thou the line. See to it.”
"I smash the quadrant, the thunder shakes the needles, and now the raging sea snaps the log-line. But Ahab can fix everything. Pull it in here, Tahitian; reel it up, Manxman. And listen, have the carpenter make a new log, and you fix the line. Make sure it gets done."
“There he goes now; to him nothing’s happened; but to me, the skewer seems loosening out of the middle of the world. Haul in, haul in, Tahitian! These lines run whole, and whirling out: come in broken, and dragging slow. Ha, Pip? come to help; eh, Pip?”
"There he goes now; to him, nothing’s changed. But for me, it feels like the world is coming apart at the seams. Pull it in, pull it in, Tahitian! These lines go out fast and smooth, but they come back tangled and slow. Hey, Pip? You coming to help? Huh, Pip?"
“Pip? whom call ye Pip? Pip jumped from the whale-boat. Pip’s missing. Let’s see now if ye haven’t fished him up here, fisherman. It drags hard; I guess he’s holding on. Jerk him, Tahiti! Jerk him off; we haul in no cowards here. Ho! there’s his arm just breaking water. A hatchet! a hatchet! cut it off—we haul in no cowards here. Captain Ahab! sir, sir! here’s Pip, trying to get on board again.”
"Pip? Who are you calling Pip? Pip jumped out of the whale-boat. Pip’s gone missing. Let’s check if you’ve pulled him up here, fisherman. It’s dragging hard; I think he’s holding on. Pull him up, Tahiti! Pull him off; we don’t bring cowards on board here. Hey! There’s his arm breaking the surface. Get a hatchet! A hatchet! Cut it off—we don’t bring cowards on board here. Captain Ahab! Sir, sir! Here’s Pip, trying to climb back on the ship."
“Peace, thou crazy loon,” cried the Manxman, seizing him by the arm. “Away from the quarter-deck!”
"Calm down, you lunatic," yelled the Manxman, grabbing him by the arm. "Get off the quarterdeck!"
“The greater idiot ever scolds the lesser,” muttered Ahab, advancing. “Hands off from that holiness! Where sayest thou Pip was, boy?
"The bigger fool always yells at the smaller one," Ahab muttered as he stepped forward. "Don't touch that sacredness! Where did you say Pip was, boy?"
“Astern there, sir, astern! Lo! lo!”
"Behind you, sir, behind! Look! Look!"
“And who art thou, boy? I see not my reflection in the vacant pupils of thy eyes. Oh God! that man should be a thing for immortal souls to sieve through! Who art thou, boy?”
"And who are you, boy? I don't see my reflection in the empty look of your eyes. Oh God! That a person should be just something for immortal souls to pass through! Who are you, boy?"
“Bell-boy, sir; ship’s-crier; ding, dong, ding! Pip! Pip! Pip! One hundred pounds of clay reward for Pip; five feet high—looks cowardly—quickest known by that! Ding, dong, ding! Who’s seen Pip the coward?”
"Bellboy, sir! Ship’s announcer! Ding, dong, ding! Pip! Pip! Pip! A hundred pounds of clay as a reward for Pip! Five feet tall—looks scared—you can recognize him by that! Ding, dong, ding! Has anyone seen Pip the coward?"
“There can be no hearts above the snow-line. Oh, ye frozen heavens! look down here. Ye did beget this luckless child, and have abandoned him, ye creative libertines. Here, boy; Ahab’s cabin shall be Pip’s home henceforth, while Ahab lives. Thou touchest my inmost centre, boy; thou art tied to me by cords woven of my heart-strings. Come, let’s down.”
"There can be no hearts above the snowline. Oh, you frozen heavens! Look down here. You created this unlucky child and have abandoned him, you reckless creators. Here, boy; Ahab's cabin will be Pip's home from now on, as long as Ahab lives. You touch the deepest part of me, boy; you're connected to me by ties made from my heartstrings. Come on, let's head down."
“What’s this? here’s velvet shark-skin,” intently gazing at Ahab’s hand, and feeling it. “Ah, now, had poor Pip but felt so kind a thing as this, perhaps he had ne’er been lost! This seems to me, sir, as a man-rope; something that weak souls may hold by. Oh, sir, let old Perth now come and rivet these two hands together; the black one with the white, for I will not let this go.”
"What's this? Velvet shark-skin?" he said, staring intently at Ahab's hand and touching it. "Ah, if poor Pip had ever felt something this kind, maybe he'd have never been lost! This feels to me, sir, like a lifeline—something weak souls can hold onto. Oh sir, let old Perth come and bind these two hands together—the black one and the white one—because I won't let go of this."
“Oh, boy, nor will I thee, unless I should thereby drag thee to worse horrors than are here. Come, then, to my cabin. Lo! ye believers in gods all goodness, and in man all ill, lo you! see the omniscient gods oblivious of suffering man; and man, though idiotic, and knowing not what he does, yet full of the sweet things of love and gratitude. Come! I feel prouder leading thee by thy black hand, than though I grasped an Emperor’s!”
“Oh, boy, I won’t leave you either, unless staying with me would lead you to even worse horrors than these. Come on, let’s go to my cabin. Look, you who believe in gods full of goodness and see only evil in mankind—look! See the all-knowing gods ignoring suffering humans; and humans, even when clueless and unaware of their actions, still capable of love and gratitude. Come on! I feel prouder holding your black hand than if I were holding an emperor’s!”
“There go two daft ones now,” muttered the old Manxman. “One daft with strength, the other daft with weakness. But here’s the end of the rotten line—all dripping, too. Mend it, eh? I think we had best have a new line altogether. I’ll see Mr. Stubb about it.”
"There go two crazy ones now," muttered the old Manxman. "One crazy with strength, the other crazy with weakness. But here’s the end of the lousy line—soaked through, too. Fix it, huh? I think we’d be better off with a whole new line. I’ll talk to Mr. Stubb about it."
CHAPTER 126. The Life-Buoy.
Steering now south-eastward by Ahab’s levelled steel, and her progress solely determined by Ahab’s level log and line; the Pequod held on her path towards the Equator. Making so long a passage through such unfrequented waters, descrying no ships, and ere long, sideways impelled by unvarying trade winds, over waves monotonously mild; all these seemed the strange calm things preluding some riotous and desperate scene.
Now heading southeast, guided by Ahab's focused spear, with her journey solely dictated by Ahab's precise log and line, the Pequod continued its course toward the Equator. Traveling such a long distance through rarely visited waters, spotting no other ships, and soon driven sideways by the constant trade winds over endlessly calm waves—all of this felt like an eerie calm before some wild and intense event.
At last, when the ship drew near to the outskirts, as it were, of the Equatorial fishing-ground, and in the deep darkness that goes before the dawn, was sailing by a cluster of rocky islets; the watch—then headed by Flask—was startled by a cry so plaintively wild and unearthly—like half-articulated wailings of the ghosts of all Herod’s murdered Innocents—that one and all, they started from their reveries, and for the space of some moments stood, or sat, or leaned all transfixedly listening, like the carved Roman slave, while that wild cry remained within hearing. The Christian or civilized part of the crew said it was mermaids, and shuddered; but the pagan harpooneers remained unappalled. Yet the grey Manxman—the oldest mariner of all—declared that the wild thrilling sounds that were heard, were the voices of newly drowned men in the sea.
Finally, as the ship approached the edges of the equatorial fishing grounds, sailing past a cluster of rocky islets in the pitch-black darkness before dawn, the watch—led by Flask at the time—was shaken by a cry so hauntingly wild and otherworldly, it sounded like the half-formed wails of the ghosts of all of Herod’s murdered children. Everyone snapped out of their thoughts, and for a few moments, they stood, sat, or leaned completely frozen, listening intently while the eerie cry lingered within earshot. The more Christian or "civilized" members of the crew muttered about mermaids and shivered in fear, but the pagan harpooners were unfazed. Still, the old Manxman—the most seasoned sailor among them—insisted that those chilling, piercing sounds were the voices of men who had just drowned in the sea.
Below in his hammock, Ahab did not hear of this till grey dawn, when he came to the deck; it was then recounted to him by Flask, not unaccompanied with hinted dark meanings. He hollowly laughed, and thus explained the wonder.
Down in his hammock, Ahab didn’t hear about this until the grey light of dawn, when he came up to the deck. Flask told him about it, adding some cryptic hints. Ahab let out a hollow laugh and gave his explanation for the event.
Those rocky islands the ship had passed were the resort of great numbers of seals, and some young seals that had lost their dams, or some dams that had lost their cubs, must have risen nigh the ship and kept company with her, crying and sobbing with their human sort of wail. But this only the more affected some of them, because most mariners cherish a very superstitious feeling about seals, arising not only from their peculiar tones when in distress, but also from the human look of their round heads and semi-intelligent faces, seen peeringly uprising from the water alongside. In the sea, under certain circumstances, seals have more than once been mistaken for men.
Those rocky islands the ship had passed were home to a large number of seals, and some young seals that had lost their mothers, or some mothers that had lost their pups, must have come close to the ship and followed it, crying and sobbing with their eerily human-like wails. This only impacted some of the crew even more, as most sailors hold a deep superstition about seals, not just because of their strange sounds when they're distressed, but also because of the human-like appearance of their round heads and somewhat intelligent-looking faces, which sometimes emerge curiously from the water alongside the ship. In certain conditions at sea, seals have even been mistaken for people.
But the bodings of the crew were destined to receive a most plausible confirmation in the fate of one of their number that morning. At sun-rise this man went from his hammock to his mast-head at the fore; and whether it was that he was not yet half waked from his sleep (for sailors sometimes go aloft in a transition state), whether it was thus with the man, there is now no telling; but, be that as it may, he had not been long at his perch, when a cry was heard—a cry and a rushing—and looking up, they saw a falling phantom in the air; and looking down, a little tossed heap of white bubbles in the blue of the sea.
But the crew's dark suspicions were about to find a chilling validation in the fate of one of their members that morning. At sunrise, this man climbed out of his hammock and headed up to the masthead at the fore. Whether he was still groggy and barely awake (sailors sometimes climb aloft while half-asleep) or if something else happened, no one can say for sure now. But whatever the case, he hadn’t been at his post for long when a sudden cry broke out—a scream followed by a rush of wind—and when they looked up, they saw a falling figure tumbling through the air. Looking down, all they could see was a small, churning heap of white bubbles in the vast blue sea.
The life-buoy—a long slender cask—was dropped from the stern, where it always hung obedient to a cunning spring; but no hand rose to seize it, and the sun having long beat upon this cask it had shrunken, so that it slowly filled, and that parched wood also filled at its every pore; and the studded iron-bound cask followed the sailor to the bottom, as if to yield him his pillow, though in sooth but a hard one.
The life buoy—a long, slender barrel—was released from the stern, where it always hung, ready to drop with the pull of a clever spring. But no hand emerged to grab it, and since the sun had been beating down on it for a long time, the wood had dried and shrunk, allowing it to slowly take in water. The dried wood absorbed more through every pore, and the iron-bound barrel sank with the sailor to the depths, as though offering him a pillow, though admittedly a rather hard one.
And thus the first man of the Pequod that mounted the mast to look out for the White Whale, on the White Whale’s own peculiar ground; that man was swallowed up in the deep. But few, perhaps, thought of that at the time. Indeed, in some sort, they were not grieved at this event, at least as a portent; for they regarded it, not as a foreshadowing of evil in the future, but as the fulfilment of an evil already presaged. They declared that now they knew the reason of those wild shrieks they had heard the night before. But again the old Manxman said nay.
And so, the first crew member of the Pequod who climbed the mast to search for the White Whale, in the White Whale’s own unique territory, was swallowed by the sea. But few, if any, thought much about it at the time. In fact, in a way, they weren’t saddened by what happened, at least not as a bad omen. Instead, they saw it not as a sign of future trouble, but as the completion of something bad that had already been predicted. They claimed they now understood the reason for the wild cries they had heard the night before. But once again, the old Manxman disagreed.
The lost life-buoy was now to be replaced; Starbuck was directed to see to it; but as no cask of sufficient lightness could be found, and as in the feverish eagerness of what seemed the approaching crisis of the voyage, all hands were impatient of any toil but what was directly connected with its final end, whatever that might prove to be; therefore, they were going to leave the ship’s stern unprovided with a buoy, when by certain strange signs and inuendoes Queequeg hinted a hint concerning his coffin.
The lost life-buoy needed to be replaced, and Starbuck was instructed to handle it. However, no barrel light enough could be found, and with everyone restless in the intense urgency of what seemed to be the voyage’s looming climax, no one had patience for any task not directly tied to its ultimate goal—whatever that might be. So, they were about to leave the ship’s stern without a buoy, when Queequeg, through some odd gestures and hints, subtly suggested something about his coffin.
“A life-buoy of a coffin!” cried Starbuck, starting.
"A coffin as a life buoy!" exclaimed Starbuck, startled.
“Rather queer, that, I should say,” said Stubb.
"That's pretty strange, I'd say," said Stubb.
“It will make a good enough one,” said Flask, “the carpenter here can arrange it easily.”
"It’ll work just fine," said Flask. "The carpenter here can fix it up easily."
“Bring it up; there’s nothing else for it,” said Starbuck, after a melancholy pause. “Rig it, carpenter; do not look at me so—the coffin, I mean. Dost thou hear me? Rig it.”
"Bring it up; there’s no other choice," said Starbuck after a somber pause. "Set it up, carpenter; stop staring at me like that—I mean the coffin. Do you hear me? Set it up."
“And shall I nail down the lid, sir?” moving his hand as with a hammer.
"And should I nail the lid shut, sir?" he asked, mimicking the motion of a hammer.
“Aye.”
"Yeah."
“And shall I caulk the seams, sir?” moving his hand as with a caulking-iron.
"And should I seal the seams, sir?" he asked, gesturing as if holding a caulking tool.
“Aye.”
“Yeah.”
“And shall I then pay over the same with pitch, sir?” moving his hand as with a pitch-pot.
"And should I cover it with tar, sir?" he asked, mimicking the motion of using a tar brush.
“Away! what possesses thee to this? Make a life-buoy of the coffin, and no more.—Mr. Stubb, Mr. Flask, come forward with me.”
"Away! What's gotten into you? Turn the coffin into a life-buoy, and that's it. — Mr. Stubb, Mr. Flask, come with me."
“He goes off in a huff. The whole he can endure; at the parts he baulks. Now I don’t like this. I make a leg for Captain Ahab, and he wears it like a gentleman; but I make a bandbox for Queequeg, and he won’t put his head into it. Are all my pains to go for nothing with that coffin? And now I’m ordered to make a life-buoy of it. It’s like turning an old coat; going to bring the flesh on the other side now. I don’t like this cobbling sort of business—I don’t like it at all; it’s undignified; it’s not my place. Let tinkers’ brats do tinkerings; we are their betters. I like to take in hand none but clean, virgin, fair-and-square mathematical jobs, something that regularly begins at the beginning, and is at the middle when midway, and comes to an end at the conclusion; not a cobbler’s job, that’s at an end in the middle, and at the beginning at the end. It’s the old woman’s tricks to be giving cobbling jobs. Lord! what an affection all old women have for tinkers. I know an old woman of sixty-five who ran away with a bald-headed young tinker once. And that’s the reason I never would work for lonely widow old women ashore, when I kept my job-shop in the Vineyard; they might have taken it into their lonely old heads to run off with me. But heigh-ho! there are no caps at sea but snow-caps. Let me see. Nail down the lid; caulk the seams; pay over the same with pitch; batten them down tight, and hang it with the snap-spring over the ship’s stern. Were ever such things done before with a coffin? Some superstitious old carpenters, now, would be tied up in the rigging, ere they would do the job. But I’m made of knotty Aroostook hemlock; I don’t budge. Cruppered with a coffin! Sailing about with a grave-yard tray! But never mind. We workers in woods make bridal-bedsteads and card-tables, as well as coffins and hearses. We work by the month, or by the job, or by the profit; not for us to ask the why and wherefore of our work, unless it be too confounded cobbling, and then we stash it if we can. Hem! I’ll do the job, now, tenderly. I’ll have me—let’s see—how many in the ship’s company, all told? But I’ve forgotten. Any way, I’ll have me thirty separate, Turk’s-headed life-lines, each three feet long hanging all round to the coffin. Then, if the hull go down, there’ll be thirty lively fellows all fighting for one coffin, a sight not seen very often beneath the sun! Come hammer, caulking-iron, pitch-pot, and marling-spike! Let’s to it.”
"He storms off in a huff. He can handle the whole situation, but he can't stand dealing with the parts. Now, I don’t like this. I craft a leg for Captain Ahab, and he wears it like a gentleman; but I make a box for Queequeg, and he won’t even give it a try. Is all my effort with that coffin going to waste? And now I’m told to turn it into a life-buoy. It’s like flipping an old coat inside out, just using the other side now. I don’t like this patchwork kind of work—it’s not my style; it doesn’t suit me. Let the tinkers’ kids handle tinkering; we’re better than that. I like jobs that are clean, straightforward, and calculated—something that starts properly, reaches its middle at the halfway point, and ends cleanly at the conclusion. Not some cobbler’s task, where the end shows up in the middle, and the beginning is at the end. It’s just the sort of busywork old women come up with. Seriously, old women seem to have a strange fondness for tinkers. I even knew a 65-year-old woman who once ran off with a young, bald-headed tinker. That’s exactly why I never worked for lonely widow women back when I ran my workshop on the Vineyard; they might’ve gotten it into their heads to run off with me. But oh well! There aren’t any caps at sea except snow-caps. Let’s see now. Nail down the lid; caulk the seams; seal it with pitch; fasten it down tight and hang it with the snap-spring at the ship’s stern. Has anyone ever turned a coffin into something like this before? Some old superstitious carpenters wouldn’t even dream of taking on a job like this—they’d rather be hanging from the rigging. But not me; I’m made of tough Aroostook hemlock—I don’t back down. Strapped with a coffin! Sailing around with what’s basically a floating grave tray! But whatever. Us woodworkers make bridal beds and card tables just the same as coffins and hearses. We take on work by the month, by the job, or for the pay; it’s not our place to ask why, unless it’s too ridiculous of a patchwork job. Then, if possible, we pass on it. Well, I guess I’ll handle this job carefully. Let’s see—how many people are on board, total? Can’t remember. Anyway, I’ll make thirty separate Turk’s-head life-lines, each three feet long, hanging all around the coffin. Then, if the ship sinks, there’ll be thirty men all clinging to one coffin—now there’s a rare sight under the sun! Come on, hammer, caulking iron, pitch-pot, and marling-spike! Let’s get to it."
CHAPTER 127. The Deck.
The coffin laid upon two line-tubs, between the vice-bench and the open hatchway; the Carpenter caulking its seams; the string of twisted oakum slowly unwinding from a large roll of it placed in the bosom of his frock.—Ahab comes slowly from the cabin-gangway, and hears Pip following him.
The coffin rested on two line tubs, positioned between the workbench and the open hatchway. The Carpenter was sealing its seams, with the string of twisted oakum slowly unraveling from a large roll tucked in the front of his shirt. Ahab slowly emerged from the cabin gangway, hearing Pip trailing behind him.
“Back, lad; I will be with ye again presently. He goes! Not this hand complies with my humor more genially than that boy.—Middle aisle of a church! What’s here?”
"Hold on, boy; I'll be back with you soon. He leaves! This hand doesn't suit my mood better than that kid does.—Middle aisle of a church! What's this?"
“Life-buoy, sir. Mr. Starbuck’s orders. Oh, look, sir! Beware the hatchway!”
"Life buoy, sir. Orders from Mr. Starbuck. Oh, watch out, sir! Be careful of the hatchway!"
“Thank ye, man. Thy coffin lies handy to the vault.”
"Thank you, man. Your coffin is ready for the grave."
“Sir? The hatchway? oh! So it does, sir, so it does.”
"Sir? The hatch? Oh! It does, sir, it really does."
“Art not thou the leg-maker? Look, did not this stump come from thy shop?”
"Aren’t you the leg-maker? Look, didn’t this stump come from your shop?"
“I believe it did, sir; does the ferrule stand, sir?”
"I think it did, sir. Is the ferrule holding up, sir?"
“Well enough. But art thou not also the undertaker?”
"Pretty good. But aren't you also the undertaker?"
“Aye, sir; I patched up this thing here as a coffin for Queequeg; but they’ve set me now to turning it into something else.”
"Yes, sir, I originally put this together as a coffin for Queequeg, but now they've got me repurposing it into something else."
“Then tell me; art thou not an arrant, all-grasping, intermeddling, monopolising, heathenish old scamp, to be one day making legs, and the next day coffins to clap them in, and yet again life-buoys out of those same coffins? Thou art as unprincipled as the gods, and as much of a jack-of-all-trades.”
"Then tell me; aren’t you just a downright meddling, greedy, interfering, monopolizing, heathenish old scoundrel? One day you’re making legs, the next day coffins to put them in, and then turning those same coffins into life buoys! You’re as unprincipled as the gods and as much of a jack-of-all-trades."
“But I do not mean anything, sir. I do as I do.”
"But I don't mean anything by it, sir. I just do what I do."
“The gods again. Hark ye, dost thou not ever sing working about a coffin? The Titans, they say, hummed snatches when chipping out the craters for volcanoes; and the grave-digger in the play sings, spade in hand. Dost thou never?”
"The gods again. Listen, do you ever sing while working on a coffin? They say the Titans hummed little tunes while carving out the craters for volcanoes; and the gravedigger in the play sings with his spade in hand. Do you never?"
“Sing, sir? Do I sing? Oh, I’m indifferent enough, sir, for that; but the reason why the grave-digger made music must have been because there was none in his spade, sir. But the caulking mallet is full of it. Hark to it.”
“Sing, sir? Do I sing? Oh, I’m not too worried about that, sir; but the reason the grave-digger made music must have been because there was no music in his shovel, sir. But the caulking mallet is full of it. Listen to it.”
“Aye, and that’s because the lid there’s a sounding-board; and what in all things makes the sounding-board is this—there’s naught beneath. And yet, a coffin with a body in it rings pretty much the same, Carpenter. Hast thou ever helped carry a bier, and heard the coffin knock against the churchyard gate, going in?
"Yeah, and that’s because the lid acts like a sounding board; and what makes a sounding board in anything is this—there’s nothing underneath it. Still, a coffin with a body inside sounds pretty much the same, Carpenter. Have you ever helped carry a bier and heard the coffin bang against the churchyard gate as you went in?"
“Faith, sir, I’ve——”
"Honestly, sir, I’ve——"
“Faith? What’s that?”
“Faith? What’s that all about?”
“Why, faith, sir, it’s only a sort of exclamation-like—that’s all, sir.”
"Well, sir, it's just a kind of exclamation—that's all, sir."
“Um, um; go on.”
"Uh, go ahead."
“I was about to say, sir, that——”
"I was just about to say, sir, that—"
“Art thou a silk-worm? Dost thou spin thy own shroud out of thyself? Look at thy bosom! Despatch! and get these traps out of sight.”
"Are you a silk-worm? Do you spin your own shroud from yourself? Look at your chest! Hurry up and get this stuff out of sight."
“He goes aft. That was sudden, now; but squalls come sudden in hot latitudes. I’ve heard that the Isle of Albemarle, one of the Gallipagos, is cut by the Equator right in the middle. Seems to me some sort of Equator cuts yon old man, too, right in his middle. He’s always under the Line—fiery hot, I tell ye! He’s looking this way—come, oakum; quick. Here we go again. This wooden mallet is the cork, and I’m the professor of musical glasses—tap, tap!”
