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.
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!
“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.
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.
“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.
“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!”
“Stand clear of the tackle!” cried a voice like the bursting of a rocket.
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.
“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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
CHAPTER 81. The Pequod Meets The Virgin.
The predestinated day arrived, and we duly met the ship Jungfrau, Derick De Deer, master, of 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.
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.
“What has he in his hand there?” cried Starbuck, pointing to something wavingly held by the German. “Impossible!—a lamp-feeder!”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“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.
“Mind he don’t sling thee with it,” cried Starbuck. “Give way, or the German will have 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.
“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!”
“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?”
“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?”
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.
“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?”
“I say, pull like god-dam,”—cried the Indian.
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!”
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.
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.
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.