To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriagesare anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers performan 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 thatoil 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 morningnot long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more thancustomary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom,where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as thoughdiligently 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.
Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship saileddown to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy;a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra's barges from Actium.
Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb's was foremost.By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in plantingone 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 sooneror later inevitably extract it. It became imperative to lancethe flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boatup to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious.What then remained?
Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand andcountless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced,none exceed that fine manoeuvre 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 longlance is accurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat,under extreme headway. Steel and wood included, the entire spearis some ten or twelve feet in length; the staff is much slighterthan that of the harpoon, and also of a lighter material--pine. It isfurnished with a small rope called a warp, of considerable length,by which it can be hauled back to the hand after darting.
But before going further, it is important to mention here, that thoughthe harpoon may be pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet itis seldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful,on account of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoonas 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.
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 alongits length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlinglygathers up the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to secureits 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 elevatingthe 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 spansthe foaming distance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale.Instead of sparkling water, he now spouts red blood.
"That drove the spigot out of him!" cried Stubb. "'Tis July'simmortal Fourth; all fountains must run wine today!Would now, it were old Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakableold Monongahela! Then, Tashtego, lad, I'd have ye hold a canakinto 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."
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 watchesthe monster die.
Moby Dick; Or, The Whale Page 84