"He’s heading to the back. That was quick—like how storms pop up out of nowhere in hot climates. I’ve heard that Albemarle Island, part of the Galápagos, is split right down the middle by the Equator. Kinda feels like some sort of Equator cuts through that old man too, right through his middle. He’s always under the Line—boiling hot, I’m telling you! He’s looking our way—get moving, oakum; hurry. Here we go again. This wooden mallet is the cork, and I’m the music teacher—tap, tap!"
(Ahab to himself.)
(Ahab to himself.)
“There’s a sight! There’s a sound! The greyheaded woodpecker tapping the hollow tree! Blind and dumb might well be envied now. See! that thing rests on two line-tubs, full of tow-lines. A most malicious wag, that fellow. Rat-tat! So man’s seconds tick! Oh! how immaterial are all materials! What things real are there, but imponderable thoughts? Here now’s the very dreaded symbol of grim death, by a mere hap, made the expressive sign of the help and hope of most endangered life. A life-buoy of a coffin! Does it go further? Can it be that in some spiritual sense the coffin is, after all, but an immortality-preserver! I’ll think of that. But no. So far gone am I in the dark side of earth, that its other side, the theoretic bright one, seems but uncertain twilight to me. Will ye never have done, Carpenter, with that accursed sound? I go below; let me not see that thing here when I return again. Now, then, Pip, we’ll talk this over; I do suck most wondrous philosophies from thee! Some unknown conduits from the unknown worlds must empty into thee!”
“There’s a sight! There’s a sound! The gray-headed woodpecker tapping on the hollow tree! Blind and silent people would be lucky right now. Look at that—it’s resting on two tubs of line, full of tow-lines. What a mischievous joker that bird is. Rat-tat-tat! Just like how man’s seconds tick away! Oh, how meaningless all material things are! What real things even exist, aside from our intangible thoughts? Right here, the terrifying symbol of grim death, by pure chance, has become a sign of help and hope for those in the greatest danger. A coffin turned into a life-buoy! Does it go beyond that? Could it be, in some spiritual sense, that the coffin is really just a preserver of immortality? I’ll think on that. But no. I’m so immersed in the dark side of life on earth that its other side—the supposed bright one—feels like nothing more than a hazy twilight. Carpenter, will you ever stop with that cursed noise? I’m going below; don’t let me see that thing here when I come back. Now then, Pip, let’s talk this over. I draw the most amazing philosophies from you! Some unknown channels from mysterious worlds must flow right into you!”
CHAPTER 128. The Pequod Meets The Rachel.
Next day, a large ship, the Rachel, was descried, bearing directly down upon the Pequod, all her spars thickly clustering with men. At the time the Pequod was making good speed through the water; but as the broad-winged windward stranger shot nigh to her, the boastful sails all fell together as blank bladders that are burst, and all life fled from the smitten hull.
The next day, they spotted a large ship, the Rachel, heading straight for the Pequod, with its masts crowded with people. At that moment, the Pequod was sailing swiftly over the water. But as the wide-sailed stranger approached close to her, the proud sails suddenly collapsed like burst balloons, and all energy seemed to drain from the ship’s battered hull.
“Bad news; she brings bad news,” muttered the old Manxman. But ere her commander, who, with trumpet to mouth, stood up in his boat; ere he could hopefully hail, Ahab’s voice was heard.
"Bad news; she’s bringing bad news," mumbled the old Manxman. But before her captain, who stood in his boat with a trumpet to his mouth, could hopefully call out, Ahab's voice cut through the air.
“Hast seen the White Whale?”
"Have you seen the White Whale?"
“Aye, yesterday. Have ye seen a whale-boat adrift?”
"Yeah, yesterday. Have you seen a whale boat floating around?"
Throttling his joy, Ahab negatively answered this unexpected question; and would then have fain boarded the stranger, when the stranger captain himself, having stopped his vessel’s way, was seen descending her side. A few keen pulls, and his boat-hook soon clinched the Pequod’s main-chains, and he sprang to the deck. Immediately he was recognised by Ahab for a Nantucketer he knew. But no formal salutation was exchanged.
Suppressing his excitement, Ahab gave a negative response to this unexpected question and was about to board the other ship when its captain, after stopping his vessel, was seen climbing down the side. A few strong pulls later, his boat-hook grabbed onto the Pequod’s main chains, and he jumped onto the deck. Ahab immediately recognized him as a fellow Nantucketer he knew. But no formal greetings were exchanged.
“Where was he?—not killed!—not killed!” cried Ahab, closely advancing. “How was it?”
"Where was he?—Not dead!—Not dead!" exclaimed Ahab, stepping forward intently. "What happened?"
It seemed that somewhat late on the afternoon of the day previous, while three of the stranger’s boats were engaged with a shoal of whales, which had led them some four or five miles from the ship; and while they were yet in swift chase to windward, the white hump and head of Moby Dick had suddenly loomed up out of the water, not very far to leeward; whereupon, the fourth rigged boat—a reserved one—had been instantly lowered in chase. After a keen sail before the wind, this fourth boat—the swiftest keeled of all—seemed to have succeeded in fastening—at least, as well as the man at the mast-head could tell anything about it. In the distance he saw the diminished dotted boat; and then a swift gleam of bubbling white water; and after that nothing more; whence it was concluded that the stricken whale must have indefinitely run away with his pursuers, as often happens. There was some apprehension, but no positive alarm, as yet. The recall signals were placed in the rigging; darkness came on; and forced to pick up her three far to windward boats—ere going in quest of the fourth one in the precisely opposite direction—the ship had not only been necessitated to leave that boat to its fate till near midnight, but, for the time, to increase her distance from it. But the rest of her crew being at last safe aboard, she crowded all sail—stunsail on stunsail—after the missing boat; kindling a fire in her try-pots for a beacon; and every other man aloft on the look-out. But though when she had thus sailed a sufficient distance to gain the presumed place of the absent ones when last seen; though she then paused to lower her spare boats to pull all around her; and not finding anything, had again dashed on; again paused, and lowered her boats; and though she had thus continued doing till daylight; yet not the least glimpse of the missing keel had been seen.
It seemed that late in the afternoon the previous day, while three of the stranger’s boats were chasing a group of whales about four or five miles from the ship, and while they were still in rapid pursuit upwind, the white hump and head of Moby Dick suddenly appeared out of the water, not far downwind. Immediately, the fourth boat—a reserved one—was lowered into the water to join the chase. After a high-speed pursuit with the wind behind them, the fourth boat—the fastest of them all—appeared to have succeeded in harpooning the whale, at least according to the man stationed at the masthead. From a distance, he could make out the small, shrinking figure of the boat, then saw a flash of churning white water, and after that, nothing. It was assumed that the injured whale had escaped, dragging the boat and its crew with it, as often happens. There was concern but no serious alarm yet. Recall signals were hoisted in the rigging, night fell, and the ship, forced to retrieve her three boats far upwind before heading after the fourth in the opposite direction, was obliged to leave the missing boat to its fate until around midnight, further increasing the distance between them. Once the rest of her crew was safely back on board, the ship raised all sails, including stun’sails stacked one on top of the other, and set off after the missing boat, lighting a fire in her try-pots as a signal and posting lookouts on every available mast. However, even after sailing far enough to reach where the missing boat was last seen, pausing to lower spare boats to search the area without any result, and then continuing ahead, stopping, and lowering boats again, the missing boat could not be found. Despite carrying out this search until dawn, not even the faintest trace of the lost crew or their boat had been spotted.
The story told, the stranger Captain immediately went on to reveal his object in boarding the Pequod. He desired that ship to unite with his own in the search; by sailing over the sea some four or five miles apart, on parallel lines, and so sweeping a double horizon, as it were.
The story finished, the stranger captain immediately explained his reason for boarding the Pequod. He wanted that ship to team up with his own for the search, by sailing about four or five miles apart on parallel courses, effectively covering a double horizon.
“I will wager something now,” whispered Stubb to Flask, “that some one in that missing boat wore off that Captain’s best coat; mayhap, his watch—he’s so cursed anxious to get it back. Who ever heard of two pious whale-ships cruising after one missing whale-boat in the height of the whaling season? See, Flask, only see how pale he looks—pale in the very buttons of his eyes—look—it wasn’t the coat—it must have been the—”
"I’ll bet you something right now," Stubb whispered to Flask, "that someone in that missing boat made off with the Captain’s best coat—or maybe even his watch. That’s why he’s so damn desperate to get it back. Who’s ever heard of two supposedly pious whaling ships chasing after one missing whale-boat during peak whaling season? Look at him, Flask, just look—he’s pale, even down to the buttons of his eyes. See? It wasn’t the coat—it must’ve been the—"
“My boy, my own boy is among them. For God’s sake—I beg, I conjure”—here exclaimed the stranger Captain to Ahab, who thus far had but icily received his petition. “For eight-and-forty hours let me charter your ship—I will gladly pay for it, and roundly pay for it—if there be no other way—for eight-and-forty hours only—only that—you must, oh, you must, and you shall do this thing.”
"My son, my own son is with them. For God’s sake—I’m begging you, pleading with you," the stranger Captain shouted to Ahab, who had so far coldly ignored his request. "Let me charter your ship for forty-eight hours—I’ll pay for it generously, no matter the cost—if there’s no other way. Just forty-eight hours—that’s all—I’m begging you, you have to do this, you must do this!"
“His son!” cried Stubb, “oh, it’s his son he’s lost! I take back the coat and watch—what says Ahab? We must save that boy.”
“His son!” shouted Stubb. “Oh, it’s his son he’s lost! I’m taking back the coat and watch—what does Ahab say? We have to save that boy.”
“He’s drowned with the rest on ’em, last night,” said the old Manx sailor standing behind them; “I heard; all of ye heard their spirits.”
“He drowned with the rest of them last night,” said the old Manx sailor standing behind them. “I heard it; you all heard their spirits.”
Now, as it shortly turned out, what made this incident of the Rachel’s the more melancholy, was the circumstance, that not only was one of the Captain’s sons among the number of the missing boat’s crew; but among the number of the other boat’s crews, at the same time, but on the other hand, separated from the ship during the dark vicissitudes of the chase, there had been still another son; as that for a time, the wretched father was plunged to the bottom of the cruellest perplexity; which was only solved for him by his chief mate’s instinctively adopting the ordinary procedure of a whale-ship in such emergencies, that is, when placed between jeopardized but divided boats, always to pick up the majority first. But the captain, for some unknown constitutional reason, had refrained from mentioning all this, and not till forced to it by Ahab’s iciness did he allude to his one yet missing boy; a little lad, but twelve years old, whose father with the earnest but unmisgiving hardihood of a Nantucketer’s paternal love, had thus early sought to initiate him in the perils and wonders of a vocation almost immemorially the destiny of all his race. Nor does it unfrequently occur, that Nantucket captains will send a son of such tender age away from them, for a protracted three or four years’ voyage in some other ship than their own; so that their first knowledge of a whaleman’s career shall be unenervated by any chance display of a father’s natural but untimely partiality, or undue apprehensiveness and concern.
As it soon turned out, what made the Rachel’s situation even more heartbreaking was that not only was one of the Captain’s sons part of the missing boat’s crew, but there was also another son among a different boat’s crew. This second crew, however, had been separated from the ship during the chaotic events of the chase, leaving the devastated father in the depths of an unbearable dilemma. His torment was only eased when his chief mate followed the standard practice of a whaling ship in such situations—when torn between rescuing two endangered groups, always save the larger group first. For some unknown reason, the captain had kept all this to himself and only mentioned his still-missing son, a twelve-year-old boy, after being pressed by Ahab’s coldness. With the determined but unflinching love of a Nantucketer father, the captain had brought his young son to experience firsthand the dangers and marvels of a vocation that had long been a tradition for their people. It’s not uncommon for Nantucket captains to send sons as young as this on long three- or four-year voyages aboard ships other than their own. This way, the boys’ early experiences of a whaling life wouldn’t be influenced by any bias, overprotectiveness, or fear their fathers might otherwise show.
Meantime, now the stranger was still beseeching his poor boon of Ahab; and Ahab still stood like an anvil, receiving every shock, but without the least quivering of his own.
In the meantime, the stranger kept pleading with Ahab for his small favor; and Ahab stood firm like an anvil, taking every blow without the slightest tremble.
“I will not go,” said the stranger, “till you say aye to me. Do to me as you would have me do to you in the like case. For you too have a boy, Captain Ahab—though but a child, and nestling safely at home now—a child of your old age too—Yes, yes, you relent; I see it—run, run, men, now, and stand by to square in the yards.”
"I'm not going," said the stranger, "until you say yes to me. Treat me the way you'd want to be treated in the same situation. Because you have a son too, Captain Ahab—just a child, safe at home right now—a child born to you in your old age. Yes, yes, I can see you're softening. Run, men, run now, and get ready to square the yards!"
“Avast,” cried Ahab—“touch not a rope-yarn”; then in a voice that prolongingly moulded every word—“Captain Gardiner, I will not do it. Even now I lose time. Good-bye, good-bye. God bless ye, man, and may I forgive myself, but I must go. Mr. Starbuck, look at the binnacle watch, and in three minutes from this present instant warn off all strangers: then brace forward again, and let the ship sail as before.”
"Stop," shouted Ahab. "Don't touch a single thread." Then, drawing out every word in a deliberate tone, he said, "Captain Gardiner, I can't do it. I'm already losing time. Goodbye, goodbye. God bless you, man, and may I forgive myself, but I have to go. Mr. Starbuck, check the binnacle watch, and in three minutes from now, tell all visitors to leave. Then adjust the sails and let the ship continue on its course."
Hurriedly turning, with averted face, he descended into his cabin, leaving the strange captain transfixed at this unconditional and utter rejection of his so earnest suit. But starting from his enchantment, Gardiner silently hurried to the side; more fell than stepped into his boat, and returned to his ship.
Quickly turning away and avoiding eye contact, he went down into his cabin, leaving the other captain standing there, stunned by the absolute and unequivocal rejection of his heartfelt request. Snapping out of his daze, Gardiner silently rushed to the side, practically falling into his boat rather than stepping, and headed back to his ship.
Soon the two ships diverged their wakes; and long as the strange vessel was in view, she was seen to yaw hither and thither at every dark spot, however small, on the sea. This way and that her yards were swung round; starboard and larboard, she continued to tack; now she beat against a head sea; and again it pushed her before it; while all the while, her masts and yards were thickly clustered with men, as three tall cherry trees, when the boys are cherrying among the boughs.
Soon, the two ships parted ways, their wakes separating. For as long as the strange ship was visible, it could be seen swaying aimlessly at every small dark spot on the water. Her sails were constantly adjusted back and forth; from starboard to port, she kept tacking—sometimes battling against the waves head-on, and at other times being carried forward by them. All the while, her masts and yards were crowded with men, like three tall cherry trees full of boys climbing among the branches to pick cherries.
But by her still halting course and winding, woeful way, you plainly saw that this ship that so wept with spray, still remained without comfort. She was Rachel, weeping for her children, because they were not.
But by her still uncertain path and meandering, sorrowful journey, it was clear that this ship, drenched in spray, remained without solace. She was Rachel, crying for her children, because they were gone.
CHAPTER 129. The Cabin.
(Ahab moving to go on deck; Pip catches him by the hand to follow.)
(Ahab starts to head to the deck; Pip grabs his hand to follow him.)
“Lad, lad, I tell thee thou must not follow Ahab now. The hour is coming when Ahab would not scare thee from him, yet would not have thee by him. There is that in thee, poor lad, which I feel too curing to my malady. Like cures like; and for this hunt, my malady becomes my most desired health. Do thou abide below here, where they shall serve thee, as if thou wert the captain. Aye, lad, thou shalt sit here in my own screwed chair; another screw to it, thou must be.”
"Listen, kid, I’m telling you, you can’t follow Ahab right now. The time is coming when Ahab wouldn’t push you away, but he still wouldn’t want you near him either. There’s something in you, poor boy, that feels like it could heal my sickness. Like cures like, they say—and for this hunt, my sickness has become the very thing I want most. Stay down here, where they’ll treat you as if you were the captain. Yeah, kid, you’ll sit here in my own bolted-down chair; and with another bolt, it’ll be yours."
“No, no, no! ye have not a whole body, sir; do ye but use poor me for your one lost leg; only tread upon me, sir; I ask no more, so I remain a part of ye.”
"No, no, no! You don’t have a whole body, sir; you just use poor me as your one lost leg. Just step on me, sir; that’s all I ask, so I can still be a part of you."
“Oh! spite of million villains, this makes me a bigot in the fadeless fidelity of man!—and a black! and crazy!—but methinks like-cures-like applies to him too; he grows so sane again.”
"Oh! Despite a million villains, this makes me hold firm faith in the unchanging loyalty of man!—and a black man! and crazy!—but I think the principle of 'like cures like' applies to him too; he becomes so sane again."
“They tell me, sir, that Stubb did once desert poor little Pip, whose drowned bones now show white, for all the blackness of his living skin. But I will never desert ye, sir, as Stubb did him. Sir, I must go with ye.”
"They tell me, sir, that Stubb once abandoned poor little Pip, whose drowned bones now shine white, despite the darkness of his living skin. But I’ll never abandon you, sir, like Stubb did to him. Sir, I have to go with you."
“If thou speakest thus to me much more, Ahab’s purpose keels up in him. I tell thee no; it cannot be.”
"If you keep talking to me like this, Ahab's resolve will collapse. I'm telling you, no; it can't happen."
“Oh good master, master, master!
“Oh great master, master, master!
“Weep so, and I will murder thee! have a care, for Ahab too is mad. Listen, and thou wilt often hear my ivory foot upon the deck, and still know that I am there. And now I quit thee. Thy hand!—Met! True art thou, lad, as the circumference to its centre. So: God for ever bless thee; and if it come to that,—God for ever save thee, let what will befall.”
"Keep crying like that, and I'll kill you! Be careful, because Ahab's mad too. Listen, and you'll often hear my ivory leg on the deck and know that I'm still here. Now I'm leaving you. Your hand!—We've met! You're as true, boy, as the circle is to its center. There: May God always bless you, and if it comes to it—may God always save you, no matter what happens."
(Ahab goes; Pip steps one step forward.)
(Ahab leaves; Pip takes a step forward.)
“Here he this instant stood; I stand in his air,—but I’m alone. Now were even poor Pip here I could endure it, but he’s missing. Pip! Pip! Ding, dong, ding! Who’s seen Pip? He must be up here; let’s try the door. What? neither lock, nor bolt, nor bar; and yet there’s no opening it. It must be the spell; he told me to stay here: Aye, and told me this screwed chair was mine. Here, then, I’ll seat me, against the transom, in the ship’s full middle, all her keel and her three masts before me. Here, our old sailors say, in their black seventy-fours great admirals sometimes sit at table, and lord it over rows of captains and lieutenants. Ha! what’s this? epaulets! epaulets! the epaulets all come crowding! Pass round the decanters; glad to see ye; fill up, monsieurs! What an odd feeling, now, when a black boy’s host to white men with gold lace upon their coats!—Monsieurs, have ye seen one Pip?—a little negro lad, five feet high, hang-dog look, and cowardly! Jumped from a whale-boat once;—seen him? No! Well then, fill up again, captains, and let’s drink shame upon all cowards! I name no names. Shame upon them! Put one foot upon the table. Shame upon all cowards.—Hist! above there, I hear ivory—Oh, master! master! I am indeed down-hearted when you walk over me. But here I’ll stay, though this stern strikes rocks; and they bulge through; and oysters come to join me.”
“Here he was just now; I’m standing where he stood—but I’m alone. If only poor Pip were here, I could deal with this, but he’s gone. Pip! Pip! Ding, dong, ding! Has anyone seen Pip? He must be up here; let’s try the door. What? No lock, no bolt, no bar, but it still won’t open. Must be some kind of spell; he told me to stay here. Yeah, and he said this screwed-down chair was mine. Fine, I’ll sit here then, against the transom, right in the middle of the ship, with the keel and all three masts in front of me. You know, the old sailors say that on their big seventy-fours, great admirals sometimes sit at tables here, running the show over rows of captains and lieutenants. Ha! What’s this? Epaulets! Epaulets everywhere! Pass the decanters around; good to see you all; drink up, gentlemen! What a strange feeling, being a little black boy hosting white men in gold-trimmed coats! Gentlemen, have any of you seen Pip? A small black guy, about five feet tall, hangdog look, and a real coward! He once jumped out of a whale-boat—seen him? No? Well then, fill your glasses again, captains, and let’s toast against all cowards! I’m not naming anyone. Shame on them! Put your foot on the table. Shame on all cowards. Wait! Up there—I hear ivory—Oh, master! Master! I feel so low when you walk over me. But I’ll stay here, even if the stern hits rocks, and they push through, and oysters join me down here.”
CHAPTER 130. The Hat.
And now that at the proper time and place, after so long and wide a preliminary cruise, Ahab,—all other whaling waters swept—seemed to have chased his foe into an ocean-fold, to slay him the more securely there; now, that he found himself hard by the very latitude and longitude where his tormenting wound had been inflicted; now that a vessel had been spoken which on the very day preceding had actually encountered Moby Dick;—and now that all his successive meetings with various ships contrastingly concurred to show the demoniac indifference with which the white whale tore his hunters, whether sinning or sinned against; now it was that there lurked a something in the old man’s eyes, which it was hardly sufferable for feeble souls to see. As the unsetting polar star, which through the livelong, arctic, six months’ night sustains its piercing, steady, central gaze; so Ahab’s purpose now fixedly gleamed down upon the constant midnight of the gloomy crew. It domineered above them so, that all their bodings, doubts, misgivings, fears, were fain to hide beneath their souls, and not sprout forth a single spear or leaf.
And now, at the right time and place, after such a long and far-reaching journey, Ahab—having scoured all the other whaling grounds—seemed to have cornered his enemy in a secluded part of the ocean, ready to strike him down more securely there. Now that he was near the exact spot where the wound fueling his obsession had been inflicted, now that they had spoken to a ship just the day before that had actually encountered Moby Dick—and now, with each encounter with different ships emphasizing the maddening indifference with which the white whale destroyed his hunters, whether they were guilty or innocent—now there was something in the old man’s eyes that was almost unbearable for weaker souls to witness. Like the unchanging North Star, which keeps its sharp, steady, central focus throughout the endless six months of Arctic darkness, Ahab’s resolve now burned with a fierce intensity, glaring down upon the dark despair of the crew. His determination loomed over them so heavily that all their fears, doubts, and uneasy thoughts were forced to stay buried deep inside, unable to grow or emerge.
In this foreshadowing interval too, all humor, forced or natural, vanished. Stubb no more strove to raise a smile; Starbuck no more strove to check one. Alike, joy and sorrow, hope and fear, seemed ground to finest dust, and powdered, for the time, in the clamped mortar of Ahab’s iron soul. Like machines, they dumbly moved about the deck, ever conscious that the old man’s despot eye was on them.
During this ominous time, all sense of humor, whether genuine or forced, disappeared. Stubb no longer tried to make anyone smile, and Starbuck no longer tried to suppress one. Joy and sorrow, hope and fear, seemed crushed into the finest dust, ground down for the moment by the relentless grip of Ahab’s steely will. Like robots, they moved silently across the deck, always aware that the old man’s tyrannical gaze was fixed on them.
