บทที่ บทที่ 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.

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.

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.

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.*

*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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

“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.”

“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?”

“I trust not,” said Starbuck, “it is poor stuff enough.”

“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?”

“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.”

“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.”

“Enough,” replied Starbuck, “only 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?”

“Only this: go down with him, and get what thou wantest thyself.”

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.