Bab Bab 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:

“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!”

“No need of profane words, however great the hurry, Peleg,” said

Bildad, “but away with thee, friend Starbuck, and do our bidding.”

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.

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.

“Aft here, ye sons of bachelors,” he cried, as the sailors lingered at

the main-mast. “Mr. Starbuck, drive ’em aft.”

“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.

“Man the capstan! Blood and thunder!—jump!”—was the next command, and

the crew sprang for 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.

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.

“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.

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.

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,—

_“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood, Stand dressed in living

green. So to the Jews old Canaan stood, While Jordan rolled 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.

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.

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.”

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.

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!”

“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—”

“Come, come, Captain Bildad; stop palavering,—away!” and with that,

Peleg hurried him over the side, and both dropt 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.