But did you deeply scan him in his more secret confidential hours; when he thought no glance but one was on him; then you would have seen that even as Ahab’s eyes so awed the crew’s, the inscrutable Parsee’s glance awed his; or somehow, at least, in some wild way, at times affected it. Such an added, gliding strangeness began to invest the thin Fedallah now; such ceaseless shudderings shook him; that the men looked dubious at him; half uncertain, as it seemed, whether indeed he were a mortal substance, or else a tremulous shadow cast upon the deck by some unseen being’s body. And that shadow was always hovering there. For not by night, even, had Fedallah ever certainly been known to slumber, or go below. He would stand still for hours: but never sat or leaned; his wan but wondrous eyes did plainly say—We two watchmen never rest.
But if you observed him closely during his most private moments, when he believed no one but one was watching him, you’d have noticed that just as Ahab’s gaze commanded the crew, the mysterious Parsee’s stare had a hold over him—or in some strange way, at least, it sometimes influenced him. An unnerving, ghostly oddness started to surround the lean Fedallah; constant shivers seemed to run through him, making the crew regard him with suspicion, unsure if he was truly flesh and blood or just a flickering shadow cast on the deck by some unseen entity. And that shadow never left. Even at night, no one could confirm if Fedallah ever slept or went below deck. He would stand motionless for hours but never sat down or leaned against anything; his pale, bewitching eyes clearly seemed to say—We two watchmen never rest.
Nor, at any time, by night or day could the mariners now step upon the deck, unless Ahab was before them; either standing in his pivot-hole, or exactly pacing the planks between two undeviating limits,—the main-mast and the mizen; or else they saw him standing in the cabin-scuttle,—his living foot advanced upon the deck, as if to step; his hat slouched heavily over his eyes; so that however motionless he stood, however the days and nights were added on, that he had not swung in his hammock; yet hidden beneath that slouching hat, they could never tell unerringly whether, for all this, his eyes were really closed at times; or whether he was still intently scanning them; no matter, though he stood so in the scuttle for a whole hour on the stretch, and the unheeded night-damp gathered in beads of dew upon that stone-carved coat and hat. The clothes that the night had wet, the next day’s sunshine dried upon him; and so, day after day, and night after night; he went no more beneath the planks; whatever he wanted from the cabin that thing he sent for.
No matter the time, day or night, the sailors could never step onto the deck without Ahab being there first—either standing in his usual spot or pacing back and forth between two fixed points, the mainmast and the mizzenmast. Or they’d see him standing at the cabin’s hatch, one foot on the deck as if ready to step out, his hat pulled low over his eyes. Even though he stood motionless, and days and nights passed without him swinging in his hammock, they could never be completely sure whether his eyes were actually closed beneath that slouched hat or if he was secretly watching them. It didn’t matter if he stood in the opening for an hour at a time, with the damp night air leaving beads of moisture on his unmoving coat and hat like they were carved from stone. The clothes that were soaked by the night were dried by the next day’s sun, and so it continued, day after day, night after night. He never went back below deck; whatever he needed from the cabin, he sent someone else to get it.
He ate in the same open air; that is, his two only meals,—breakfast and dinner: supper he never touched; nor reaped his beard; which darkly grew all gnarled, as unearthed roots of trees blown over, which still grow idly on at naked base, though perished in the upper verdure. But though his whole life was now become one watch on deck; and though the Parsee’s mystic watch was without intermission as his own; yet these two never seemed to speak—one man to the other—unless at long intervals some passing unmomentous matter made it necessary. Though such a potent spell seemed secretly to join the twain; openly, and to the awe-struck crew, they seemed pole-like asunder. If by day they chanced to speak one word; by night, dumb men were both, so far as concerned the slightest verbal interchange. At times, for longest hours, without a single hail, they stood far parted in the starlight; Ahab in his scuttle, the Parsee by the mainmast; but still fixedly gazing upon each other; as if in the Parsee Ahab saw his forethrown shadow, in Ahab the Parsee his abandoned substance.
He ate outside in the open air, sticking to just two meals—breakfast and dinner. He never touched supper and didn't bother shaving his beard, which grew wild and twisted, like the exposed roots of fallen trees that keep growing aimlessly at their base even though their leafy tops are dead. Despite the fact that his whole life had essentially become a constant watch on deck—and that the Parsee’s mysterious, uninterrupted watch mirrored his—these two rarely spoke to one another. On the rare occasion they did, it was only for some trivial, fleeting matter that required it. Even though there seemed to be an invisible force that connected them, outwardly, to the amazed and fearful crew, they seemed as far apart as two opposites. If they happened to exchange a word during the day, by night they were completely silent, not sharing even the smallest bit of conversation. Sometimes, for hour after hour, without so much as a call to one another, they stood far apart under the starlight—Ahab in his cabin door, the Parsee by the mainmast—but their eyes stayed locked as if, in the Parsee, Ahab saw a shadow of his own future, and in Ahab, the Parsee saw the remnant of something he had long since left behind.
And yet, somehow, did Ahab—in his own proper self, as daily, hourly, and every instant, commandingly revealed to his subordinates,—Ahab seemed an independent lord; the Parsee but his slave. Still again both seemed yoked together, and an unseen tyrant driving them; the lean shade siding the solid rib. For be this Parsee what he may, all rib and keel was solid Ahab.
And yet, somehow, Ahab—in his true self, as he showed every day, every hour, and every moment with authority to his crew—Ahab seemed like an independent master, and the Parsee just his servant. Still, at the same time, they both appeared bound together, driven by some invisible force; the shadowy figure alongside the solid frame. For whatever this Parsee might be, Ahab was all strength and structure, through and through.
At the first faintest glimmering of the dawn, his iron voice was heard from aft,—“Man the mast-heads!”—and all through the day, till after sunset and after twilight, the same voice every hour, at the striking of the helmsman’s bell, was heard—“What d’ye see?—sharp! sharp!”
At the very first hint of dawn, his commanding voice rang out from the back of the ship—“Get to the mastheads!”—and throughout the entire day, until after sunset and into the evening, that same voice, every hour when the helmsman rang the bell, could be heard—“What do you see?—Be sharp! Stay sharp!”
But when three or four days had slided by, after meeting the children-seeking Rachel; and no spout had yet been seen; the monomaniac old man seemed distrustful of his crew’s fidelity; at least, of nearly all except the Pagan harpooneers; he seemed to doubt, even, whether Stubb and Flask might not willingly overlook the sight he sought. But if these suspicions were really his, he sagaciously refrained from verbally expressing them, however his actions might seem to hint them.
But after three or four days had passed since they came across the Rachel searching for her lost children, and still no whale spout had been spotted, the obsessive old man began to distrust the loyalty of his crew—almost all of them, except for the Pagan harpooners. He even seemed to question whether Stubb and Flask might intentionally ignore the sight he was looking for. But if these were truly his suspicions, he wisely avoided saying them out loud, even though his actions might have hinted at them.
“I will have the first sight of the whale myself,”—he said. “Aye! Ahab must have the doubloon!” and with his own hands he rigged a nest of basketed bowlines; and sending a hand aloft, with a single sheaved block, to secure to the main-mast head, he received the two ends of the downward-reeved rope; and attaching one to his basket prepared a pin for the other end, in order to fasten it at the rail. This done, with that end yet in his hand and standing beside the pin, he looked round upon his crew, sweeping from one to the other; pausing his glance long upon Daggoo, Queequeg, Tashtego; but shunning Fedallah; and then settling his firm relying eye upon the chief mate, said,—“Take the rope, sir—I give it into thy hands, Starbuck.” Then arranging his person in the basket, he gave the word for them to hoist him to his perch, Starbuck being the one who secured the rope at last; and afterwards stood near it. And thus, with one hand clinging round the royal mast, Ahab gazed abroad upon the sea for miles and miles,—ahead, astern, this side, and that,—within the wide expanded circle commanded at so great a height.
"I'll be the first to see the whale myself," he said. "Yeah, Ahab must have the doubloon!" With his own hands, he set up a nest of basketed bowlines. He sent a crewman up with a single-sheaved block to secure it to the main masthead. Taking the two ends of the rope threaded through the block, he tied one end to his basket and prepared a pin for the other, so he could fasten it to the rail. Once that was done, still holding the free end of the rope and standing by the pin, he looked around at his crew. He swept his gaze across them, lingering on Daggoo, Queequeg, and Tashtego, but avoiding Fedallah. Finally, he locked eyes with the chief mate and said firmly, "Take the rope, Starbuck. I trust it in your hands." After positioning himself in the basket, he gave the word to hoist him up to his lookout. Starbuck secured the rope and stayed close by it. Clinging with one hand to the royal mast, Ahab scanned the vast sea in every direction—forward, behind, to both sides—taking in the massive circle visible from such a height.
When in working with his hands at some lofty almost isolated place in the rigging, which chances to afford no foothold, the sailor at sea is hoisted up to that spot, and sustained there by the rope; under these circumstances, its fastened end on deck is always given in strict charge to some one man who has the special watch of it. Because in such a wilderness of running rigging, whose various different relations aloft cannot always be infallibly discerned by what is seen of them at the deck; and when the deck-ends of these ropes are being every few minutes cast down from the fastenings, it would be but a natural fatality, if, unprovided with a constant watchman, the hoisted sailor should by some carelessness of the crew be cast adrift and fall all swooping to the sea. So Ahab’s proceedings in this matter were not unusual; the only strange thing about them seemed to be, that Starbuck, almost the one only man who had ever ventured to oppose him with anything in the slightest degree approaching to decision—one of those too, whose faithfulness on the look-out he had seemed to doubt somewhat;—it was strange, that this was the very man he should select for his watchman; freely giving his whole life into such an otherwise distrusted person’s hands.
When working with his hands in some high, almost isolated part of the rigging where there's no solid footing, the sailor at sea is hoisted up to that spot and held there by a rope. In these situations, the rope’s end on the deck is always placed under the strict supervision of a specific crew member tasked with watching it. This is because, amidst the tangle of ropes running in all directions—ropes whose connections up in the rigging aren’t always perfectly clear from the deck below—and with the deck ends of these ropes frequently being untied and repositioned, it would be all too easy, without a dedicated watchman, for a moment of carelessness to send the hoisted sailor plummeting into the sea. Ahab’s actions in this case weren’t unusual; the only surprising detail was that Starbuck—nearly the only person who had ever dared to oppose Ahab with anything resembling decisiveness, and someone whose reliability Ahab had appeared to doubt previously—was the very man Ahab chose to trust with this critical task. It was remarkable that Ahab so freely entrusted his life to someone he had otherwise seemed to distrust.
Now, the first time Ahab was perched aloft; ere he had been there ten minutes; one of those red-billed savage sea-hawks which so often fly incommodiously close round the manned mast-heads of whalemen in these latitudes; one of these birds came wheeling and screaming round his head in a maze of untrackably swift circlings. Then it darted a thousand feet straight up into the air; then spiralized downwards, and went eddying again round his head.
The first time Ahab was up high, before he had been there ten minutes, one of those red-billed, wild sea hawks—known to often fly annoyingly close around the manned mastheads of whaling ships in these waters—came wheeling and screeching around his head in a blur of impossibly quick circles. Then it shot a thousand feet straight up into the air, spiraled back down, and started swirling around his head again.
But with his gaze fixed upon the dim and distant horizon, Ahab seemed not to mark this wild bird; nor, indeed, would any one else have marked it much, it being no uncommon circumstance; only now almost the least heedful eye seemed to see some sort of cunning meaning in almost every sight.
But with his eyes locked on the faint and far-off horizon, Ahab didn’t seem to notice the wild bird; and really, no one else would have paid it much attention either, as it wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Yet now, even the most indifferent observer seemed to sense some kind of sly significance in nearly everything they saw.
“Your hat, your hat, sir!” suddenly cried the Sicilian seaman, who being posted at the mizen-mast-head, stood directly behind Ahab, though somewhat lower than his level, and with a deep gulf of air dividing them.
"Your hat, your hat, sir!" suddenly shouted the Sicilian sailor, who was stationed at the mizzen masthead, standing right behind Ahab, though slightly lower than him, with a wide gap of air separating them.
But already the sable wing was before the old man’s eyes; the long hooked bill at his head: with a scream, the black hawk darted away with his prize.
But already the dark wing was in front of the old man's eyes; the long hooked beak at his head: with a screech, the black hawk shot away with its prize.
An eagle flew thrice round Tarquin’s head, removing his cap to replace it, and thereupon Tanaquil, his wife, declared that Tarquin would be king of Rome. But only by the replacing of the cap was that omen accounted good. Ahab’s hat was never restored; the wild hawk flew on and on with it; far in advance of the prow: and at last disappeared; while from the point of that disappearance, a minute black spot was dimly discerned, falling from that vast height into the sea.
An eagle flew three times around Tarquin's head, taking his hat off and then putting it back on. Tanaquil, his wife, announced that this meant Tarquin would become the king of Rome. But the omen was considered good only because the hat was put back on. Ahab’s hat, however, was never returned; the wild hawk kept flying with it, far ahead of the ship’s bow, until it eventually vanished. From the spot where it disappeared, a tiny black speck was faintly seen falling from that great height into the sea.
CHAPTER 131. The Pequod Meets The Delight.
The intense Pequod sailed on; the rolling waves and days went by; the life-buoy-coffin still lightly swung; and another ship, most miserably misnamed the Delight, was descried. As she drew nigh, all eyes were fixed upon her broad beams, called shears, which, in some whaling-ships, cross the quarter-deck at the height of eight or nine feet; serving to carry the spare, unrigged, or disabled boats.
The determined Pequod sailed onward; the rolling waves and days passed by; the life-buoy-coffin still gently swayed, and another ship, ironically named the Delight, came into view. As she approached, all eyes were drawn to her broad beams, called shears, which, on some whaling ships, stretch across the quarterdeck about eight or nine feet high, used to hold spare, unrigged, or damaged boats.
Upon the stranger’s shears were beheld the shattered, white ribs, and some few splintered planks, of what had once been a whale-boat; but you now saw through this wreck, as plainly as you see through the peeled, half-unhinged, and bleaching skeleton of a horse.
On the stranger’s shears, you could see the broken, white ribs and a few shattered planks of what used to be a whale-boat; but now, you could look straight through this wreck, just as clearly as you can see through the stripped, half-fallen, and sun-bleached skeleton of a horse.
“Hast seen the White Whale?”
"Have you seen the White Whale?"
“Look!” replied the hollow-cheeked captain from his taffrail; and with his trumpet he pointed to the wreck.
"Look!" shouted the gaunt captain from his position on the stern rail, and he used his speaking trumpet to point toward the wreck.
“Hast killed him?”
"Did you kill him?"
“The harpoon is not yet forged that ever will do that,” answered the other, sadly glancing upon a rounded hammock on the deck, whose gathered sides some noiseless sailors were busy in sewing together.
"The harpoon hasn't been made yet that could ever do that," replied the other, sadly glancing at a rounded hammock on the deck, where some silent sailors were quietly sewing the sides together.
“Not forged!” and snatching Perth’s levelled iron from the crotch, Ahab held it out, exclaiming—“Look ye, Nantucketer; here in this hand I hold his death! Tempered in blood, and tempered by lightning are these barbs; and I swear to temper them triply in that hot place behind the fin, where the White Whale most feels his accursed life!”
“Not forged!” Ahab shouted, grabbing Perth’s raised iron from the notch and holding it out. “Look, Nantucketer, in this hand, I hold his death! These barbs are forged in blood and hardened by lightning, and I swear to temper them a third time in that fiery spot behind the fin, where the White Whale feels his cursed life the most!”
“Then God keep thee, old man—see’st thou that”—pointing to the hammock—“I bury but one of five stout men, who were alive only yesterday; but were dead ere night. Only that one I bury; the rest were buried before they died; you sail upon their tomb.” Then turning to his crew—“Are ye ready there? place the plank then on the rail, and lift the body; so, then—Oh! God”—advancing towards the hammock with uplifted hands—“may the resurrection and the life——”
“Then God bless you, old man—do you see that?”—pointing to the hammock—“I’m burying just one of five strong men who were alive only yesterday; but by night, they were dead. I’m only burying that one; the others were buried before they even died. You’re sailing over their grave.” Then, turning to his crew—“Are you ready over there? Put the plank on the rail and lift the body; that’s it—Oh God”—walking toward the hammock with hands raised—“may the resurrection and the life——”
“Brace forward! Up helm!” cried Ahab like lightning to his men.
"Brace forward! Turn the helm!" Ahab shouted urgently to his crew.
But the suddenly started Pequod was not quick enough to escape the sound of the splash that the corpse soon made as it struck the sea; not so quick, indeed, but that some of the flying bubbles might have sprinkled her hull with their ghostly baptism.
But the abruptly moving Pequod wasn’t fast enough to avoid hearing the splash the corpse made as it hit the sea; not so fast, in fact, that a few of the rising bubbles couldn’t have sprayed her hull with their eerie baptism.
As Ahab now glided from the dejected Delight, the strange life-buoy hanging at the Pequod’s stern came into conspicuous relief.
As Ahab drifted away from the gloomy Delight, the unusual life-buoy hanging at the back of the Pequod stood out clearly.
“Ha! yonder! look yonder, men!” cried a foreboding voice in her wake. “In vain, oh, ye strangers, ye fly our sad burial; ye but turn us your taffrail to show us your coffin!”
"Ha! Over there! Look over there, men!" shouted a foreboding voice behind her. "It's useless, oh strangers, to flee our sorrowful burial; you're only turning your ship's stern to show us your coffin!"
CHAPTER 132. The Symphony.
It was a clear steel-blue day. The firmaments of air and sea were hardly separable in that all-pervading azure; only, the pensive air was transparently pure and soft, with a woman’s look, and the robust and man-like sea heaved with long, strong, lingering swells, as Samson’s chest in his sleep.
It was a bright, crisp blue day. The sky and sea seemed almost indistinguishable in the endless shade of blue; only the calm air was clear and soft, like a woman’s gaze, while the strong, masculine sea rose and fell in slow, powerful waves, like Samson’s chest as he slept.
Hither, and thither, on high, glided the snow-white wings of small, unspeckled birds; these were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air; but to and fro in the deeps, far down in the bottomless blue, rushed mighty leviathans, sword-fish, and sharks; and these were the strong, troubled, murderous thinkings of the masculine sea.
Here and there, in the sky, glided the pure white wings of small, spotless birds; these were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air. But down below, in the endless depths of the blue ocean, rushed powerful leviathans, swordfish, and sharks; these were the fierce, restless, and violent thoughts of the masculine sea.
But though thus contrasting within, the contrast was only in shades and shadows without; those two seemed one; it was only the sex, as it were, that distinguished them.
But even though they were different on the inside, the difference was just in subtle hints and shadows on the outside; they seemed like one person, with only their gender setting them apart.
Aloft, like a royal czar and king, the sun seemed giving this gentle air to this bold and rolling sea; even as bride to groom. And at the girdling line of the horizon, a soft and tremulous motion—most seen here at the equator—denoted the fond, throbbing trust, the loving alarms, with which the poor bride gave her bosom away.
High above, like a royal emperor or king, the sun seemed to bestow this gentle breeze to the bold, rolling sea, like a bride given to her groom. And along the horizon's encircling line, a soft and trembling movement—most noticeable here at the equator—revealed the tender, throbbing trust and loving excitement with which the poor bride gave away her heart.
Tied up and twisted; gnarled and knotted with wrinkles; haggardly firm and unyielding; his eyes glowing like coals, that still glow in the ashes of ruin; untottering Ahab stood forth in the clearness of the morn; lifting his splintered helmet of a brow to the fair girl’s forehead of heaven.
Tied up and twisted; gnarled and knotted with wrinkles; ruggedly firm and unrelenting; his eyes burning like embers that still glow in the ashes of destruction; unfaltering, Ahab stood tall in the clear morning light, raising his scarred brow like a shattered helmet to the serene, youthful sky above.
Oh, immortal infancy, and innocency of the azure! Invisible winged creatures that frolic all round us! Sweet childhood of air and sky! how oblivious were ye of old Ahab’s close-coiled woe! But so have I seen little Miriam and Martha, laughing-eyed elves, heedlessly gambol around their old sire; sporting with the circle of singed locks which grew on the marge of that burnt-out crater of his brain.
Oh, eternal youth and purity of the sky! Invisible winged beings that play all around us! Sweet innocence of air and heavens! How unaware you were of old Ahab’s tightly wound sorrow! But I’ve seen little Miriam and Martha, bright-eyed children, carelessly playing around their old father, teasing the ring of scorched hair that framed the burned-out crater of his mind.
Slowly crossing the deck from the scuttle, Ahab leaned over the side and watched how his shadow in the water sank and sank to his gaze, the more and the more that he strove to pierce the profundity. But the lovely aromas in that enchanted air did at last seem to dispel, for a moment, the cankerous thing in his soul. That glad, happy air, that winsome sky, did at last stroke and caress him; the step-mother world, so long cruel—forbidding—now threw affectionate arms round his stubborn neck, and did seem to joyously sob over him, as if over one, that however wilful and erring, she could yet find it in her heart to save and to bless. From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
Slowly crossing the deck from the hatch, Ahab leaned over the side and watched his shadow sink deeper and deeper into the water as he kept trying to see into the depths. But the sweet scents in the magical air finally seemed to lift, if only for a moment, the bitterness in his soul. That cheerful, happy air, that inviting sky, finally seemed to soothe him, touching him gently. The cruel, hostile world—like a stepmother—now wrapped its arms lovingly around his stubborn neck and seemed to cry over him with joy, as if she could still find it in her heart to forgive him, save him, and bless him, despite his willful and erring ways. From under his slouched hat, Ahab let a tear fall into the sea; and no part of the Pacific held as much treasure as that one little drop.
Starbuck saw the old man; saw him, how he heavily leaned over the side; and he seemed to hear in his own true heart the measureless sobbing that stole out of the centre of the serenity around. Careful not to touch him, or be noticed by him, he yet drew near to him, and stood there.
Starbuck saw the old man, saw how he leaned heavily over the side; and it felt like he could hear, deep in his heart, the endless sobbing that seemed to rise from the calmness all around. Careful not to touch him or draw his attention, he still moved closer and stood nearby.
Ahab turned.
Ahab spun around.
“Starbuck!”
"Starbucks!"
“Sir.”
“Sir.”
“Oh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On such a day—very much such a sweetness as this—I struck my first whale—a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty—forty—forty years ago!—ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck, out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a Captain’s exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country without—oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary command!—when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so keenly known to me before—and how for forty years I have fed upon dry salted fare—fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soil!—when the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and broken the world’s fresh bread to my mouldy crusts—away, whole oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my marriage pillow—wife? wife?—rather a widow with her husband alive! Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously, foamingly chased his prey—more a demon than a man!—aye, aye! what a forty years’ fool—fool—old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this strife of the chase? why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now? Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! God! God!—crack my heart!—stave my brain!—mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is the magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no; stay on board, on board!—lower not when I do; when branded Ahab gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no! not with the far away home I see in that eye!”
