Moby-Dick; or, The Whale
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.
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.
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 recognized 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.[7]
[7] 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.”
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.”
In another place—p. 45,—he speaks of “_the mysterious and
mortal attack of the animal_”.
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.
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