Chương Chương 84 · Pitchpoling.

To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are

anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an

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 that oil 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 morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau

disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation;

crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in

the unctuousness as though diligently 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 sailed down 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 planting one 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 sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became

imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to

haul the boat up 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 and

countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced,

none exceed that fine manœuvre 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 long lance is

accurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat, under extreme

headway. Steel and wood included, the entire spear is some ten or

twelve feet in length; the staff is much slighter than that of the

harpoon, and also of a lighter material—pine. It is furnished 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 though

the harpoon may be pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet it is

seldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful, on

account of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoon as

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 along

its length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlingly gathers

up the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to secure its 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 elevating the 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 spans the 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’s immortal

Fourth; all fountains must run wine today! Would now, it were old

Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakable old Monongahela! Then,

Tashtego, lad, I’d have ye hold a canakin to 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 watches the monster die.