“Oh, Starbuck! It’s such a calm, gentle wind, and the sky looks so peaceful. On a day just like this—so calm, just like this—I harpooned my first whale. I was only eighteen, just a boy! Forty years ago! Forty years! Forty years of non-stop whaling. Forty years of hardship, danger, and storms! Forty years spent on this merciless ocean! For forty years, I’ve given up the peaceful life on land to wage war against the terrors of the deep! Yes, Starbuck, in all those forty years, I haven’t spent more than three of them on shore. When I look back on this life I’ve lived—the loneliness it’s brought me—the captain’s solitary existence, shut away behind walls that only let in the smallest bit of sympathy from the green land far away—oh, the weight of it all! The grueling, crushing burden of solitary command! When I think of it—that I never fully understood the toll it was taking—and how for forty years I’ve survived on dry, salted food—like my spirit, dry and unsatisfied—while even the poorest man on land has fresh fruit at his fingertips and real bread to eat, while I’ve chewed on moldy scraps! And all of this, far across oceans, away from the young bride I married when I was fifty, only to set sail for Cape Horn the very next day, leaving just one impression on our marriage bed. Wife? Wife? More like a widow with a living husband! Yes, Starbuck, I made her a widow the day I married her. And then came the madness, the fury, the boiling rage, and the frantic hunts—Ahab, chasing his prey like some possessed demon, not a man! Oh, what a fool! What a fool I’ve been all these forty years. A worthless, foolish, old Ahab! Why do I keep chasing? Why exhaust myself, wear out my body with the oars, the harpoons, and the spears? What have I gained? How am I any better or richer now than I was? Look at me, Starbuck. Isn’t it cruel that, after everything I’ve borne, even my leg was taken from me? Here, move this hair out of my face—it’s blinding me, and I feel like I’m crying. Grey hair like this only grows out of ashes! But do I really look so old, Starbuck? So very, very old? I feel like I’m dying, so weak and hunched over, like I’m Adam, bent under the weight of all the centuries since Eden. God! God! God! Break my heart! Smash my brain! Mockery! Such a bitter, biting mockery, these grey hairs. Have I even lived enough joy to have earned them? To feel this unbearably old? Come closer, Starbuck, come close—let me look into your eyes. It’s better than staring out at the sea or sky. Better even than staring toward God. By the green land, by the warmth of the hearth at home, this is where the real magic is—your eyes. In them, I see my wife and child. No, wait! Stay onboard the ship—don’t lower the boats when I do. When branded Ahab goes after Moby Dick, that risk isn’t yours to take. No, no! Not with that faraway home I see reflected in your eyes!”
“Oh, my Captain! my Captain! noble soul! grand old heart, after all! why should any one give chase to that hated fish! Away with me! let us fly these deadly waters! let us home! Wife and child, too, are Starbuck’s—wife and child of his brotherly, sisterly, play-fellow youth; even as thine, sir, are the wife and child of thy loving, longing, paternal old age! Away! let us away!—this instant let me alter the course! How cheerily, how hilariously, O my Captain, would we bowl on our way to see old Nantucket again! I think, sir, they have some such mild blue days, even as this, in Nantucket.”
"Oh, Captain, my Captain! What a noble soul you are, such a grand old heart! Why does anyone have to chase that cursed whale? Let’s leave this behind! Let’s get out of these deadly waters and go home! My wife and child back home are just like your wife and child, sir—yours in your loving, longing, fatherly old age, and mine from my younger, carefree days. Let’s go—let’s change course right now! How happily, how joyfully, Captain, we’d sail back to good old Nantucket! I’d bet, sir, they’re having gentle, peaceful blue-sky days there, just like this one."
“They have, they have. I have seen them—some summer days in the morning. About this time—yes, it is his noon nap now—the boy vivaciously wakes; sits up in bed; and his mother tells him of me, of cannibal old me; how I am abroad upon the deep, but will yet come back to dance him again.”
"They have, they have. I've seen them—on some summer mornings. Around this time—yeah, this is his midday nap now—the boy wakes up full of energy; he sits up in bed, and his mother tells him about me, old cannibal me; how I'm out there on the ocean but will come back someday to dance with him again."
“’Tis my Mary, my Mary herself! She promised that my boy, every morning, should be carried to the hill to catch the first glimpse of his father’s sail! Yes, yes! no more! it is done! we head for Nantucket! Come, my Captain, study out the course, and let us away! See, see! the boy’s face from the window! the boy’s hand on the hill!”
"It's my Mary, my own Mary! She promised that every morning my boy would be taken to the hill to catch the first sight of his father's sail! Yes, yes! That's enough! It's settled! We're heading for Nantucket! Come on, Captain, figure out the course, and let's go! Look, look! The boy's face at the window! The boy's hand on the hill!"
But Ahab’s glance was averted; like a blighted fruit tree he shook, and cast his last, cindered apple to the soil.
But Ahab looked away; like a damaged fruit tree, he trembled and let his last, charred apple fall to the ground.
“What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! Who’s to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid greenness; as last year’s scythes flung down, and left in the half-cut swaths—Starbuck!”
"What is it? What is this nameless, unknowable, otherworldly thing—this deceiving, hidden master, this cruel and relentless ruler—that drives me? Why do I keep pushing forward, constantly forcing myself to go on, even against all my natural desires and instincts, recklessly preparing to do things my true, natural self would never dare? Is Ahab really Ahab? Is it me, God, or something else entirely that moves this arm of mine? If even the great sun doesn’t move by its own will but acts as a mere servant in the heavens, and not a single star can turn without some unseen force, then how can this small heart of mine keep beating, or this small brain think thoughts, unless it’s God doing the beating, the thinking, the living—and not me? By God, man, we’re like that windlass over there, endlessly turned round and round, with Fate as the lever. And all the while, look! There’s that peaceful, smiling sky, and this infinite sea! Look at that Albicore! Who told it to chase and catch that flying fish? Where do murderers go, man? Who gets to judge, when the judge himself is dragged before the court? But look—everything is so calm now. The wind is soft, the sky looks gentle, and the air carries the scent of some far-off meadow. Somewhere, under the slopes of the Andes, people have been cutting hay, and now the mowers are resting in the fresh-cut fields. Resting? Yes, no matter how hard we toil, we all rest in the end. Rest? Yes, and rust, too—just like last year’s scythes, forgotten and left lying in the half-mown grass—Starbuck!"
But blanched to a corpse’s hue with despair, the Mate had stolen away.
But pale as a corpse with despair, the Mate had slipped away.
Ahab crossed the deck to gaze over on the other side; but started at two reflected, fixed eyes in the water there. Fedallah was motionlessly leaning over the same rail.
Ahab walked across the deck to look over the other side, but he jumped back at the sight of two reflected, unblinking eyes in the water. Fedallah was silently leaning over the same rail.
CHAPTER 133. The Chase—First Day.
That night, in the mid-watch, when the old man—as his wont at intervals—stepped forth from the scuttle in which he leaned, and went to his pivot-hole, he suddenly thrust out his face fiercely, snuffing up the sea air as a sagacious ship’s dog will, in drawing nigh to some barbarous isle. He declared that a whale must be near. Soon that peculiar odor, sometimes to a great distance given forth by the living sperm whale, was palpable to all the watch; nor was any mariner surprised when, after inspecting the compass, and then the dog-vane, and then ascertaining the precise bearing of the odor as nearly as possible, Ahab rapidly ordered the ship’s course to be slightly altered, and the sail to be shortened.
That night, during the middle watch, when the old captain—as he often did occasionally—stepped out from the small hatch where he had been leaning and went to his usual spot, he suddenly stuck his face out sharply, inhaling the sea air like a sharp-eyed ship's dog closing in on some distant, uncharted island. He announced that there must be a whale nearby. Soon, that distinct smell, which living sperm whales sometimes release even from far away, became noticeable to everyone on watch. No one was surprised when, after checking the compass, then the wind vane, and determining the direction of the smell as closely as possible, Ahab quickly commanded a slight change in the ship’s course and ordered the sails to be adjusted.
The acute policy dictating these movements was sufficiently vindicated at daybreak, by the sight of a long sleek on the sea directly and lengthwise ahead, smooth as oil, and resembling in the pleated watery wrinkles bordering it, the polished metallic-like marks of some swift tide-rip, at the mouth of a deep, rapid stream.
The sharp strategy behind these movements was clearly justified at sunrise, when they saw a long, smooth patch on the sea directly ahead, as slick as oil. It looked, with its rippled edges of folded water, like the shiny, metallic-like patterns left by a swift current at the mouth of a fast-moving river.
“Man the mast-heads! Call all hands!”
"Man the mastheads! Everyone, get to work!"
Thundering with the butts of three clubbed handspikes on the forecastle deck, Daggoo roused the sleepers with such judgment claps that they seemed to exhale from the scuttle, so instantaneously did they appear with their clothes in their hands.
Pounding with the ends of three joined handspikes on the forecastle deck, Daggoo woke the sleepers with such perfectly timed knocks that they seemed to burst out from the hatch, appearing almost instantly with their clothes in hand.
“What d’ye see?” cried Ahab, flattening his face to the sky.
"What do you see?" yelled Ahab, tilting his face up to the sky.
“Nothing, nothing sir!” was the sound hailing down in reply.
"Nothing, nothing, sir!" came the voice calling back in response.
“T’gallant sails!—stunsails! alow and aloft, and on both sides!”
"Topgallant sails! Studding sails! Up high, down low, and on both sides!"
All sail being set, he now cast loose the life-line, reserved for swaying him to the main royal-mast head; and in a few moments they were hoisting him thither, when, while but two thirds of the way aloft, and while peering ahead through the horizontal vacancy between the main-top-sail and top-gallant-sail, he raised a gull-like cry in the air. “There she blows!—there she blows! A hump like a snow-hill! It is Moby Dick!”
With all the sails set, he untied the lifeline meant to help him climb to the main royal masthead. Within moments, they were hoisting him up, and when he was about two-thirds of the way up, he looked ahead through the open space between the main topsail and the top-gallant sail. Suddenly, he let out a cry, sharp and clear like a seagull's. "There she blows! There she blows! A hump like a snow-covered hill! It's Moby Dick!"
Fired by the cry which seemed simultaneously taken up by the three look-outs, the men on deck rushed to the rigging to behold the famous whale they had so long been pursuing. Ahab had now gained his final perch, some feet above the other look-outs, Tashtego standing just beneath him on the cap of the top-gallant-mast, so that the Indian’s head was almost on a level with Ahab’s heel. From this height the whale was now seen some mile or so ahead, at every roll of the sea revealing his high sparkling hump, and regularly jetting his silent spout into the air. To the credulous mariners it seemed the same silent spout they had so long ago beheld in the moonlit Atlantic and Indian Oceans.
Fired up by the shout that seemed to be echoed by all three lookouts at once, the men on deck rushed to the rigging to catch sight of the famous whale they had been chasing for so long. Ahab had climbed to his final perch, a few feet higher than the other lookouts, with Tashtego standing just below him on the cap of the top-gallant mast, so that the Native American’s head was almost level with Ahab’s heel. From this height, the whale was now visible about a mile ahead, its high, glimmering hump breaking through the waves with each roll of the sea, regularly sending up its quiet spout into the air. To the gullible sailors, it seemed like the same silent spout they had glimpsed so long ago in the moonlit waters of the Atlantic and Indian Oceans.
“And did none of ye see it before?” cried Ahab, hailing the perched men all around him.
"And none of you saw it before?" shouted Ahab, calling out to the men perched all around him.
“I saw him almost that same instant, sir, that Captain Ahab did, and I cried out,” said Tashtego.
"I saw him at almost the exact same moment Captain Ahab did, sir, and I shouted out," said Tashtego.
“Not the same instant; not the same—no, the doubloon is mine, Fate reserved the doubloon for me. I only; none of ye could have raised the White Whale first. There she blows!—there she blows!—there she blows! There again!—there again!” he cried, in long-drawn, lingering, methodic tones, attuned to the gradual prolongings of the whale’s visible jets. “He’s going to sound! In stunsails! Down top-gallant-sails! Stand by three boats. Mr. Starbuck, remember, stay on board, and keep the ship. Helm there! Luff, luff a point! So; steady, man, steady! There go flukes! No, no; only black water! All ready the boats there? Stand by, stand by! Lower me, Mr. Starbuck; lower, lower,—quick, quicker!” and he slid through the air to the deck.
“Not at the exact same moment; not the same—no, the doubloon is mine. Fate saved the doubloon just for me. I alone; none of you could’ve been the first to spot the White Whale. There she blows!—there she blows!—there she blows! Again!—again!” he shouted, his voice drawn out, lingering, rhythmic, matching the slow rise and fall of the whale’s visible spouts. “He’s about to dive! Set the stun’sails! Lower the top-gallant sails! Prepare three boats. Mr. Starbuck, don’t forget, stay on board and manage the ship. Helm! Steer closer—closer by one point! Good, hold it steady! He’s diving—no, wait, just open ocean! Are the boats ready? Be ready, be ready! Lower me down, Mr. Starbuck; lower—faster, faster!” and he slid down to the deck.
“He is heading straight to leeward, sir,” cried Stubb, “right away from us; cannot have seen the ship yet.”
"He's heading straight downwind, sir," shouted Stubb, "moving away from us; he must not have seen the ship yet."
“Be dumb, man! Stand by the braces! Hard down the helm!—brace up! Shiver her!—shiver her!—So; well that! Boats, boats!”
"Stay quiet, man! Hold the braces! Push the helm all the way down!—Tighten up! Shake the sails!—Shake them!—That's it; good job! Boats, boats!"
Soon all the boats but Starbuck’s were dropped; all the boat-sails set—all the paddles plying; with rippling swiftness, shooting to leeward; and Ahab heading the onset. A pale, death-glimmer lit up Fedallah’s sunken eyes; a hideous motion gnawed his mouth.
Soon, all the boats except Starbuck's were launched; their sails unfurled—paddles working hard; gliding swiftly with rippling speed to leeward, with Ahab leading the charge. A pale, ghostly light flickered in Fedallah’s hollow eyes; a twisted motion contorted his mouth.
Like noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the sea; but only slowly they neared the foe. As they neared him, the ocean grew still more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves; seemed a noon-meadow, so serenely it spread. At length the breathless hunter came so nigh his seemingly unsuspecting prey, that his entire dazzling hump was distinctly visible, sliding along the sea as if an isolated thing, and continually set in a revolving ring of finest, fleecy, greenish foam. He saw the vast, involved wrinkles of the slightly projecting head beyond. Before it, far out on the soft Turkish-rugged waters, went the glistening white shadow from his broad, milky forehead, a musical rippling playfully accompanying the shade; and behind, the blue waters interchangeably flowed over into the moving valley of his steady wake; and on either hand bright bubbles arose and danced by his side. But these were broken again by the light toes of hundreds of gay fowl softly feathering the sea, alternate with their fitful flight; and like to some flag-staff rising from the painted hull of an argosy, the tall but shattered pole of a recent lance projected from the white whale’s back; and at intervals one of the cloud of soft-toed fowls hovering, and to and fro skimming like a canopy over the fish, silently perched and rocked on this pole, the long tail feathers streaming like pennons.
Like silent nautilus shells, their light boats glided over the sea; but they only slowly closed in on their target. As they got closer, the ocean became even smoother, as if it were spreading a carpet over its waves, calm and serene like a meadow at noon. Finally, the breathless hunter got so close to what seemed an unsuspecting prey that the entire gleaming hump of the whale was clearly visible, gliding along the water as though it were a separate entity, surrounded by a constantly spinning ring of delicate, frothy, greenish foam. He could see the massive, intricate folds of the slightly protruding head just ahead. Beyond that, far in front on the soft, patterned waters, a gleaming white shadow stretched out from the whale's wide, pale forehead, accompanied by a playful, musical rippling sound. Behind, the blue waters flowed smoothly, filling in the moving path of his steady wake, while on either side, bright bubbles rose and danced alongside him. These bubbles were occasionally disrupted by the light feet of hundreds of graceful birds softly touching the sea, alternating with their quick flights. Like a flagpole rising from the painted deck of a ship, the tall but splintered remnants of a harpoon stuck out from the white whale’s back. From time to time, one of the soft-footed birds hovering above, darting back and forth like a canopy over the whale, would silently land and perch on this pole, its long tail feathers streaming behind it like flags.
A gentle joyousness—a mighty mildness of repose in swiftness, invested the gliding whale. Not the white bull Jupiter swimming away with ravished Europa clinging to his graceful horns; his lovely, leering eyes sideways intent upon the maid; with smooth bewitching fleetness, rippling straight for the nuptial bower in Crete; not Jove, not that great majesty Supreme! did surpass the glorified White Whale as he so divinely swam.
A soft joy—a powerful calmness of ease in motion, surrounded the gliding whale. Not even the white bull Jupiter swimming off with the abducted Europa clutching his elegant horns; his charming, mischievous eyes fixed on the maiden; smoothly, enchantingly speeding straight to the wedding chamber in Crete; not Jupiter, not that great supreme majesty, surpassed the majestic White Whale as he swam so gracefully.
On each soft side—coincident with the parted swell, that but once leaving him, then flowed so wide away—on each bright side, the whale shed off enticings. No wonder there had been some among the hunters who namelessly transported and allured by all this serenity, had ventured to assail it; but had fatally found that quietude but the vesture of tornadoes. Yet calm, enticing calm, oh, whale! thou glidest on, to all who for the first time eye thee, no matter how many in that same way thou may’st have bejuggled and destroyed before.
On each gentle side—matching the curved swell, which after separating from him once, then spread so far away—on each bright side, the whale gave off temptation. It’s no surprise that some hunters, silently captivated and drawn in by this tranquility, dared to attack it, only to discover too late that this calm was just the disguise of violent storms. Yet serene, alluring calm, oh whale! you glide on, enchanting everyone who sees you for the first time, no matter how many you’ve deceived and destroyed before.
And thus, through the serene tranquillities of the tropical sea, among waves whose hand-clappings were suspended by exceeding rapture, Moby Dick moved on, still withholding from sight the full terrors of his submerged trunk, entirely hiding the wrenched hideousness of his jaw. But soon the fore part of him slowly rose from the water; for an instant his whole marbleized body formed a high arch, like Virginia’s Natural Bridge, and warningly waving his bannered flukes in the air, the grand god revealed himself, sounded, and went out of sight. Hoveringly halting, and dipping on the wing, the white sea-fowls longingly lingered over the agitated pool that he left.
And so, through the calm stillness of the tropical sea, among waves whose applause seemed frozen in overwhelming awe, Moby Dick glided on, still keeping the full horrors of his submerged body hidden, completely concealing the twisted ugliness of his jaw. But soon, the front part of him began to slowly rise from the water; for a moment, his entire marble-like body formed a high arch, resembling Virginia's Natural Bridge, and with a warning sweep of his massive flukes in the air, the majestic beast revealed himself, dove, and vanished from sight. Hovering and dipping in flight, the white sea birds lingered longingly over the turbulent waters he left behind.
With oars apeak, and paddles down, the sheets of their sails adrift, the three boats now stilly floated, awaiting Moby Dick’s reappearance.
With their oars raised, paddles resting, and sails loose, the three boats floated silently, waiting for Moby Dick to appear again.
“An hour,” said Ahab, standing rooted in his boat’s stern; and he gazed beyond the whale’s place, towards the dim blue spaces and wide wooing vacancies to leeward. It was only an instant; for again his eyes seemed whirling round in his head as he swept the watery circle. The breeze now freshened; the sea began to swell.
"An hour," said Ahab, standing firm at the stern of his boat, staring past where the whale had been toward the hazy blue distances and vast, inviting emptiness to leeward. It was just a moment; then his eyes seemed to spin in their sockets as he scanned the surrounding waters. The wind picked up, and the sea started to rise.
“The birds!—the birds!” cried Tashtego.
“The birds!—the birds!” shouted Tashtego.
In long Indian file, as when herons take wing, the white birds were now all flying towards Ahab’s boat; and when within a few yards began fluttering over the water there, wheeling round and round, with joyous, expectant cries. Their vision was keener than man’s; Ahab could discover no sign in the sea. But suddenly as he peered down and down into its depths, he profoundly saw a white living spot no bigger than a white weasel, with wonderful celerity uprising, and magnifying as it rose, till it turned, and then there were plainly revealed two long crooked rows of white, glistening teeth, floating up from the undiscoverable bottom. It was Moby Dick’s open mouth and scrolled jaw; his vast, shadowed bulk still half blending with the blue of the sea. The glittering mouth yawned beneath the boat like an open-doored marble tomb; and giving one sidelong sweep with his steering oar, Ahab whirled the craft aside from this tremendous apparition. Then, calling upon Fedallah to change places with him, went forward to the bows, and seizing Perth’s harpoon, commanded his crew to grasp their oars and stand by to stern.
In a single-file line, like herons taking flight, the white birds all flew toward Ahab’s boat. Once they were just a few yards away, they began fluttering over the water, circling excitedly with joyful, expectant calls. Their eyesight was sharper than any human's; Ahab couldn’t see any indication in the water. But then, as he gazed deeper and deeper into the ocean, he suddenly spotted a small white moving shape, no larger than a weasel, rising quickly and growing bigger as it ascended. It grew until it twisted, revealing two long, crooked rows of sharp, white teeth glinting as they emerged from the unknowable depths. It was Moby Dick’s open mouth and curved jaw; his massive shadowy form was still partially merging with the deep blue of the sea. His gleaming mouth gaped below the boat like the entrance to a marble tomb. Instantly, Ahab swept the boat aside with one powerful stroke of his steering oar to avoid this terrifying sight. He then called out to Fedallah to switch spots with him. Moving to the front of the boat, Ahab grabbed Perth’s harpoon and ordered his crew to take their oars and prepare to back away.
Now, by reason of this timely spinning round the boat upon its axis, its bow, by anticipation, was made to face the whale’s head while yet under water. But as if perceiving this stratagem, Moby Dick, with that malicious intelligence ascribed to him, sidelingly transplanted himself, as it were, in an instant, shooting his pleated head lengthwise beneath the boat.
Now, thanks to the quick maneuver that spun the boat around on its axis, the bow was aimed at the whale’s head even while it was still underwater. But as if sensing this tactic, Moby Dick, with that cunning intelligence often attributed to him, suddenly shifted sideways, almost like teleporting, and shot his creased head lengthwise beneath the boat in an instant.
Through and through; through every plank and each rib, it thrilled for an instant, the whale obliquely lying on his back, in the manner of a biting shark, slowly and feelingly taking its bows full within his mouth, so that the long, narrow, scrolled lower jaw curled high up into the open air, and one of the teeth caught in a row-lock. The bluish pearl-white of the inside of the jaw was within six inches of Ahab’s head, and reached higher than that. In this attitude the White Whale now shook the slight cedar as a mildly cruel cat her mouse. With unastonished eyes Fedallah gazed, and crossed his arms; but the tiger-yellow crew were tumbling over each other’s heads to gain the uttermost stern.
Through and through; through every plank and rib, it pulsed for a moment. The whale, lying on its back at an angle like a biting shark, slowly and deliberately took the boat's bow fully into its mouth. Its long, narrow, curling lower jaw rose high into the air, and one of its teeth snagged a rowlock. The bluish, pearl-white interior of the jaw came within six inches of Ahab’s head, reaching even higher. In this position, the White Whale shook the fragile cedar boat as a cruel cat might toy with a mouse. Fedallah watched without astonishment, his arms crossed, while the tiger-yellow crew scrambled over one another, desperate to reach the furthest part of the stern.
