- description
- # CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.
## Overview
This entity is a section from the novel "Moby-Dick; or, The Whale." Titled "CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.," it spans lines 19469 to 19528 of the source file.
## Context
This section is part of the novel "Moby-Dick; or, The Whale," which was extracted from the file "[moby_dick.txt](arke:01KG89J198KE6FY8WPVJQQRCZ6)". The novel is included in the "[Melville Complete Works](arke:01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW)" collection. This section follows "[CHAPTER 120. The Deck Towards the End of the First Night Watch.](arke:01KG8AMBF5XP2FY8KHFM6ZSH91)" and precedes "[CHAPTER 122. Midnight Aloft.—Thunder and Lightning.](arke:01KG8AMBFAY7Y5E7Q43HRM4YBA)". It is also noted as being "in" the chapter "[BOOK III. (_Duodecimo_), CHAPTER III. (_Mealy-mouthed Porpoise_)](arke:01KG8AK83BA227D6NY5BT040FM)".
## Contents
This section depicts a conversation between Stubb and Flask on the forecastle bulwarks during a storm at midnight. They are securing the anchors. Stubb dismisses Flask's concerns about the ship's safety, comparing the situation to a ship with or without lightning rods. He uses analogies to explain that danger is not inherent but dependent on specific circumstances. The dialogue also touches upon the practicality of clothing in storms, with Stubb humorously suggesting swallow-tailed coats and beaver hats for better water runoff. The section emphasizes the intensity of the storm and the characters' efforts to secure the vessel.
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- 2026-01-30T20:51:14.588Z
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- CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.
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- 19528
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- 19469
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- CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.
_Stubb and Flask mounted on them, and passing additional lashings over
the anchors there hanging._
“No, Stubb; you may pound that knot there as much as you please, but
you will never pound into me what you were just now saying. And how
long ago is it since you said the very contrary? Didn’t you once say
that whatever ship Ahab sails in, that ship should pay something extra
on its insurance policy, just as though it were loaded with powder
barrels aft and boxes of lucifers forward? Stop, now; didn’t you say
so?”
“Well, suppose I did? What then? I’ve part changed my flesh since that
time, why not my mind? Besides, supposing we _are_ loaded with powder
barrels aft and lucifers forward; how the devil could the lucifers get
afire in this drenching spray here? Why, my little man, you have pretty
red hair, but you couldn’t get afire now. Shake yourself; you’re
Aquarius, or the water-bearer, Flask; might fill pitchers at your coat
collar. Don’t you see, then, that for these extra risks the Marine
Insurance companies have extra guarantees? Here are hydrants, Flask.
But hark, again, and I’ll answer ye the other thing. First take your
leg off from the crown of the anchor here, though, so I can pass the
rope; now listen. What’s the mighty difference between holding a mast’s
lightning-rod in the storm, and standing close by a mast that hasn’t
got any lightning-rod at all in a storm? Don’t you see, you
timber-head, that no harm can come to the holder of the rod, unless the
mast is first struck? What are you talking about, then? Not one ship in
a hundred carries rods, and Ahab,—aye, man, and all of us,—were in no
more danger then, in my poor opinion, than all the crews in ten
thousand ships now sailing the seas. Why, you King-Post, you, I suppose
you would have every man in the world go about with a small
lightning-rod running up the corner of his hat, like a militia
officer’s skewered feather, and trailing behind like his sash. Why
don’t ye be sensible, Flask? it’s easy to be sensible; why don’t ye,
then? any man with half an eye can be sensible.”
“I don’t know that, Stubb. You sometimes find it rather hard.”
“Yes, when a fellow’s soaked through, it’s hard to be sensible, that’s
a fact. And I am about drenched with this spray. Never mind; catch the
turn there, and pass it. Seems to me we are lashing down these anchors
now as if they were never going to be used again. Tying these two
anchors here, Flask, seems like tying a man’s hands behind him. And
what big generous hands they are, to be sure. These are your iron
fists, hey? What a hold they have, too! I wonder, Flask, whether the
world is anchored anywhere; if she is, she swings with an uncommon long
cable, though. There, hammer that knot down, and we’ve done. So; next
to touching land, lighting on deck is the most satisfactory. I say,
just wring out my jacket skirts, will ye? Thank ye. They laugh at
long-togs so, Flask; but seems to me, a long tailed coat ought always
to be worn in all storms afloat. The tails tapering down that way,
serve to carry off the water, d’ye see. Same with cocked hats; the
cocks form gable-end eave-troughs, Flask. No more monkey-jackets and
tarpaulins for me; I must mount a swallow-tail, and drive down a
beaver; so. Halloa! whew! there goes my tarpaulin overboard; Lord,
Lord, that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly!
This is a nasty night, lad.”
- title
- CHAPTER 121. Midnight.—The Forecastle Bulwarks.