And now, while both elastic gunwales were springing in and out, as the whale dallied with the doomed craft in this devilish way; and from his body being submerged beneath the boat, he could not be darted at from the bows, for the bows were almost inside of him, as it were; and while the other boats involuntarily paused, as before a quick crisis impossible to withstand, then it was that monomaniac Ahab, furious with this tantalizing vicinity of his foe, which placed him all alive and helpless in the very jaws he hated; frenzied with all this, he seized the long bone with his naked hands, and wildly strove to wrench it from its gripe. As now he thus vainly strove, the jaw slipped from him; the frail gunwales bent in, collapsed, and snapped, as both jaws, like an enormous shears, sliding further aft, bit the craft completely in twain, and locked themselves fast again in the sea, midway between the two floating wrecks. These floated aside, the broken ends drooping, the crew at the stern-wreck clinging to the gunwales, and striving to hold fast to the oars to lash them across.
Now, as both flexible sides of the boat flexed in and out while the whale toyed with the doomed vessel in this sinister way—and with its body submerged under the boat, making it impossible to strike from the front since the bow was practically inside the whale—and as the other boats instinctively paused in the face of an overwhelming crisis, it was then that the crazed Ahab, enraged by the infuriating closeness of his foe, which left him alive yet powerless in the very jaws he despised, grabbed the long bone with his bare hands and desperately tried to wrench it free from the whale’s grip. As he struggled in vain, the jaw slipped from his grasp; the fragile sides of the boat bent inward, collapsed, and snapped as both jaws, like massive shears, slid further back and cut the craft completely in two before clamping shut again beneath the water, right between the two halves of the shattered boat. The wreckage drifted apart, the broken ends sagging, while the crew in the rear section clung to the sides and struggled to hold on to the oars, trying to tie them together across the boat.
At that preluding moment, ere the boat was yet snapped, Ahab, the first to perceive the whale’s intent, by the crafty upraising of his head, a movement that loosed his hold for the time; at that moment his hand had made one final effort to push the boat out of the bite. But only slipping further into the whale’s mouth, and tilting over sideways as it slipped, the boat had shaken off his hold on the jaw; spilled him out of it, as he leaned to the push; and so he fell flat-faced upon the sea.
In that crucial moment, just before the boat was snapped, Ahab, being the first to sense the whale’s plan, used a clever tilt of his head—a movement that momentarily loosened his grip. In that instant, his hand made one last attempt to shove the boat out of danger. But as the boat slid further into the whale’s mouth and tipped sideways while doing so, it broke free of his grip on the jaw, tossing him out as he leaned into the push. He fell face-first into the sea.
Ripplingly withdrawing from his prey, Moby Dick now lay at a little distance, vertically thrusting his oblong white head up and down in the billows; and at the same time slowly revolving his whole spindled body; so that when his vast wrinkled forehead rose—some twenty or more feet out of the water—the now rising swells, with all their confluent waves, dazzlingly broke against it; vindictively tossing their shivered spray still higher into the air.* So, in a gale, the but half baffled Channel billows only recoil from the base of the Eddystone, triumphantly to overleap its summit with their scud.
Rippling as he pulled away from his target, Moby Dick now lay a short distance off, thrusting his long white head up and down in the waves; at the same time, his entire spindle-shaped body slowly turned. When his massive, wrinkled forehead rose—about twenty feet or more out of the water—the rising swells, with their merging waves, glimmered as they crashed against it, angrily flinging shattered spray even higher into the air. * Just like during a storm, when the semi-defeated Channel waves retreat from the base of the Eddystone Lighthouse, only to surge triumphantly over its peak with their foam.
*This motion is peculiar to the sperm whale. It receives its designation (pitchpoling) from its being likened to that preliminary up-and-down poise of the whale-lance, in the exercise called pitchpoling, previously described. By this motion the whale must best and most comprehensively view whatever objects may be encircling him.
This movement is unique to the sperm whale. It's called "pitchpoling" because it resembles the way a whale-lance moves up and down during an activity known as pitchpoling, as described earlier. With this motion, the whale can see and assess anything surrounding it in the most thorough and effective way.
But soon resuming his horizontal attitude, Moby Dick swam swiftly round and round the wrecked crew; sideways churning the water in his vengeful wake, as if lashing himself up to still another and more deadly assault. The sight of the splintered boat seemed to madden him, as the blood of grapes and mulberries cast before Antiochus’s elephants in the book of Maccabees. Meanwhile Ahab half smothered in the foam of the whale’s insolent tail, and too much of a cripple to swim,—though he could still keep afloat, even in the heart of such a whirlpool as that; helpless Ahab’s head was seen, like a tossed bubble which the least chance shock might burst. From the boat’s fragmentary stern, Fedallah incuriously and mildly eyed him; the clinging crew, at the other drifting end, could not succor him; more than enough was it for them to look to themselves. For so revolvingly appalling was the White Whale’s aspect, and so planetarily swift the ever-contracting circles he made, that he seemed horizontally swooping upon them. And though the other boats, unharmed, still hovered hard by; still they dared not pull into the eddy to strike, lest that should be the signal for the instant destruction of the jeopardized castaways, Ahab and all; nor in that case could they themselves hope to escape. With straining eyes, then, they remained on the outer edge of the direful zone, whose centre had now become the old man’s head.
But soon, lying down again, Moby Dick swam quickly in circles around the wrecked crew, churning the water with his vengeful movements, as if working himself up for another, even deadlier attack. The sight of the shattered boat seemed to drive him mad, like the blood of grapes and mulberries thrown before Antiochus's elephants in the book of Maccabees. Meanwhile, Ahab, half-smothered in the froth from the whale’s aggressive tail and too injured to swim—though he could still stay afloat even in the midst of such a whirlpool—was helpless. His head bobbed on the surface like a fragile bubble that any random shock could pop. From the broken stern of the boat, Fedallah watched him with mild, detached curiosity, while the rest of the clinging crew, holding onto the other drifting end, were unable to help him. They had their hands full just trying to survive. The White Whale’s terrifying presence, spinning faster and faster in ever-contracting circles, made it seem as if he were swooping down horizontally upon them. Even though the other boats nearby were unharmed, no one dared row closer into the swirling water to attack, fearing their actions would bring instant doom to the castaways—Ahab, the others, and possibly themselves. So, with strained eyes, they hovered at the edge of the dangerous zone, which now revolved around the old man’s head in the center.
Meantime, from the beginning all this had been descried from the ship’s mast heads; and squaring her yards, she had borne down upon the scene; and was now so nigh, that Ahab in the water hailed her!—“Sail on the”—but that moment a breaking sea dashed on him from Moby Dick, and whelmed him for the time. But struggling out of it again, and chancing to rise on a towering crest, he shouted,—“Sail on the whale!—Drive him off!”
Meanwhile, from the very start, all of this had been spotted from the ship's mastheads. Adjusting her sails, she had headed straight for the action and was now so close that Ahab, in the water, called out to her, “Sail on the—” But at that moment, a crashing wave from Moby Dick swept over him, submerging him for a time. Struggling back to the surface and managing to rise on a massive wave, he shouted, “Sail on the whale! Drive him off!”
The Pequod’s prows were pointed; and breaking up the charmed circle, she effectually parted the white whale from his victim. As he sullenly swam off, the boats flew to the rescue.
The Pequod’s bows were sharp, and smashing through the enchanted circle, it successfully separated the white whale from its prey. As the whale swam away in anger, the boats rushed to the rescue.
Dragged into Stubb’s boat with blood-shot, blinded eyes, the white brine caking in his wrinkles; the long tension of Ahab’s bodily strength did crack, and helplessly he yielded to his body’s doom: for a time, lying all crushed in the bottom of Stubb’s boat, like one trodden under foot of herds of elephants. Far inland, nameless wails came from him, as desolate sounds from out ravines.
Dragged into Stubb’s boat with bloodshot, blinded eyes, the white salt crusting in his wrinkles; Ahab’s physical strength finally gave out, and he helplessly surrendered to his body’s exhaustion. For a while, he lay completely defeated at the bottom of Stubb’s boat, like someone trampled by a herd of elephants. From deep within him came nameless cries, eerie and mournful, like the sounds echoing out of distant ravines.
But this intensity of his physical prostration did but so much the more abbreviate it. In an instant’s compass, great hearts sometimes condense to one deep pang, the sum total of those shallow pains kindly diffused through feebler men’s whole lives. And so, such hearts, though summary in each one suffering; still, if the gods decree it, in their life-time aggregate a whole age of woe, wholly made up of instantaneous intensities; for even in their pointless centres, those noble natures contain the entire circumferences of inferior souls.
But the intensity of his physical collapse only shortened its duration all the more. In a single moment, great hearts can sometimes condense into one profound agony the total of all the minor troubles that weaker men endure over their entire lives. And so, while such hearts might face suffering in brief but intense bursts, if fate wills it, their lifetime can combine an entire era of sorrow, made up entirely of these sharp, concentrated moments; for even at their emptiest, those noble souls encompass everything that lesser souls experience.
“The harpoon,” said Ahab, half way rising, and draggingly leaning on one bended arm—“is it safe?”
"The harpoon," said Ahab, half-rising and leaning heavily on one bent arm, "is it safe?"
“Aye, sir, for it was not darted; this is it,” said Stubb, showing it.
"Yes, sir, because it wasn’t thrown; here it is," said Stubb, showing it.
“Lay it before me;—any missing men?”
"Show it to me—are there any men missing?"
“One, two, three, four, five;—there were five oars, sir, and here are five men.”
"One, two, three, four, five—there were five oars, sir, and here are five men."
“That’s good.—Help me, man; I wish to stand. So, so, I see him! there! there! going to leeward still; what a leaping spout!—Hands off from me! The eternal sap runs up in Ahab’s bones again! Set the sail; out oars; the helm!”
"That's good. Help me up, man; I want to stand. There, I see him! Over there! Still heading to leeward; what a huge spout! Keep your hands off me! The eternal energy flows through Ahab's bones again! Set the sail; get the oars out; take the helm!"
It is often the case that when a boat is stove, its crew, being picked up by another boat, help to work that second boat; and the chase is thus continued with what is called double-banked oars. It was thus now. But the added power of the boat did not equal the added power of the whale, for he seemed to have treble-banked his every fin; swimming with a velocity which plainly showed, that if now, under these circumstances, pushed on, the chase would prove an indefinitely prolonged, if not a hopeless one; nor could any crew endure for so long a period, such an unintermitted, intense straining at the oar; a thing barely tolerable only in some one brief vicissitude. The ship itself, then, as it sometimes happens, offered the most promising intermediate means of overtaking the chase. Accordingly, the boats now made for her, and were soon swayed up to their cranes—the two parts of the wrecked boat having been previously secured by her—and then hoisting everything to her side, and stacking her canvas high up, and sideways outstretching it with stun-sails, like the double-jointed wings of an albatross; the Pequod bore down in the leeward wake of Moby-Dick. At the well known, methodic intervals, the whale’s glittering spout was regularly announced from the manned mast-heads; and when he would be reported as just gone down, Ahab would take the time, and then pacing the deck, binnacle-watch in hand, so soon as the last second of the allotted hour expired, his voice was heard.—“Whose is the doubloon now? D’ye see him?” and if the reply was, No, sir! straightway he commanded them to lift him to his perch. In this way the day wore on; Ahab, now aloft and motionless; anon, unrestingly pacing the planks.
When a boat gets smashed, the crew is often rescued by another boat and helps row that one, continuing the chase with what's called double-banked oars. That's how it was now. But the extra manpower in the boat didn't match the whale's added strength, as it seemed like the whale had triple power in every fin, swimming so fast that it was clear the chase would turn into a hopeless, never-ending pursuit if it carried on like this. No crew could endure such intense, nonstop rowing for so long—it's something barely manageable even in a short burst. In situations like this, the ship itself can sometimes be the best way to keep up with the chase. So, the boats headed back to the ship and were soon lifted aboard, with the wrecked boat’s pieces already secured. Everything was hoisted up, the sails were stretched out wide with extra stun-sails like the extended wings of an albatross, and the *Pequod* sped along in the wake of Moby-Dick. At steady intervals, the whale's gleaming spout was spotted and announced from the mastheads, and when he dove, Ahab would time how long he stayed underwater. He'd pace the deck with his watch in hand, and the moment the allotted hour was up, his voice would ring out, "Who gets the doubloon now? Do you see him?" If the answer came back, "No, sir!" he'd immediately demand to be hoisted to his lookout perch. So the day went on like this, with Ahab alternating between standing still high up and restlessly pacing the deck below.
As he was thus walking, uttering no sound, except to hail the men aloft, or to bid them hoist a sail still higher, or to spread one to a still greater breadth—thus to and fro pacing, beneath his slouched hat, at every turn he passed his own wrecked boat, which had been dropped upon the quarter-deck, and lay there reversed; broken bow to shattered stern. At last he paused before it; and as in an already over-clouded sky fresh troops of clouds will sometimes sail across, so over the old man’s face there now stole some such added gloom as this.
As he walked back and forth, staying silent except to call out to the men up top or to tell them to raise a sail higher or spread one wider, he paced under his slouched hat. Each time he turned, he passed by his own wrecked boat, which had been lowered onto the quarterdeck and now lay there upside down, its broken bow meeting its shattered stern. Finally, he stopped in front of it, and just like more clouds drifting across an already dark sky, a deeper shadow seemed to cross the old man’s face.
Stubb saw him pause; and perhaps intending, not vainly, though, to evince his own unabated fortitude, and thus keep up a valiant place in his Captain’s mind, he advanced, and eyeing the wreck exclaimed—“The thistle the ass refused; it pricked his mouth too keenly, sir; ha! ha!”
Stubb noticed him hesitate; and maybe, not without purpose, to show his own unwavering courage and maintain a strong position in his Captain's eyes, he stepped forward, looked at the wreck, and said, “The thistle the donkey refused—it pricked his mouth too sharply, sir! Ha! Ha!”
“What soulless thing is this that laughs before a wreck? Man, man! did I not know thee brave as fearless fire (and as mechanical) I could swear thou wert a poltroon. Groan nor laugh should be heard before a wreck.”
"What kind of heartless thing laughs at a disaster? Man, man! If I didn't know you were as brave and unflinching as fire (and just as unfeeling), I'd think you were a coward. No groan or laugh should be heard before a disaster."
“Aye, sir,” said Starbuck drawing near, “’tis a solemn sight; an omen, and an ill one.”
“Yes, sir,” said Starbuck, stepping closer, “it’s a serious sight; a sign, and a bad one.”
“Omen? omen?—the dictionary! If the gods think to speak outright to man, they will honorably speak outright; not shake their heads, and give an old wives’ darkling hint.—Begone! Ye two are the opposite poles of one thing; Starbuck is Stubb reversed, and Stubb is Starbuck; and ye two are all mankind; and Ahab stands alone among the millions of the peopled earth, nor gods nor men his neighbors! Cold, cold—I shiver!—How now? Aloft there! D’ye see him? Sing out for every spout, though he spout ten times a second!”
"Omen? An omen?—Where’s the dictionary! If the gods want to speak directly to humanity, they’ll do it plainly and honorably; they won’t just shake their heads and give some cryptic hint like an old wives’ tale.—Enough of that! You two are just opposite sides of the same coin; Starbuck is the flip side of Stubb, and Stubb is the flip side of Starbuck. Together, you represent all of mankind; and Ahab? Ahab stands alone, isolated among the millions of people on this earth, with neither gods nor men as his equals! It’s so cold—I’m shivering!—What’s going on up there? Hey, you see anything up top? Call out for every spout, even if it spouts ten times a second!"
The day was nearly done; only the hem of his golden robe was rustling. Soon, it was almost dark, but the look-out men still remained unset.
The day was almost over; only the edge of his golden robe was stirring. Soon, it was nearly dark, but the lookouts were still not in place.
“Can’t see the spout now, sir;—too dark”—cried a voice from the air.
"Can't see the spout now, sir—it's too dark," shouted a voice from above.
“How heading when last seen?”
“How to head when last seen?”
“As before, sir,—straight to leeward.”
“As before, sir—straight to the side.”
“Good! he will travel slower now ’tis night. Down royals and top-gallant stun-sails, Mr. Starbuck. We must not run over him before morning; he’s making a passage now, and may heave-to a while. Helm there! keep her full before the wind!—Aloft! come down!—Mr. Stubb, send a fresh hand to the fore-mast head, and see it manned till morning.”—Then advancing towards the doubloon in the main-mast—“Men, this gold is mine, for I earned it; but I shall let it abide here till the White Whale is dead; and then, whosoever of ye first raises him, upon the day he shall be killed, this gold is that man’s; and if on that day I shall again raise him, then, ten times its sum shall be divided among all of ye! Away now!—the deck is thine, sir!”
"Good! He'll be moving slower now that it's night. Lower the royals and top-gallant stun-sails, Mr. Starbuck. We don't want to overtake him before morning; he's on the move now and might stop for a bit. Helm, keep her steady before the wind!—Up there! Come down!—Mr. Stubb, send up a fresh sailor to the fore-mast head and keep it manned until morning." Then, stepping toward the gold coin nailed to the main-mast, he said, "Men, this gold is mine—I earned it; but it will stay here until the White Whale is dead. Whoever spots him first on the day he's killed, this gold is theirs. And if I see him again on that day, ten times this amount will be shared among all of you! Now, get to it! The deck is yours, sir!"
And so saying, he placed himself half way within the scuttle, and slouching his hat, stood there till dawn, except when at intervals rousing himself to see how the night wore on.
And with that, he positioned himself halfway inside the hatch, and, pulling his hat down low, stayed there until dawn—only occasionally stirring to check how the night was progressing.
CHAPTER 134. The Chase—Second Day.
At day-break, the three mast-heads were punctually manned afresh.
At sunrise, the three mastheads were promptly manned again.
“D’ye see him?” cried Ahab after allowing a little space for the light to spread.
"Do you see him?" Ahab shouted after pausing a moment to let the light spread.
“See nothing, sir.”
"See nothing, sir."
“Turn up all hands and make sail! he travels faster than I thought for;—the top-gallant sails!—aye, they should have been kept on her all night. But no matter—’tis but resting for the rush.”
"Get everyone up and set the sails! He's moving faster than I expected—top-gallant sails! Yeah, they should’ve stayed up all night. But no worries—it’s just a pause before the sprint."
Here be it said, that this pertinacious pursuit of one particular whale, continued through day into night, and through night into day, is a thing by no means unprecedented in the South sea fishery. For such is the wonderful skill, prescience of experience, and invincible confidence acquired by some great natural geniuses among the Nantucket commanders; that from the simple observation of a whale when last descried, they will, under certain given circumstances, pretty accurately foretell both the direction in which he will continue to swim for a time, while out of sight, as well as his probable rate of progression during that period. And, in these cases, somewhat as a pilot, when about losing sight of a coast, whose general trending he well knows, and which he desires shortly to return to again, but at some further point; like as this pilot stands by his compass, and takes the precise bearing of the cape at present visible, in order the more certainly to hit aright the remote, unseen headland, eventually to be visited: so does the fisherman, at his compass, with the whale; for after being chased, and diligently marked, through several hours of daylight, then, when night obscures the fish, the creature’s future wake through the darkness is almost as established to the sagacious mind of the hunter, as the pilot’s coast is to him. So that to this hunter’s wondrous skill, the proverbial evanescence of a thing writ in water, a wake, is to all desired purposes well nigh as reliable as the steadfast land. And as the mighty iron Leviathan of the modern railway is so familiarly known in its every pace, that, with watches in their hands, men time his rate as doctors that of a baby’s pulse; and lightly say of it, the up train or the down train will reach such or such a spot, at such or such an hour; even so, almost, there are occasions when these Nantucketers time that other Leviathan of the deep, according to the observed humor of his speed; and say to themselves, so many hours hence this whale will have gone two hundred miles, will have about reached this or that degree of latitude or longitude. But to render this acuteness at all successful in the end, the wind and the sea must be the whaleman’s allies; for of what present avail to the becalmed or windbound mariner is the skill that assures him he is exactly ninety-three leagues and a quarter from his port? Inferable from these statements, are many collateral subtile matters touching the chase of whales.
Here it should be said that this relentless pursuit of a specific whale, continuing from day into night and night into day, is not at all uncommon in the South Sea whaling industry. The extraordinary expertise, foresight born of experience, and unshakable confidence displayed by some of the natural-born geniuses among Nantucket captains allow them, based solely on their last sighting of a whale, to predict with remarkable accuracy the direction it will swim for a while when out of sight, as well as its likely speed during that time under certain conditions. In these situations, much like a pilot about to lose sight of a coastline that he knows well and plans to return to later at a different spot, the captain carefully charts his course using his compass. Just as this pilot fixes the exact bearing of the visible cape to eventually locate the distant, hidden headland he aims to reach, so too does the whaler track the whale’s position with precision. After diligently pursuing and observing the creature for hours in daylight, when night falls and the whale vanishes into darkness, the hunter’s sharp instincts often visualize the animal’s future path as clearly as a pilot sees his coastline. To such a skilled whaler, the fleeting nature of a whale’s wake—the proverbial "writing in water"—becomes almost as dependable as solid ground for practical purposes. And just as the powerful locomotives of modern railways are so well understood that people can time their movements with precision, saying, for instance, that the train will reach a certain place at this or that hour, these Nantucket whalers can, under certain conditions, monitor the speed of the "Leviathan of the deep" with similar accuracy. They might calculate that, in a specific number of hours, this whale will cover two hundred miles and reach a particular latitude or longitude. However, for this exceptional ability to lead to success, the wind and sea must cooperate with the whalers; after all, what good is it for a stranded or windless sailor to know he's precisely ninety-three and a quarter leagues from his destination? This concept hints at many subtle, interconnected aspects of pursuing whales.
The ship tore on; leaving such a furrow in the sea as when a cannon-ball, missent, becomes a plough-share and turns up the level field.
The ship sped forward, cutting through the sea like a cannonball gone astray, turning into a plow and churning up the flat surface.
“By salt and hemp!” cried Stubb, “but this swift motion of the deck creeps up one’s legs and tingles at the heart. This ship and I are two brave fellows!—Ha, ha! Some one take me up, and launch me, spine-wise, on the sea,—for by live-oaks! my spine’s a keel. Ha, ha! we go the gait that leaves no dust behind!”
"By salt and hemp!" shouted Stubb. "This quick movement of the deck crawls up my legs and sends a thrill to my heart. This ship and I are two bold pals! Ha, ha! Someone pick me up and throw me, back-first, onto the sea—because, by live oaks, my spine's a keel. Ha, ha! We’re moving at a speed that leaves no trail of dust behind!"
“There she blows—she blows!—she blows!—right ahead!” was now the mast-head cry.
"There she blows—she blows!—she blows!—straight ahead!" came the shout from the masthead.
“Aye, aye!” cried Stubb, “I knew it—ye can’t escape—blow on and split your spout, O whale! the mad fiend himself is after ye! blow your trump—blister your lungs!—Ahab will dam off your blood, as a miller shuts his watergate upon the stream!”
"Yeah, yeah!" shouted Stubb. "I knew it—you can't get away—go ahead and blow, split your spout, oh whale! The crazy devil himself is after you! Blow your horn—wreck your lungs! Ahab will block your blood flow like a miller closing the watergate on a stream!"
And Stubb did but speak out for well nigh all that crew. The frenzies of the chase had by this time worked them bubblingly up, like old wine worked anew. Whatever pale fears and forebodings some of them might have felt before; these were not only now kept out of sight through the growing awe of Ahab, but they were broken up, and on all sides routed, as timid prairie hares that scatter before the bounding bison. The hand of Fate had snatched all their souls; and by the stirring perils of the previous day; the rack of the past night’s suspense; the fixed, unfearing, blind, reckless way in which their wild craft went plunging towards its flying mark; by all these things, their hearts were bowled along. The wind that made great bellies of their sails, and rushed the vessel on by arms invisible as irresistible; this seemed the symbol of that unseen agency which so enslaved them to the race.
Stubb spoke out for almost the whole crew. The frenzy of the chase had by now stirred them up like old wine fermenting again. Whatever faint fears or forebodings some of them might have felt earlier were now not only hidden by their growing awe of Ahab, but completely shattered and scattered, like timid prairie hares fleeing before a charging bison. Fate had gripped all their souls, and through the thrilling dangers of the previous day, the tension of the sleepless night, and the steady, unflinching, reckless way their wild ship surged toward its flying target, their hearts were swept along. The wind, which filled their sails and drove the ship forward with invisible yet unstoppable force, seemed to symbolize the unseen power that bound them to this relentless pursuit.
They were one man, not thirty. For as the one ship that held them all; though it was put together of all contrasting things—oak, and maple, and pine wood; iron, and pitch, and hemp—yet all these ran into each other in the one concrete hull, which shot on its way, both balanced and directed by the long central keel; even so, all the individualities of the crew, this man’s valor, that man’s fear; guilt and guiltiness, all varieties were welded into oneness, and were all directed to that fatal goal which Ahab their one lord and keel did point to.
They were one man, not thirty. Like the single ship that carried them all; though it was built from all kinds of different materials—oak, maple, and pine wood; iron, pitch, and hemp—everything came together into one solid hull, moving forward, balanced and guided by the long central keel. In the same way, the individual traits of the crew—one man’s courage, another’s fear; their guilt and innocence, all their differences—were fused into one, all aimed toward the deadly destination to which Ahab, their sole leader and guiding keel, directed them.
The rigging lived. The mast-heads, like the tops of tall palms, were outspreadingly tufted with arms and legs. Clinging to a spar with one hand, some reached forth the other with impatient wavings; others, shading their eyes from the vivid sunlight, sat far out on the rocking yards; all the spars in full bearing of mortals, ready and ripe for their fate. Ah! how they still strove through that infinite blueness to seek out the thing that might destroy them!
The rigging came alive. The mastheads, like the tops of tall palm trees, were crowded with people’s arms and legs. Some clung to a spar with one hand, reaching out with the other in restless waves; others, shading their eyes from the bright sunlight, sat far out on the swaying yards; all the spars were filled with humans, ready and waiting for their fate. Ah! How they kept pushing through that endless blue sky, searching for the very thing that could destroy them!
“Why sing ye not out for him, if ye see him?” cried Ahab, when, after the lapse of some minutes since the first cry, no more had been heard. “Sway me up, men; ye have been deceived; not Moby Dick casts one odd jet that way, and then disappears.”
"Why aren't you shouting if you see him?" yelled Ahab, after several minutes passed since the first shout and nothing else had been heard. "Hoist me up, men; you've been fooled—it’s not Moby Dick who shoots one strange spout that way and then vanishes."
It was even so; in their headlong eagerness, the men had mistaken some other thing for the whale-spout, as the event itself soon proved; for hardly had Ahab reached his perch; hardly was the rope belayed to its pin on deck, when he struck the key-note to an orchestra, that made the air vibrate as with the combined discharges of rifles. The triumphant halloo of thirty buckskin lungs was heard, as—much nearer to the ship than the place of the imaginary jet, less than a mile ahead—Moby Dick bodily burst into view! For not by any calm and indolent spoutings; not by the peaceable gush of that mystic fountain in his head, did the White Whale now reveal his vicinity; but by the far more wondrous phenomenon of breaching. Rising with his utmost velocity from the furthest depths, the Sperm Whale thus booms his entire bulk into the pure element of air, and piling up a mountain of dazzling foam, shows his place to the distance of seven miles and more. In those moments, the torn, enraged waves he shakes off, seem his mane; in some cases, this breaching is his act of defiance.
It was just like that; in their reckless excitement, the men had mistaken something else for the whale's spout, as the event quickly showed. Ahab had barely reached his spot, and the rope had just been secured on deck when he signaled a sound like the opening note of an orchestra, making the air tremble as if dozens of rifles had fired at once. The triumphant cheers of thirty loud voices echoed as—much closer to the ship than the imagined spout, less than a mile ahead—Moby Dick suddenly burst into view! He didn’t announce his presence with calm, steady spoutings or the peaceful spray of that mysterious fountain from his head. No, the White Whale made his presence known in a far more spectacular way—by breaching. Shooting upwards at full speed from the depths, the Sperm Whale hurled his massive body into the air, throwing up a mountain of bright foam, marking his position even from seven miles away or more. In those moments, the wild, furious waves he cast off seemed like his mane; sometimes, this breaching act was his way of showing defiance.
“There she breaches! there she breaches!” was the cry, as in his immeasurable bravadoes the White Whale tossed himself salmon-like to Heaven. So suddenly seen in the blue plain of the sea, and relieved against the still bluer margin of the sky, the spray that he raised, for the moment, intolerably glittered and glared like a glacier; and stood there gradually fading and fading away from its first sparkling intensity, to the dim mistiness of an advancing shower in a vale.
"There she blows! There she blows!" was the shout as the White Whale, in all his wild arrogance, leaped into the air like a salmon. Suddenly appearing in the wide blue expanse of the ocean, silhouetted against the even deeper blue edge of the sky, the spray he threw up glittered and flashed like a glacier for a moment; then it slowly faded, dimming from its initial brilliant sparkle into the soft haze of a distant rain shower in a valley.
“Aye, breach your last to the sun, Moby Dick!” cried Ahab, “thy hour and thy harpoon are at hand!—Down! down all of ye, but one man at the fore. The boats!—stand by!”
"Yes, give your final defiance to the sun, Moby Dick!" shouted Ahab. "Your time and your harpoon are here! Down! Everyone down, except one man at the front. The boats! Get ready!"
Unmindful of the tedious rope-ladders of the shrouds, the men, like shooting stars, slid to the deck, by the isolated backstays and halyards; while Ahab, less dartingly, but still rapidly was dropped from his perch.
Oblivious to the cumbersome rope-ladders of the shrouds, the men slid down to the deck like shooting stars, using the isolated backstays and halyards; while Ahab, descending less swiftly but still quickly, came down from his position.
“Lower away,” he cried, so soon as he had reached his boat—a spare one, rigged the afternoon previous. “Mr. Starbuck, the ship is thine—keep away from the boats, but keep near them. Lower, all!”
"Lower away," he shouted as soon as he got to his boat—a backup one set up the day before. "Mr. Starbuck, the ship is yours—stay away from the boats, but keep close to them. Lower, everyone!"
As if to strike a quick terror into them, by this time being the first assailant himself, Moby Dick had turned, and was now coming for the three crews. Ahab’s boat was central; and cheering his men, he told them he would take the whale head-and-head,—that is, pull straight up to his forehead,—a not uncommon thing; for when within a certain limit, such a course excludes the coming onset from the whale’s sidelong vision. But ere that close limit was gained, and while yet all three boats were plain as the ship’s three masts to his eye; the White Whale churning himself into furious speed, almost in an instant as it were, rushing among the boats with open jaws, and a lashing tail, offered appalling battle on every side; and heedless of the irons darted at him from every boat, seemed only intent on annihilating each separate plank of which those boats were made. But skilfully manœuvred, incessantly wheeling like trained chargers in the field; the boats for a while eluded him; though, at times, but by a plank’s breadth; while all the time, Ahab’s unearthly slogan tore every other cry but his to shreds.
As if to scare them quickly, by now being the first to attack, Moby Dick had turned and was coming straight at the three boats. Ahab’s boat was in the center, and encouraging his crew, he told them he would face the whale head-on—that is, row directly toward its forehead—a fairly common tactic; because when you’re within a certain range, this approach keeps the whale from seeing you with its side vision. But before they got close enough, and while all three boats were still as clearly visible to the whale as the masts of a ship, the White Whale, churning up the water in a furious burst of speed, charged among the boats almost instantly, jaws open and tail thrashing, launching a terrifying attack on every side. Ignoring the harpoons thrown at him from every boat, he seemed focused only on destroying each individual plank that made up those boats. Yet, skillfully maneuvering and constantly turning like trained warhorses on a battlefield, the boats managed to evade him for a while, sometimes by just a hair’s breadth, all while Ahab’s otherworldly war cry drowned out every sound but his own.
But at last in his untraceable evolutions, the White Whale so crossed and recrossed, and in a thousand ways entangled the slack of the three lines now fast to him, that they foreshortened, and, of themselves, warped the devoted boats towards the planted irons in him; though now for a moment the whale drew aside a little, as if to rally for a more tremendous charge. Seizing that opportunity, Ahab first paid out more line: and then was rapidly hauling and jerking in upon it again—hoping that way to disencumber it of some snarls—when lo!—a sight more savage than the embattled teeth of sharks!
Finally, in his unpredictable movements, the White Whale weaved and tangled the slack of the three lines attached to him in countless ways, shortening them and pulling the boats closer to the harpoons stuck in his body. For a moment, the whale pulled away slightly, as if gathering strength for a much fiercer attack. Taking advantage of the moment, Ahab let out more line and then quickly started pulling and yanking it back in—hoping to untangle some of the knots—when suddenly, a sight appeared, more terrifying than the jagged teeth of sharks!
Caught and twisted—corkscrewed in the mazes of the line, loose harpoons and lances, with all their bristling barbs and points, came flashing and dripping up to the chocks in the bows of Ahab’s boat. Only one thing could be done. Seizing the boat-knife, he critically reached within—through—and then, without—the rays of steel; dragged in the line beyond, passed it, inboard, to the bowsman, and then, twice sundering the rope near the chocks—dropped the intercepted fagot of steel into the sea; and was all fast again. That instant, the White Whale made a sudden rush among the remaining tangles of the other lines; by so doing, irresistibly dragged the more involved boats of Stubb and Flask towards his flukes; dashed them together like two rolling husks on a surf-beaten beach, and then, diving down into the sea, disappeared in a boiling maelstrom, in which, for a space, the odorous cedar chips of the wrecks danced round and round, like the grated nutmeg in a swiftly stirred bowl of punch.
Caught and tangled—twisted up in the maze of lines, loose harpoons and lances, with all their sharp points and barbs, came flashing and dripping up to the front of Ahab's boat. There was only one thing to do. Grabbing the boat-knife, he carefully reached through the steel rays, pulled the line in beyond, passed it to the bowsman, and then, cutting the rope near the front of the boat twice, dropped the tangled mess of steel into the sea and secured everything again. In that moment, the White Whale suddenly charged through the remaining tangles of the other lines, pulling Stubb’s and Flask’s boats closer to his tail as he went. The boats slammed into each other like two empty shells on a beach battered by the waves. Then, with a deep dive, the whale disappeared into a boiling whirlpool, where, for a moment, the fragrant cedar splinters from the wreckage spun around like grated nutmeg in a rapidly stirred bowl of punch.
While the two crews were yet circling in the waters, reaching out after the revolving line-tubs, oars, and other floating furniture, while aslope little Flask bobbed up and down like an empty vial, twitching his legs upwards to escape the dreaded jaws of sharks; and Stubb was lustily singing out for some one to ladle him up; and while the old man’s line—now parting—admitted of his pulling into the creamy pool to rescue whom he could;—in that wild simultaneousness of a thousand concreted perils,—Ahab’s yet unstricken boat seemed drawn up towards Heaven by invisible wires,—as, arrow-like, shooting perpendicularly from the sea, the White Whale dashed his broad forehead against its bottom, and sent it, turning over and over, into the air; till it fell again—gunwale downwards—and Ahab and his men struggled out from under it, like seals from a sea-side cave.
While the two crews were still circling in the water, reaching for the spinning line-tubs, oars, and other floating gear, little Flask bobbed up and down like an empty bottle, kicking his legs to avoid the feared jaws of sharks. Stubb was loudly shouting for someone to scoop him out, and the old man’s line—now broken—allowed him to row into the foamy pool to save whoever he could. Amid the chaotic mix of countless dangers all happening at once, Ahab’s still-unharmed boat seemed to be pulled skyward by invisible strings—when suddenly, like an arrow, the White Whale shot straight up out of the sea and smashed his massive forehead against the bottom of the boat, flipping it over and over into the air. It finally crashed back down, upside-down, and Ahab and his crew scrambled out from beneath it, like seals escaping from a seaside cave.
The first uprising momentum of the whale—modifying its direction as he struck the surface—involuntarily launched him along it, to a little distance from the centre of the destruction he had made; and with his back to it, he now lay for a moment slowly feeling with his flukes from side to side; and whenever a stray oar, bit of plank, the least chip or crumb of the boats touched his skin, his tail swiftly drew back, and came sideways smiting the sea. But soon, as if satisfied that his work for that time was done, he pushed his pleated forehead through the ocean, and trailing after him the intertangled lines, continued his leeward way at a traveller’s methodic pace.
The first surge of the whale—changing its direction as it hit the surface—accidentally propelled it a short distance away from the center of the destruction it had caused. With its back to the chaos, it paused for a moment, slowly sweeping its tail from side to side. Whenever a stray oar, piece of plank, or even the smallest chip or fragment of the boats touched its skin, its tail quickly pulled back and struck the water with force. But soon, as if satisfied that its work was finished for now, it pushed its ridged forehead through the ocean and, dragging the tangled lines behind, continued moving downwind at a steady, unhurried pace like a traveler on a mission.
As before, the attentive ship having descried the whole fight, again came bearing down to the rescue, and dropping a boat, picked up the floating mariners, tubs, oars, and whatever else could be caught at, and safely landed them on her decks. Some sprained shoulders, wrists, and ankles; livid contusions; wrenched harpoons and lances; inextricable intricacies of rope; shattered oars and planks; all these were there; but no fatal or even serious ill seemed to have befallen any one. As with Fedallah the day before, so Ahab was now found grimly clinging to his boat’s broken half, which afforded a comparatively easy float; nor did it so exhaust him as the previous day’s mishap.
Once again, the watchful ship, having spotted the entire battle, came rushing to the rescue, and after lowering a boat, gathered the drifting sailors, barrels, oars, and anything else they could grab, safely bringing them aboard. There were some sprained shoulders, wrists, and ankles; bruises; bent harpoons and lances; tangled ropes; broken oars and planks—everything was in disarray. But no one had suffered a fatal or even severe injury. Just like with Fedallah the day before, Ahab was now found grimly clinging to the shattered remains of his boat, which provided a relatively easy way to stay afloat and wasn’t as exhausting for him as the previous day’s accident.
But when he was helped to the deck, all eyes were fastened upon him; as instead of standing by himself he still half-hung upon the shoulder of Starbuck, who had thus far been the foremost to assist him. His ivory leg had been snapped off, leaving but one short sharp splinter.
But when he was helped onto the deck, everyone stared at him; instead of standing on his own, he was still half-leaning on Starbuck's shoulder, who had been the first to help him. His ivory leg was broken off, leaving only a short, sharp fragment.
“Aye, aye, Starbuck, ’tis sweet to lean sometimes, be the leaner who he will; and would old Ahab had leaned oftener than he has.”
"Yeah, yeah, Starbuck, it's nice to lean on someone once in a while, no matter who you lean on; I wish old Ahab had done it more often than he has."
“The ferrule has not stood, sir,” said the carpenter, now coming up; “I put good work into that leg.”
"The ferrule didn’t hold, sir," said the carpenter, walking up. "I put solid work into that leg."
“But no bones broken, sir, I hope,” said Stubb with true concern.
"But no broken bones, I hope, sir," said Stubb with genuine concern.
“Aye! and all splintered to pieces, Stubb!—d’ye see it.—But even with a broken bone, old Ahab is untouched; and I account no living bone of mine one jot more me, than this dead one that’s lost. Nor white whale, nor man, nor fiend, can so much as graze old Ahab in his own proper and inaccessible being. Can any lead touch yonder floor, any mast scrape yonder roof?—Aloft there! which way?”
"Yes! All smashed to pieces, Stubb!—you see it. But even with a broken bone, old Ahab is still untouchable; I don’t consider any living bone of mine to be any more a part of me than that dead one that’s gone. Neither the white whale, nor man, nor devil can so much as touch the real, untouchable essence of Ahab. Can any lead reach down to that floor, or any mast scrape that ceiling?—Up there! Which way?"
“Dead to leeward, sir.”
“Dead downwind, sir.”
“Up helm, then; pile on the sail again, ship keepers! down the rest of the spare boats and rig them—Mr. Starbuck away, and muster the boat’s crews.”
"Turn the helm, then; hoist the sails again, crew! Lower the rest of the spare boats and get them ready—Mr. Starbuck, go ahead and gather the boat crews."
“Let me first help thee towards the bulwarks, sir.”
"Let me help you to the bulwarks first, sir."
“Oh, oh, oh! how this splinter gores me now! Accursed fate! that the unconquerable captain in the soul should have such a craven mate!”
"Oh, oh, oh! How this splinter pains me now! Cursed fate! That the unstoppable captain in the soul should have such a cowardly partner!"
“Sir?”
"Excuse me?"
“My body, man, not thee. Give me something for a cane—there, that shivered lance will do. Muster the men. Surely I have not seen him yet. By heaven it cannot be!—missing?—quick! call them all.”
"My body, not yours, man. Give me something to use as a cane—there, that broken lance will work. Gather the men. Surely I haven't seen him yet. By God, it can't be!—missing?—hurry, call everyone."
The old man’s hinted thought was true. Upon mustering the company, the Parsee was not there.
The old man's suspicion turned out to be correct. When the crew was gathered, the Parsee was nowhere to be found.
“The Parsee!” cried Stubb—“he must have been caught in——”
"The Parsee!" shouted Stubb. "He must have been trapped in—"
“The black vomit wrench thee!—run all of ye above, alow, cabin, forecastle—find him—not gone—not gone!”
"The black vomit curse you!—Everyone, move—upstairs, downstairs, in the cabin, the forecastle—find him—he's not gone—not gone!"
But quickly they returned to him with the tidings that the Parsee was nowhere to be found.
But they quickly came back to him with the news that the Parsee was nowhere to be found.
“Aye, sir,” said Stubb—“caught among the tangles of your line—I thought I saw him dragging under.”
"Yes, sir," said Stubb. "Caught up in the tangles of your line—I thought I saw him being pulled under."
“My line! my line? Gone?—gone? What means that little word?—What death-knell rings in it, that old Ahab shakes as if he were the belfry. The harpoon, too!—toss over the litter there,—d’ye see it?—the forged iron, men, the white whale’s—no, no, no,—blistered fool! this hand did dart it!—’tis in the fish!—Aloft there! Keep him nailed—Quick!—all hands to the rigging of the boats—collect the oars—harpooneers! the irons, the irons!—hoist the royals higher—a pull on all the sheets!—helm there! steady, steady for your life! I’ll ten times girdle the unmeasured globe; yea and dive straight through it, but I’ll slay him yet!”
"My line! My line? Gone? Gone? What does that little word mean? What toll of doom does it carry, that old Ahab shakes like he's the bell tower itself. The harpoon too! Toss aside the mess there—do you see it? The forged iron, men, the white whale’s—no, no, no—blistered fool! This hand threw it! It’s in the beast! Up there! Keep him pinned—Quick! Everyone to the boat rigging—grab the oars—harpooneers! The irons, the irons! Hoist the sails higher—tighten all the sheets! Steer steady! Steady, your life depends on it! I’ll circle the whole endless globe ten times over; yes, even dive straight through it, but I’ll kill him yet!"
“Great God! but for one single instant show thyself,” cried Starbuck; “never, never wilt thou capture him, old man—In Jesus’ name no more of this, that’s worse than devil’s madness. Two days chased; twice stove to splinters; thy very leg once more snatched from under thee; thy evil shadow gone—all good angels mobbing thee with warnings:—what more wouldst thou have?—Shall we keep chasing this murderous fish till he swamps the last man? Shall we be dragged by him to the bottom of the sea? Shall we be towed by him to the infernal world? Oh, oh,—Impiety and blasphemy to hunt him more!”
"Dear God! Just for one moment, show yourself," shouted Starbuck. "You’ll never catch him, old man—In Jesus’ name, no more of this madness that’s worse than devil’s insanity. Two days of chasing; the ship smashed to pieces twice; even your leg taken again; your cursed shadow gone—every good angel trying to warn you: What else do you want? Are we going to keep chasing this murderous whale until he drowns the last of us? Are we going to let him drag us to the ocean floor? Are we going to be pulled with him straight to hell? Oh, no—it's sacrilege and madness to keep hunting him!"
“Starbuck, of late I’ve felt strangely moved to thee; ever since that hour we both saw—thou know’st what, in one another’s eyes. But in this matter of the whale, be the front of thy face to me as the palm of this hand—a lipless, unfeatured blank. Ahab is for ever Ahab, man. This whole act’s immutably decreed. ’Twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion years before this ocean rolled. Fool! I am the Fates’ lieutenant; I act under orders. Look thou, underling! that thou obeyest mine.—Stand round me, men. Ye see an old man cut down to the stump; leaning on a shivered lance; propped up on a lonely foot. ’Tis Ahab—his body’s part; but Ahab’s soul’s a centipede, that moves upon a hundred legs. I feel strained, half stranded, as ropes that tow dismasted frigates in a gale; and I may look so. But ere I break, ye’ll hear me crack; and till ye hear that, know that Ahab’s hawser tows his purpose yet. Believe ye, men, in the things called omens? Then laugh aloud, and cry encore! For ere they drown, drowning things will twice rise to the surface; then rise again, to sink for evermore. So with Moby Dick—two days he’s floated—tomorrow will be the third. Aye, men, he’ll rise once more,—but only to spout his last! D’ye feel brave men, brave?”
"Starbuck, lately I’ve felt a strange connection to you, ever since that moment we both saw—you know what—in each other’s eyes. But when it comes to the whale, let your face be as blank and featureless to me as the palm of this hand. Ahab will always be Ahab, man. This whole act is unchangeably destined. It was scripted for you and me a billion years before this ocean even existed. Fool! I’m the Fates’ lieutenant; I’m only following orders. Look here, underling! Make sure you obey me.—Gather around, men. Look at an old man, worn down to a stump; leaning on a shattered lance; standing on one lonely foot. This is Ahab—his body’s just a part of him; but Ahab’s soul is like a centipede, moving on a hundred legs. I feel stretched, half-broken, like ropes towing a dismasted ship in a storm; and maybe I look that way, too. But before I snap, you’ll hear me crack; and until you hear *that*, know that Ahab is still holding on to his purpose. Do you men believe in things like omens? Then laugh out loud, and shout for more! Because before they go under, drowning things come to the surface twice; then rise again, only to sink forever. It’s the same with Moby Dick—he’s surfaced twice in two days—tomorrow will be the third. Yes, men, he’ll rise again—but only to spout for the last time! Do you feel it, men—do you feel brave?"
“As fearless fire,” cried Stubb.
“As fearless as fire,” cried Stubb.
“And as mechanical,” muttered Ahab. Then as the men went forward, he muttered on: “The things called omens! And yesterday I talked the same to Starbuck there, concerning my broken boat. Oh! how valiantly I seek to drive out of others’ hearts what’s clinched so fast in mine!—The Parsee—the Parsee!—gone, gone? and he was to go before:—but still was to be seen again ere I could perish—How’s that?—There’s a riddle now might baffle all the lawyers backed by the ghosts of the whole line of judges:—like a hawk’s beak it pecks my brain. I’ll, I’ll solve it, though!”
"And as mechanical," Ahab muttered. Then, as the men moved forward, he kept muttering: "Those things people call omens! And yesterday, I was saying the same thing to Starbuck about my wrecked boat. Oh, how hard I try to root out of others' hearts what’s buried so deeply in my own!—The Parsee—the Parsee!—gone, disappeared? And he was supposed to go before me—but still be seen again before I could die—What does that mean?—Now there’s a riddle that could stump all the lawyers, even if they had the ghosts of every judge in history supporting them:—like a hawk’s beak, it’s tearing at my brain. I’ll, I’ll figure it out, I swear!"
When dusk descended, the whale was still in sight to leeward.
When evening fell, the whale was still visible downwind.
So once more the sail was shortened, and everything passed nearly as on the previous night; only, the sound of hammers, and the hum of the grindstone was heard till nearly daylight, as the men toiled by lanterns in the complete and careful rigging of the spare boats and sharpening their fresh weapons for the morrow. Meantime, of the broken keel of Ahab’s wrecked craft the carpenter made him another leg; while still as on the night before, slouched Ahab stood fixed within his scuttle; his hid, heliotrope glance anticipatingly gone backward on its dial; sat due eastward for the earliest sun.
Once again, the sail was shortened, and the night unfolded almost exactly like the one before. The sound of hammers striking metal and the hum of the grindstone filled the air until nearly dawn, as the men worked under lantern light to carefully rig the spare boats and sharpen their new weapons for the following day. Meanwhile, the carpenter used the broken keel from Ahab’s wrecked boat to craft him another leg. And just like the previous night, Ahab stood hunched in his usual spot, his hidden, intense gaze fixed eastward, eagerly watching for the first light of dawn.
CHAPTER 135. The Chase.—Third Day.
The morning of the third day dawned fair and fresh, and once more the solitary night-man at the fore-mast-head was relieved by crowds of the daylight look-outs, who dotted every mast and almost every spar.
The morning of the third day arrived bright and fresh, and once again the lone night watchman at the foremast was replaced by groups of daytime lookouts, who were stationed on every mast and nearly every spar.
“D’ye see him?” cried Ahab; but the whale was not yet in sight.
"Do you see him?" shouted Ahab, but the whale still wasn't in sight.
“In his infallible wake, though; but follow that wake, that’s all. Helm there; steady, as thou goest, and hast been going. What a lovely day again! were it a new-made world, and made for a summer-house to the angels, and this morning the first of its throwing open to them, a fairer day could not dawn upon that world. Here’s food for thought, had Ahab time to think; but Ahab never thinks; he only feels, feels, feels; that’s tingling enough for mortal man! to think’s audacity. God only has that right and privilege. Thinking is, or ought to be, a coolness and a calmness; and our poor hearts throb, and our poor brains beat too much for that. And yet, I’ve sometimes thought my brain was very calm—frozen calm, this old skull cracks so, like a glass in which the contents turned to ice, and shiver it. And still this hair is growing now; this moment growing, and heat must breed it; but no, it’s like that sort of common grass that will grow anywhere, between the earthy clefts of Greenland ice or in Vesuvius lava. How the wild winds blow it; they whip it about me as the torn shreds of split sails lash the tossed ship they cling to. A vile wind that has no doubt blown ere this through prison corridors and cells, and wards of hospitals, and ventilated them, and now comes blowing hither as innocent as fleeces. Out upon it!—it’s tainted. Were I the wind, I’d blow no more on such a wicked, miserable world. I’d crawl somewhere to a cave, and slink there. And yet, ’tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind! who ever conquered it? In every fight it has the last and bitterest blow. Run tilting at it, and you but run through it. Ha! a coward wind that strikes stark naked men, but will not stand to receive a single blow. Even Ahab is a braver thing—a nobler thing than that. Would now the wind but had a body; but all the things that most exasperate and outrage mortal man, all these things are bodiless, but only bodiless as objects, not as agents. There’s a most special, a most cunning, oh, a most malicious difference! And yet, I say again, and swear it now, that there’s something all glorious and gracious in the wind. These warm Trade Winds, at least, that in the clear heavens blow straight on, in strong and steadfast, vigorous mildness; and veer not from their mark, however the baser currents of the sea may turn and tack, and mightiest Mississippies of the land swift and swerve about, uncertain where to go at last. And by the eternal Poles! these same Trades that so directly blow my good ship on; these Trades, or something like them—something so unchangeable, and full as strong, blow my keeled soul along! To it! Aloft there! What d’ye see?”
"In his unerring path, just follow it—that’s all. Helm steady there; keep going as you are. What a beautiful day again! It’s as if this were a newly created world, made as a summer retreat for angels, and this morning was its grand opening to them. A more perfect day couldn’t exist anywhere. This is the kind of day that inspires thought—if Ahab had the time to think. But Ahab doesn’t think; he only feels, feels, feels—that’s intense enough for any mortal! To think takes boldness. Only God has the right and privilege to truly think. Thinking should be an act of calm and detachment, but our fragile hearts pound, and our restless minds race too much for that. And yet, I’ve occasionally felt my mind was calm—an icy, frozen calm, so cold my old skull feels like it might crack, like a glass that shatters when its contents freeze. Still, my hair is growing—growing right now—and growth takes heat, doesn’t it? But no, it’s like that hardy grass that can sprout anywhere, from the rocky cracks of Greenland’s ice to the scorched lava of Vesuvius. The wild winds thrash it—they whip it around me like shredded sails lashing a storm-tossed ship. What a vile wind! No doubt it’s blown through prison corridors, hospital wards, and cells, carrying airs from such places, and yet here it is, blowing innocently. Ugh, it’s contaminated! If I were the wind, I’d never blow through such a wicked, wretched world. I’d crawl into a cave and hide there. But still, the wind is something noble and heroic. No one’s ever defeated it. In every battle, it delivers the final, most brutal blow. Challenge it head-on, and you only pass through it. Ha! A cowardly wind, striking exposed men yet refusing to face a single strike itself. Even Ahab is braver—a nobler thing than that. If only the wind had a body! But no, the things that frustrate and torment us most—those things are bodiless, though they act as agents more than objects. There’s a cunning, almost malicious difference there. And yet, I swear again, there’s something magnificent and gracious in the wind. At least in these warm Trade Winds, blowing steady in the clear skies with reliable strength and gentle firmness. They don’t waver from their course, no matter how the lower sea currents twist and turn, or how even the powerful rivers like the Mississippi shift unpredictably, uncertain of their end. By the eternal Poles! These steadfast Trades, the ones driving my ship forward—these winds, or something like them, steady and unchanging, also guide my soul along its course! To work! Look up there! What do you see?"
“Nothing, sir.”
"Nothing, sir."
“Nothing! and noon at hand! The doubloon goes a-begging! See the sun! Aye, aye, it must be so. I’ve oversailed him. How, got the start? Aye, he’s chasing me now; not I, him—that’s bad; I might have known it, too. Fool! the lines—the harpoons he’s towing. Aye, aye, I have run him by last night. About! about! Come down, all of ye, but the regular look outs! Man the braces!”
"Nothing! And it’s already noon! The doubloon’s going unclaimed! Look at the sun! Yeah, yeah, that must be it. I’ve sailed past him. What, he’s ahead of me now? Yeah, he’s chasing me now, not the other way around—that’s bad; I should’ve known. Idiot! The lines—the harpoons he’s dragging. Yeah, yeah, I passed him during the night. Turn around! Turn around! Everyone come down, except the assigned lookouts! Adjust the sails!"
Steering as she had done, the wind had been somewhat on the Pequod’s quarter, so that now being pointed in the reverse direction, the braced ship sailed hard upon the breeze as she rechurned the cream in her own white wake.
Since she had been steering the way she was, the wind had been coming from the Pequod’s quarter; now, turned in the opposite direction, the ship sailed sharply against the breeze, churning up the white foam of her previous wake once again.
“Against the wind he now steers for the open jaw,” murmured Starbuck to himself, as he coiled the new-hauled main-brace upon the rail. “God keep us, but already my bones feel damp within me, and from the inside wet my flesh. I misdoubt me that I disobey my God in obeying him!”
"He's steering straight into the open jaws of the wind," Starbuck muttered to himself as he coiled up the freshly hauled main-brace on the rail. "God help us, but I can already feel the dampness in my bones, soaking me from the inside out. I can't help but feel I'm defying God by following his orders!"
“Stand by to sway me up!” cried Ahab, advancing to the hempen basket. “We should meet him soon.”
"Get ready to pull me up!" shouted Ahab, stepping toward the woven basket. "We should see him soon."
“Aye, aye, sir,” and straightway Starbuck did Ahab’s bidding, and once more Ahab swung on high.
"Yes, sir," Starbuck replied promptly, carrying out Ahab's orders, and once again, Ahab was lifted high.
A whole hour now passed; gold-beaten out to ages. Time itself now held long breaths with keen suspense. But at last, some three points off the weather bow, Ahab descried the spout again, and instantly from the three mast-heads three shrieks went up as if the tongues of fire had voiced it.
An entire hour went by, stretched out so long it felt like ages. Time itself seemed to hold its breath in sharp anticipation. But finally, about three points off the weather bow, Ahab spotted the spout again, and right away, three loud cries rang out from the three mastheads, as if flames had found a voice.
“Forehead to forehead I meet thee, this third time, Moby Dick! On deck there!—brace sharper up; crowd her into the wind’s eye. He’s too far off to lower yet, Mr. Starbuck. The sails shake! Stand over that helmsman with a top-maul! So, so; he travels fast, and I must down. But let me have one more good round look aloft here at the sea; there’s time for that. An old, old sight, and yet somehow so young; aye, and not changed a wink since I first saw it, a boy, from the sand-hills of Nantucket! The same!—the same!—the same to Noah as to me. There’s a soft shower to leeward. Such lovely leewardings! They must lead somewhere—to something else than common land, more palmy than the palms. Leeward! the white whale goes that way; look to windward, then; the better if the bitterer quarter. But good bye, good bye, old mast-head! What’s this?—green? aye, tiny mosses in these warped cracks. No such green weather stains on Ahab’s head! There’s the difference now between man’s old age and matter’s. But aye, old mast, we both grow old together; sound in our hulls, though, are we not, my ship? Aye, minus a leg, that’s all. By heaven this dead wood has the better of my live flesh every way. I can’t compare with it; and I’ve known some ships made of dead trees outlast the lives of men made of the most vital stuff of vital fathers. What’s that he said? he should still go before me, my pilot; and yet to be seen again? But where? Will I have eyes at the bottom of the sea, supposing I descend those endless stairs? and all night I’ve been sailing from him, wherever he did sink to. Aye, aye, like many more thou told’st direful truth as touching thyself, O Parsee; but, Ahab, there thy shot fell short. Good-bye, mast-head—keep a good eye upon the whale, the while I’m gone. We’ll talk to-morrow, nay, to-night, when the white whale lies down there, tied by head and tail.”
"Face to face again, Moby Dick—this is our third meeting! Hey, on deck there! Tighten those braces; steer her straight into the wind! He’s still too far off to drop the boats, Mr. Starbuck. The sails are luffing! Someone stand by that helmsman with a top-maul! All right, all right; he’s moving fast, and I need to head down. But first, let me get one more solid look at the sea from up here; there’s still time for that. An ancient sight, yet it feels so young somehow; yes, unchanged since the first time I saw it, as a boy, standing on the sand dunes of Nantucket! The same! Exactly the same as it was for Noah, as it is for me. There’s a soft rain off to leeward. Such a lovely sight! That rain must lead somewhere—to a place beyond ordinary shores, a paradise more lush than even the lushest palms. Leeward! That’s the direction the white whale is heading; so look windward, then—it’s better, though harsher, to face the resistance. But goodbye, old masthead! What’s this? Green, huh? Tiny mosses growing in these old cracks. No such green stains marking Ahab’s aged head! That’s the difference between mankind’s aging and the aging of things. But yes, old mast, we’re growing old together; still sturdy in our cores, aren’t we, my ship? Yes, except that I’m minus one leg, that’s all. Damn, this dead wood has outdone my living flesh in every way. I can’t compete with it; I’ve seen ships made of lifeless trees outlive men made from the strongest bloodlines. What did he say again? That he’d lead me, go before me, my guide—and that I’d see him again? But where? Will I have eyes to see at the ocean floor if I sink down, descending those endless layers? And this whole night I’ve been drifting away from where he disappeared into the depths. Yes, yes, Parsee, like so many others, you spoke grim truths about yourself; but, Ahab, your aim, your shot fell short of those truths. Goodbye, masthead—keep a sharp eye on the white whale, while I’m away. We’ll talk tomorrow—or no, tonight—when the white whale lies tied head to tail, down below."
He gave the word; and still gazing round him, was steadily lowered through the cloven blue air to the deck.
He gave the command, and while still looking around him, he was carefully lowered through the split blue sky down to the deck.
In due time the boats were lowered; but as standing in his shallop’s stern, Ahab just hovered upon the point of the descent, he waved to the mate,—who held one of the tackle-ropes on deck—and bade him pause.
Eventually, the boats were lowered; but as Ahab stood at the stern of his small boat, just about to descend, he signaled to the mate—who was holding one of the tackle ropes on deck—and told him to wait.
“Starbuck!”
“Starbucks!”
“Sir?”
"Excuse me?"
“For the third time my soul’s ship starts upon this voyage, Starbuck.”
"For the third time, my soul's ship sets out on this journey, Starbuck."
“Aye, sir, thou wilt have it so.”
"Yes, sir, if that's what you want."
“Some ships sail from their ports, and ever afterwards are missing, Starbuck!”
"Some ships leave their ports, Starbuck, and they're never seen again!"
“Truth, sir: saddest truth.”
"Truth, sir: the saddest truth."
“Some men die at ebb tide; some at low water; some at the full of the flood;—and I feel now like a billow that’s all one crested comb, Starbuck. I am old;—shake hands with me, man.”
"Some people die at low tide, some at slack water, and some when the tide’s at its highest. Right now, I feel like a wave at its peak, Starbuck. I'm old—shake my hand, man."
Their hands met; their eyes fastened; Starbuck’s tears the glue.
Their hands touched; their eyes locked; Starbuck's tears held them together.
“Oh, my captain, my captain!—noble heart—go not—go not!—see, it’s a brave man that weeps; how great the agony of the persuasion then!”
"Oh, my captain, my captain! Noble heart—don’t go—don’t go! See, it takes a brave man to cry; how deep must the agony be to convince him!"
“Lower away!”—cried Ahab, tossing the mate’s arm from him. “Stand by the crew!”
"Lower away!" shouted Ahab, pushing the mate's arm off him. "Get the crew ready!"
In an instant the boat was pulling round close under the stern.
In an instant, the boat swung around, passing right under the back of the ship.
“The sharks! the sharks!” cried a voice from the low cabin-window there; “O master, my master, come back!”
"The sharks! The sharks!" shouted a voice from the small cabin window nearby. "Oh captain, my captain, come back!"
But Ahab heard nothing; for his own voice was high-lifted then; and the boat leaped on.
But Ahab didn’t hear anything, because his own voice was raised high at that moment, and the boat surged forward.
Yet the voice spake true; for scarce had he pushed from the ship, when numbers of sharks, seemingly rising from out the dark waters beneath the hull, maliciously snapped at the blades of the oars, every time they dipped in the water; and in this way accompanied the boat with their bites. It is a thing not uncommonly happening to the whale-boats in those swarming seas; the sharks at times apparently following them in the same prescient way that vultures hover over the banners of marching regiments in the east. But these were the first sharks that had been observed by the Pequod since the White Whale had been first descried; and whether it was that Ahab’s crew were all such tiger-yellow barbarians, and therefore their flesh more musky to the senses of the sharks—a matter sometimes well known to affect them,—however it was, they seemed to follow that one boat without molesting the others.
The voice spoke the truth; for hardly had he pushed away from the ship when countless sharks, seemingly emerging from the dark waters below the hull, viciously bit at the oar blades every time they dipped into the water. In this way, they followed the boat with their snapping jaws. This is not an unusual occurrence for whale boats in those teeming seas; sharks sometimes appear to trail them just as vultures hover over the banners of marching armies in the East. However, these were the first sharks spotted by the Pequod since the White Whale was first seen; and whether it was because Ahab’s crew were such fierce, beastly men that their flesh gave off a muskier scent to attract the sharks—a phenomenon sometimes noted to influence them—whatever the reason, they seemed to follow that one boat without bothering the others.
“Heart of wrought steel!” murmured Starbuck gazing over the side, and following with his eyes the receding boat—“canst thou yet ring boldly to that sight?—lowering thy keel among ravening sharks, and followed by them, open-mouthed to the chase; and this the critical third day?—For when three days flow together in one continuous intense pursuit; be sure the first is the morning, the second the noon, and the third the evening and the end of that thing—be that end what it may. Oh! my God! what is this that shoots through me, and leaves me so deadly calm, yet expectant,—fixed at the top of a shudder! Future things swim before me, as in empty outlines and skeletons; all the past is somehow grown dim. Mary, girl! thou fadest in pale glories behind me; boy! I seem to see but thy eyes grown wondrous blue. Strangest problems of life seem clearing; but clouds sweep between—Is my journey’s end coming? My legs feel faint; like his who has footed it all day. Feel thy heart,—beats it yet? Stir thyself, Starbuck!—stave it off—move, move! speak aloud!—Mast-head there! See ye my boy’s hand on the hill?—Crazed;—aloft there!—keep thy keenest eye upon the boats:—mark well the whale!—Ho! again!—drive off that hawk! see! he pecks—he tears the vane”—pointing to the red flag flying at the main-truck—“Ha! he soars away with it!—Where’s the old man now? see’st thou that sight, oh Ahab!—shudder, shudder!”
"Heart of solid steel!" murmured Starbuck, looking over the side and watching the boat disappear—"Can you still be bold in the face of that sight?—lowering your keel among ravenous sharks, followed by them, jaws wide open for the hunt; and this on the critical third day?—For when three days blend into one continuous, intense chase, know that the first is morning, the second is noon, and the third is evening—the end of it all, whatever that end might be. Oh, my God! What is this feeling that shoots through me, leaving me so deathly calm yet on edge—frozen in the peak of a shudder! The future flashes before me in faint forms and outlines; the past seems to have faded. Mary, my girl! You fade behind me, pale and glowing; boy! I feel like I can only see your eyes, so incredibly blue. Life’s strangest riddles seem to be unraveling; but clouds pass through—Is my journey nearing its end? My legs feel weak, like someone who’s been walking all day. Does your heart still beat? Feel it, Starbuck! Get it together—shake it off—move, move! Speak out loud!—Masthead, you there! Do you see my boy’s hand on that hill?—Am I losing my mind?—Up there! Keep the sharpest lookout on the boats:—watch the whale closely!—Hey! Again! Get rid of that hawk! Look! It’s pecking—it’s tearing at the vane"—he pointed to the red flag flying at the main-truck—"Ha! It flies off with it!—Where is the old man now? Do you see that sight, Ahab?—shudder, shudder!"
The boats had not gone very far, when by a signal from the mast-heads—a downward pointed arm, Ahab knew that the whale had sounded; but intending to be near him at the next rising, he held on his way a little sideways from the vessel; the becharmed crew maintaining the profoundest silence, as the head-beat waves hammered and hammered against the opposing bow.
The boats hadn’t gone far when a signal came from the mastheads—a downward-pointing arm—and Ahab realized the whale had dived. Wanting to be close when it resurfaced, he angled slightly away from the ship, with the entranced crew staying completely silent as the waves pounded relentlessly against the bow.
“Drive, drive in your nails, oh ye waves! to their uttermost heads drive them in! ye but strike a thing without a lid; and no coffin and no hearse can be mine:—and hemp only can kill me! Ha! ha!”
"Drive your nails all the way in, oh waves! Hammer them in as far as they can go! You're only hitting something that's open; no coffin and no hearse can hold me—and only a rope can take my life! Ha! Ha!"
Suddenly the waters around them slowly swelled in broad circles; then quickly upheaved, as if sideways sliding from a submerged berg of ice, swiftly rising to the surface. A low rumbling sound was heard; a subterraneous hum; and then all held their breaths; as bedraggled with trailing ropes, and harpoons, and lances, a vast form shot lengthwise, but obliquely from the sea. Shrouded in a thin drooping veil of mist, it hovered for a moment in the rainbowed air; and then fell swamping back into the deep. Crushed thirty feet upwards, the waters flashed for an instant like heaps of fountains, then brokenly sank in a shower of flakes, leaving the circling surface creamed like new milk round the marble trunk of the whale.
Suddenly, the water around them began to swell in wide circles, slowly at first; then it surged upward, as if sliding sideways off a hidden iceberg just below the surface. A low, rumbling noise echoed—a deep, underground hum—and everyone held their breath. Then, tangled in trailing ropes, harpoons, and lances, an enormous shape burst from the sea, angled but stretching out straight. Wrapped in a faint, trailing mist, it hung in the shimmering air for a moment, catching the colors of a rainbow, before plunging back into the depths with a massive splash. The water shot up thirty feet into the air, sparkling like fountains for a brief second before collapsing into a shower of droplets, leaving the surface of the sea foaming like fresh milk around the gleaming body of the whale.
“Give way!” cried Ahab to the oarsmen, and the boats darted forward to the attack; but maddened by yesterday’s fresh irons that corroded in him, Moby Dick seemed combinedly possessed by all the angels that fell from heaven. The wide tiers of welded tendons overspreading his broad white forehead, beneath the transparent skin, looked knitted together; as head on, he came churning his tail among the boats; and once more flailed them apart; spilling out the irons and lances from the two mates’ boats, and dashing in one side of the upper part of their bows, but leaving Ahab’s almost without a scar.
"Move aside!" yelled Ahab to the rowers, and the boats shot forward to attack. But enraged by the fresh harpoons from the day before that had started to rust inside him, Moby Dick seemed possessed by all the fallen angels from heaven. The thick layers of muscles stretched across his broad white forehead, visible under his translucent skin, looked tightly knotted together. Head-on, he charged, thrashing his tail among the boats and scattering them once again—knocking out the harpoons and spears from the two mates' boats, smashing one side of the upper part of their bows, but leaving Ahab’s boat almost untouched.
While Daggoo and Queequeg were stopping the strained planks; and as the whale swimming out from them, turned, and showed one entire flank as he shot by them again; at that moment a quick cry went up. Lashed round and round to the fish’s back; pinioned in the turns upon turns in which, during the past night, the whale had reeled the involutions of the lines around him, the half torn body of the Parsee was seen; his sable raiment frayed to shreds; his distended eyes turned full upon old Ahab.
While Daggoo and Queequeg were working on sealing the strained planks, and as the whale swam away from them, turning to show its whole side as it passed by again, a sudden cry rang out. Wrapped tightly around the whale's back—entangled in the endless coils of line it had wound around itself during the previous night—the half-torn body of the Parsee appeared. His dark clothes were shredded, and his wide, staring eyes were fixed directly on old Ahab.
The harpoon dropped from his hand.
The harpoon slipped from his grip.
“Befooled, befooled!”—drawing in a long lean breath—“Aye, Parsee! I see thee again.—Aye, and thou goest before; and this, this then is the hearse that thou didst promise. But I hold thee to the last letter of thy word. Where is the second hearse? Away, mates, to the ship! those boats are useless now; repair them if ye can in time, and return to me; if not, Ahab is enough to die—Down, men! the first thing that but offers to jump from this boat I stand in, that thing I harpoon. Ye are not other men, but my arms and my legs; and so obey me.—Where’s the whale? gone down again?”
"Fooled, fooled!"—taking a deep, raspy breath—"Yes, Parsee! I see you again. Yes, and you go ahead; so, this, *this* is the hearse you promised. But I'll hold you to every word. Where’s the second hearse? Away, guys, back to the ship! These boats are useless now; fix them if you can in time and come back to me. If not, Ahab is enough to face death alone. Get down, men! The first thing that so much as tries to jump out of this boat I’m in, I’ll harpoon it. You’re not just men—you’re my arms and legs; so, obey me. Where’s the whale? Gone down again?"
But he looked too nigh the boat; for as if bent upon escaping with the corpse he bore, and as if the particular place of the last encounter had been but a stage in his leeward voyage, Moby Dick was now again steadily swimming forward; and had almost passed the ship,—which thus far had been sailing in the contrary direction to him, though for the present her headway had been stopped. He seemed swimming with his utmost velocity, and now only intent upon pursuing his own straight path in the sea.
But he looked too close to the boat; as if determined to escape with the corpse he carried, and as if the site of their last battle had been just one stop in his downwind journey, Moby Dick was now steadily swimming forward again. He had almost passed the ship, which up until now had been sailing in the opposite direction, though for the moment it had stopped moving. He appeared to be swimming at full speed, focused only on following his own straight path through the sea.
“Oh! Ahab,” cried Starbuck, “not too late is it, even now, the third day, to desist. See! Moby Dick seeks thee not. It is thou, thou, that madly seekest him!”
"Oh, Ahab," cried Starbuck, "it's not too late, even now, on the third day, to stop. Look! Moby Dick isn't after you. It's you, you're the one chasing him like a madman!"
Setting sail to the rising wind, the lonely boat was swiftly impelled to leeward, by both oars and canvas. And at last when Ahab was sliding by the vessel, so near as plainly to distinguish Starbuck’s face as he leaned over the rail, he hailed him to turn the vessel about, and follow him, not too swiftly, at a judicious interval. Glancing upwards, he saw Tashtego, Queequeg, and Daggoo, eagerly mounting to the three mast-heads; while the oarsmen were rocking in the two staved boats which had but just been hoisted to the side, and were busily at work in repairing them. One after the other, through the port-holes, as he sped, he also caught flying glimpses of Stubb and Flask, busying themselves on deck among bundles of new irons and lances. As he saw all this; as he heard the hammers in the broken boats; far other hammers seemed driving a nail into his heart. But he rallied. And now marking that the vane or flag was gone from the main-mast-head, he shouted to Tashtego, who had just gained that perch, to descend again for another flag, and a hammer and nails, and so nail it to the mast.
With the wind picking up, the lonely boat sped swiftly downwind, powered by both oars and sails. Finally, as Ahab passed close enough to the ship to clearly see Starbuck’s face leaning over the rail, he called out, telling him to turn the ship around and follow him—keeping a careful distance. Glancing upward, Ahab noticed Tashtego, Queequeg, and Daggoo climbing eagerly up to the three mastheads, while the oarsmen were rocking in the two damaged boats, just hoisted back on board, working hard to repair them. One by one, as he passed the portholes, he caught fleeting glimpses of Stubb and Flask busily working on deck among bundles of new harpoons and lances. Seeing all of this, hearing the hammers at work on the broken boats, it felt as though another kind of hammer was driving a nail into his heart. But he pulled himself together. Noticing that the flag was missing from the mainmast head, he shouted to Tashtego, who had just reached the top, to climb back down, fetch another flag, along with a hammer and nails, and secure it to the mast.
Whether fagged by the three days’ running chase, and the resistance to his swimming in the knotted hamper he bore; or whether it was some latent deceitfulness and malice in him: whichever was true, the White Whale’s way now began to abate, as it seemed, from the boat so rapidly nearing him once more; though indeed the whale’s last start had not been so long a one as before. And still as Ahab glided over the waves the unpitying sharks accompanied him; and so pertinaciously stuck to the boat; and so continually bit at the plying oars, that the blades became jagged and crunched, and left small splinters in the sea, at almost every dip.
Whether exhausted from the three days of constant chasing and the struggle of swimming while tangled in the knotted hamper he carried, or driven by some hidden cunning and spite, the White Whale’s pace now seemed to slow as the boat once again closed in on him—though his last burst of speed hadn’t been as long as the ones before. Still, as Ahab moved across the waves, the relentless sharks followed him, clinging stubbornly to the boat and gnawing so persistently at the oars that the blades became jagged, splintering into the sea with nearly every stroke.
“Heed them not! those teeth but give new rowlocks to your oars. Pull on! ’tis the better rest, the shark’s jaw than the yielding water.”
"Don’t pay them any attention! Those teeth just give your oars a stronger grip. Keep rowing! The shark’s jaw makes for a better rest than the soft water."
“But at every bite, sir, the thin blades grow smaller and smaller!”
"But with each bite, sir, the thin blades keep getting smaller and smaller!"
“They will last long enough! pull on!—But who can tell”—he muttered—“whether these sharks swim to feast on the whale or on Ahab?—But pull on! Aye, all alive, now—we near him. The helm! take the helm! let me pass,”—and so saying two of the oarsmen helped him forward to the bows of the still flying boat.
"They'll last long enough! Keep going!—But who can say," he muttered, "whether these sharks are here to feed on the whale or on Ahab?—But keep going! Yeah, everyone's alive now—we're getting closer. The helm! Take the helm! Let me through,"—and with that, two of the rowers helped him move forward to the front of the still speeding boat.
At length as the craft was cast to one side, and ran ranging along with the White Whale’s flank, he seemed strangely oblivious of its advance—as the whale sometimes will—and Ahab was fairly within the smoky mountain mist, which, thrown off from the whale’s spout, curled round his great, Monadnock hump; he was even thus close to him; when, with body arched back, and both arms lengthwise high-lifted to the poise, he darted his fierce iron, and his far fiercer curse into the hated whale. As both steel and curse sank to the socket, as if sucked into a morass, Moby Dick sideways writhed; spasmodically rolled his nigh flank against the bow, and, without staving a hole in it, so suddenly canted the boat over, that had it not been for the elevated part of the gunwale to which he then clung, Ahab would once more have been tossed into the sea. As it was, three of the oarsmen—who foreknew not the precise instant of the dart, and were therefore unprepared for its effects—these were flung out; but so fell, that, in an instant two of them clutched the gunwale again, and rising to its level on a combing wave, hurled themselves bodily inboard again; the third man helplessly dropping astern, but still afloat and swimming.
Eventually, as the ship tilted to one side and moved alongside the White Whale's flank, the whale seemed oddly unaware of its approach—as whales sometimes are. Ahab was deep within the misty spray that rose from the whale’s spout, swirling around the massive hump that loomed like a mountain. He was that close when, arching his body back and raising both arms high, Ahab thrust his harpoon and his fiery curse into the hated whale. Both the weapon and the curse struck true, sinking into the whale as if swallowed by quicksand. Moby Dick writhed sideways, spasming as he crashed his flank against the bow of the boat. Though he didn’t smash a hole in it, the boat suddenly tipped so violently that, if Ahab hadn't clung to the raised part of the gunwale, he would have been thrown back into the sea. Even so, the sudden jolt flung three of the rowers overboard, caught off guard as they hadn’t expected the precise moment of Ahab’s attack. Two of them managed to grab hold of the gunwale almost immediately and, rising on a wave, threw themselves back into the boat. The third man, however, was left floundering in the water, though still swimming and alive.
Almost simultaneously, with a mighty volition of ungraduated, instantaneous swiftness, the White Whale darted through the weltering sea. But when Ahab cried out to the steersman to take new turns with the line, and hold it so; and commanded the crew to turn round on their seats, and tow the boat up to the mark; the moment the treacherous line felt that double strain and tug, it snapped in the empty air!
Almost at the same time, with incredible speed and sudden force, the White Whale shot through the churning sea. But when Ahab shouted to the steersman to make new loops with the line and hold it tight, and ordered the crew to turn around on their seats and pull the boat toward the target, the instant the deceptive line felt that double strain and pull, it snapped into the empty air!
“What breaks in me? Some sinew cracks!—’tis whole again; oars! oars! Burst in upon him!”
"What’s breaking inside me? Something snaps!—It’s fine again; grab the oars! The oars! Charge at him!"
Hearing the tremendous rush of the sea-crashing boat, the whale wheeled round to present his blank forehead at bay; but in that evolution, catching sight of the nearing black hull of the ship; seemingly seeing in it the source of all his persecutions; bethinking it—it may be—a larger and nobler foe; of a sudden, he bore down upon its advancing prow, smiting his jaws amid fiery showers of foam.
Hearing the roaring approach of the sea-crashing boat, the whale turned around to face them with his blank forehead, ready to stand his ground. But in that moment, he caught sight of the approaching black hull of the ship; perhaps recognizing it as the source of all his torment; maybe thinking it was a greater and more worthy enemy. Suddenly, he charged at its advancing prow, striking with his jaws in an explosion of fiery sprays of foam.
Ahab staggered; his hand smote his forehead. “I grow blind; hands! stretch out before me that I may yet grope my way. Is’t night?”
Ahab stumbled, clutching his forehead with his hand. "I'm going blind; hands! Reach out in front of me so I can still feel my way. Is it night?"
“The whale! The ship!” cried the cringing oarsmen.
"The whale! The ship!" shouted the terrified rowers.
“Oars! oars! Slope downwards to thy depths, O sea, that ere it be for ever too late, Ahab may slide this last, last time upon his mark! I see: the ship! the ship! Dash on, my men! Will ye not save my ship?”
"Oars! Oars! Sink down to your depths, O sea, so that before it's too late, Ahab can take his final, final shot at his target! I see it: the ship! The ship! Row faster, men! Won't you save my ship?"
But as the oarsmen violently forced their boat through the sledge-hammering seas, the before whale-smitten bow-ends of two planks burst through, and in an instant almost, the temporarily disabled boat lay nearly level with the waves; its half-wading, splashing crew, trying hard to stop the gap and bale out the pouring water.
As the rowers pushed their boat forcefully through the pounding waves, two planks at the bow, already damaged by the whale, suddenly broke through. In almost no time, the boat was temporarily disabled and nearly level with the water, with its half-soaked, splashing crew struggling desperately to patch the hole and bail out the incoming water.
Meantime, for that one beholding instant, Tashtego’s mast-head hammer remained suspended in his hand; and the red flag, half-wrapping him as with a plaid, then streamed itself straight out from him, as his own forward-flowing heart; while Starbuck and Stubb, standing upon the bowsprit beneath, caught sight of the down-coming monster just as soon as he.
Meanwhile, in that single moment of realization, Tashtego's masthead hammer hung motionless in his hand, and the red flag, half-draped around him like a plaid, suddenly unfurled completely, flowing straight out like it was an extension of his own forward-surging heart. At the same time, Starbuck and Stubb, standing on the bowsprit below, spotted the descending monster just as quickly as he did.
“The whale, the whale! Up helm, up helm! Oh, all ye sweet powers of air, now hug me close! Let not Starbuck die, if die he must, in a woman’s fainting fit. Up helm, I say—ye fools, the jaw! the jaw! Is this the end of all my bursting prayers? all my life-long fidelities? Oh, Ahab, Ahab, lo, thy work. Steady! helmsman, steady. Nay, nay! Up helm again! He turns to meet us! Oh, his unappeasable brow drives on towards one, whose duty tells him he cannot depart. My God, stand by me now!”
"The whale, the whale! Turn the helm, turn the helm! Oh, all you gentle forces of the air, stay close to me now! Don’t let Starbuck die, if he has to die, in some weak, fainting state like a woman. Turn the helm, I said—you idiots, the jaw! Watch out for the jaw! Is this how all my desperate prayers end? All my lifelong loyalty? Oh, Ahab, Ahab, look at what you’ve done. Steady! Helmsman, stay steady. No, no! Turn the helm again! He’s coming right for us! Oh, that unrelenting face is coming straight at me—even when my duty says I can’t back down. My God, stay with me now!"
“Stand not by me, but stand under me, whoever you are that will now help Stubb; for Stubb, too, sticks here. I grin at thee, thou grinning whale! Who ever helped Stubb, or kept Stubb awake, but Stubb’s own unwinking eye? And now poor Stubb goes to bed upon a mattrass that is all too soft; would it were stuffed with brushwood! I grin at thee, thou grinning whale! Look ye, sun, moon, and stars! I call ye assassins of as good a fellow as ever spouted up his ghost. For all that, I would yet ring glasses with ye, would ye but hand the cup! Oh, oh! oh, oh! thou grinning whale, but there’ll be plenty of gulping soon! Why fly ye not, O Ahab! For me, off shoes and jacket to it; let Stubb die in his drawers! A most mouldy and over salted death, though;—cherries! cherries! cherries! Oh, Flask, for one red cherry ere we die!”
"Don’t just stand beside me—stand under me—whoever you are that’ll help Stubb now, because Stubb’s stuck here too. I laugh at you, you grinning whale! Who’s ever helped Stubb, or kept him awake, except Stubb’s own sharp eye? And now poor Stubb has to sleep on a mattress that’s way too soft; I wish it were stuffed with brushwood instead! I laugh at you, you grinning whale! Look at you—sun, moon, and stars! I call you the murderers of as good a guy as ever breathed his last. Still, I’d clink glasses with you if you’d just hand me the drink! Oh, oh! Oh, oh! You grinning whale, but there’ll be plenty of swallowing soon enough! Why don’t you run, Ahab? As for me, off go shoes and jacket—let Stubb die in his underwear! A rotten and overly salty death it’ll be, though—cherries! Cherries! Cherries! Oh, Flask, just one red cherry before we die!"
“Cherries? I only wish that we were where they grow. Oh, Stubb, I hope my poor mother’s drawn my part-pay ere this; if not, few coppers will now come to her, for the voyage is up.”
"Cherries? I just wish we were where they grow. Oh, Stubb, I really hope my poor mother has collected my partial pay by now; if she hasn’t, she’ll barely get any money, because the trip is over."
From the ship’s bows, nearly all the seamen now hung inactive; hammers, bits of plank, lances, and harpoons, mechanically retained in their hands, just as they had darted from their various employments; all their enchanted eyes intent upon the whale, which from side to side strangely vibrating his predestinating head, sent a broad band of overspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed. Retribution, swift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of all that mortal man could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead smote the ship’s starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled. Some fell flat upon their faces. Like dislodged trucks, the heads of the harpooneers aloft shook on their bull-like necks. Through the breach, they heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume.
From the front of the ship, most of the sailors were now hanging still; hammers, pieces of wood, lances, and harpoons were still in their hands, as if frozen in the middle of their work. All their captivated eyes were fixed on the whale, which, with its head strangely swaying from side to side as if fulfilling its destiny, churned up a wide arc of foam in front of it as it charged ahead. Its entire presence radiated punishment, quick revenge, and unending fury. Despite all that humans could do, the solid white wall of its forehead smashed into the ship's starboard bow, leaving men and timbers staggering. Some sailors fell face down. Like knocked-over machinery, the heads of the harpooners above wobbled on their thick necks. Through the breach, they could hear water pouring in, like mountain streams rushing down a chute.
“The ship! The hearse!—the second hearse!” cried Ahab from the boat; “its wood could only be American!”
"The ship! The hearse!—the second hearse!" shouted Ahab from the boat. "Its wood must be American!"
Diving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far off the other bow, but within a few yards of Ahab’s boat, where, for a time, he lay quiescent.
Diving under the sinking ship, the whale trembled as it moved along its keel; but then, turning underwater, it quickly surged back to the surface far off the other side, yet just a few yards from Ahab’s boat, where it remained still for a while.
“I turn my body from the sun. What ho, Tashtego! let me hear thy hammer. Oh! ye three unsurrendered spires of mine; thou uncracked keel; and only god-bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and Pole-pointed prow,—death-glorious ship! must ye then perish, and without me? Am I cut off from the last fond pride of meanest shipwrecked captains? Oh, lonely death on lonely life! Oh, now I feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief. Ho, ho! from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale! Thus, I give up the spear!”
"I turn away from the sun. Hey, Tashtego! Let me hear your hammer. Oh! You three unbeaten masts of mine; my unbroken keel; my hull, battered only by fate; my steady deck, commanding helm, and fiercely pointed prow—glorious ship! Must you go down, and without me? Am I denied the last proud moment of even the humblest shipwrecked captain? Oh, solitary death after a solitary life! Oh, now I see that my greatest heights come with my deepest sorrow. Ha, ha! Let all the forces of my past life surge forth now, bold waves of memory, to crown this ultimate peak of my death! Toward you I go, you all-destroying yet unconquerable whale; I will fight you to the very end; from the depths of my soul, I strike at you; with my final breath, I curse you. Let all coffins and hearses sink into one vast grave! And since neither can claim me, let me be torn to shreds while still chasing you, even tethered to you, you damned whale! *Thus*, I surrender the spear!"
The harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the grooves;—ran foul. Ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone. Next instant, the heavy eye-splice in the rope’s final end flew out of the stark-empty tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its depths.
The harpoon was thrown; the wounded whale shot forward; with blazing speed, the line hissed through the grooves—then snagged. Ahab bent down to free it; he succeeded, but the whirling loop caught him around the neck, and silently, like Turkish stranglers executing their target, he was yanked out of the boat before the crew even realized he was gone. The next moment, the heavy eye-splice at the very end of the rope shot out of the now-empty tub, struck down an oarsman, and, slapping the surface of the sea, vanished into the depths.
For an instant, the tranced boat’s crew stood still; then turned. “The ship? Great God, where is the ship?” Soon they through dim, bewildering mediums saw her sidelong fading phantom, as in the gaseous Fata Morgana; only the uppermost masts out of water; while fixed by infatuation, or fidelity, or fate, to their once lofty perches, the pagan harpooneers still maintained their sinking lookouts on the sea. And now, concentric circles seized the lone boat itself, and all its crew, and each floating oar, and every lance-pole, and spinning, animate and inanimate, all round and round in one vortex, carried the smallest chip of the Pequod out of sight.
For a moment, the boat's crew stood frozen in shock; then they turned. "The ship? Oh my God, where is the ship?" Soon, through hazy and confusing sights, they saw her fading like a ghostly image, as if in a mirage; only the top of the masts remained above the water. Meanwhile, either out of obsession, loyalty, or destiny, the pagan harpooneers still clung to their sinking perches, keeping a lookout on the sea. Then, swirling circles of water pulled the lone boat, its crew, each floating oar, every lance, spinning everything—living and lifeless—round and round into a single vortex, swallowing even the tiniest fragment of the Pequod from sight.
But as the last whelmings intermixingly poured themselves over the sunken head of the Indian at the mainmast, leaving a few inches of the erect spar yet visible, together with long streaming yards of the flag, which calmly undulated, with ironical coincidings, over the destroying billows they almost touched;—at that instant, a red arm and a hammer hovered backwardly uplifted in the open air, in the act of nailing the flag faster and yet faster to the subsiding spar. A sky-hawk that tauntingly had followed the main-truck downwards from its natural home among the stars, pecking at the flag, and incommoding Tashtego there; this bird now chanced to intercept its broad fluttering wing between the hammer and the wood; and simultaneously feeling that etherial thrill, the submerged savage beneath, in his death-gasp, kept his hammer frozen there; and so the bird of heaven, with archangelic shrieks, and his imperial beak thrust upwards, and his whole captive form folded in the flag of Ahab, went down with his ship, which, like Satan, would not sink to hell till she had dragged a living part of heaven along with her, and helmeted herself with it.
As the final waves poured over the submerged head of the Indian at the mainmast, leaving just a few inches of the upright spar visible along with the long, streaming yards of the flag that calmly rippled with ironic grace over the destructive waves almost touching them—at that moment, a red arm and a hammer hovered in the air, pulled back to drive the flag even more firmly onto the sinking spar. A sky-hawk, which had mockingly followed the descent of the mainmast from its celestial home among the stars, pecking at the flag and bothering Tashtego in the process, now happened to stretch its broad, fluttering wing between the hammer and the wood. At the same time, feeling a ghostly shiver, the dying man below, in his last breath, froze his hammer in place. The bird of the heavens, with wild, angelic screams, its powerful beak thrust upward and its entire body wrapped in Ahab's flag, descended with the ship. Like Satan himself, that ship refused to sink until it had dragged a piece of heaven down with it, crowning itself in the process.
Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.
Now small birds flew shrieking over the still gaping abyss; a gloomy white surf crashed against its steep edges; then everything caved in, and the vast shroud of the sea rolled on just as it had five thousand years ago.
Epilogue
“AND I ONLY AM ESCAPED ALONE TO TELL THEE” Job.
The drama’s done. Why then here does any one step forth?—Because one did survive the wreck.
The play's over. So why is anyone stepping forward now?—Because someone survived the shipwreck.
It so chanced, that after the Parsee’s disappearance, I was he whom the Fates ordained to take the place of Ahab’s bowsman, when that bowsman assumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day the three men were tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern. So, floating on the margin of the ensuing scene, and in full sight of it, when the halfspent suction of the sunk ship reached me, I was then, but slowly, drawn towards the closing vortex. When I reached it, it had subsided to a creamy pool. Round and round, then, and ever contracting towards the button-like black bubble at the axis of that slowly wheeling circle, like another Ixion I did revolve. Till, gaining that vital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated by reason of its cunning spring, and, owing to its great buoyancy, rising with great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea, fell over, and floated by my side. Buoyed up by that coffin, for almost one whole day and night, I floated on a soft and dirgelike main. The unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths; the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks. On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.
It happened that after the Parsee disappeared, I was the one the Fates decided would take the place of Ahab’s bowsman, after that bowsman filled the empty position. On that final day, when the three men were thrown from the rocking boat, I was left behind. So, floating at the edge of what happened next, and seeing it all clearly, I was slowly pulled toward the closing vortex when the weakening pull of the sunken ship reached me. By the time I got there, it had calmed into a creamy pool. Around and around I went, spiraling closer to the center of the slowly spinning circle, like another Ixion. When I reached the core, the black bubble in the middle burst upward, and, released by its clever design and extreme buoyancy, the coffin life-buoy shot out of the sea, flipped over, and floated next to me. Held up by that coffin, I drifted for almost an entire day and night on a quiet, mournful ocean. The sharks, harmless, slid past as though their mouths were locked shut; the fierce sea hawks flew overhead with their beaks folded away. On the second day, a ship appeared, came closer, and finally rescued me. It was the wandering Rachel, retracing her route in search of her missing children, only to find another orphan.
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