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- under orders. Look thou, underling! that thou obeyest mine.—Stand round
me, men. Ye see an old man cut down to the stump; leaning on a shivered
lance; propped up on a lonely foot. ’Tis Ahab—his body’s part; but
Ahab’s soul’s a centipede, that moves upon a hundred legs. I feel
strained, half stranded, as ropes that tow dismasted frigates in a
gale; and I may look so. But ere I break, ye’ll hear me crack; and till
ye hear _that_, know that Ahab’s hawser tows his purpose yet. Believe
ye, men, in the things called omens? Then laugh aloud, and cry encore!
For ere they drown, drowning things will twice rise to the surface;
then rise again, to sink for evermore. So with Moby Dick—two days he’s
floated—tomorrow will be the third. Aye, men, he’ll rise once more,—but
only to spout his last! D’ye feel brave men, brave?”
“As fearless fire,” cried Stubb.
“And as mechanical,” muttered Ahab. Then as the men went forward, he
muttered on: “The things called omens! And yesterday I talked the same
to Starbuck there, concerning my broken boat. Oh! how valiantly I seek
to drive out of others’ hearts what’s clinched so fast in mine!—The
Parsee—the Parsee!—gone, gone? and he was to go before:—but still was
to be seen again ere I could perish—How’s that?—There’s a riddle now
might baffle all the lawyers backed by the ghosts of the whole line of
judges:—like a hawk’s beak it pecks my brain. _I’ll_, _I’ll_ solve it,
though!”
When dusk descended, the whale was still in sight to leeward.
So once more the sail was shortened, and everything passed nearly as on
the previous night; only, the sound of hammers, and the hum of the
grindstone was heard till nearly daylight, as the men toiled by
lanterns in the complete and careful rigging of the spare boats and
sharpening their fresh weapons for the morrow. Meantime, of the broken
keel of Ahab’s wrecked craft the carpenter made him another leg; while
still as on the night before, slouched Ahab stood fixed within his
scuttle; his hid, heliotrope glance anticipatingly gone backward on its
dial; sat due eastward for the earliest sun.
CHAPTER 135. The Chase.—Third Day.
The morning of the third day dawned fair and fresh, and once more the
solitary night-man at the fore-mast-head was relieved by crowds of the
daylight look-outs, who dotted every mast and almost every spar.
“D’ye see him?” cried Ahab; but the whale was not yet in sight.
“In his infallible wake, though; but follow that wake, that’s all. Helm
there; steady, as thou goest, and hast been going. What a lovely day
again! were it a new-made world, and made for a summer-house to the
angels, and this morning the first of its throwing open to them, a
fairer day could not dawn upon that world. Here’s food for thought, had
Ahab time to think; but Ahab never thinks; he only feels, feels, feels;
_that’s_ tingling enough for mortal man! to think’s audacity. God only
has that right and privilege. Thinking is, or ought to be, a coolness
and a calmness; and our poor hearts throb, and our poor brains beat too
much for that. And yet, I’ve sometimes thought my brain was very
calm—frozen calm, this old skull cracks so, like a glass in which the
contents turned to ice, and shiver it. And still this hair is growing
now; this moment growing, and heat must breed it; but no, it’s like
that sort of common grass that will grow anywhere, between the earthy
clefts of Greenland ice or in Vesuvius lava. How the wild winds blow
it; they whip it about me as the torn shreds of split sails lash the
tossed ship they cling to. A vile wind that has no doubt blown ere this
through prison corridors and cells, and wards of hospitals, and
ventilated them, and now comes blowing hither as innocent as fleeces.
Out upon it!—it’s tainted. Were I the wind, I’d blow no more on such a
wicked, miserable world. I’d crawl somewhere to a cave, and slink
there. And yet, ’tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind! who ever
conquered it? In every fight it has the last and bitterest blow. Run
tilting at it, and you but run through it. Ha! a coward wind that
strikes stark naked men, but will not stand to receive a single blow.
Even Ahab is a braver thing—a nobler thing than _that_. Would now the
wind but had a body; but all the things that most exasperate and
outrage mortal man, all these things are bodiless, but only bodiless as
objects, not as agents. There’s a most special, a most cunning, oh, a
most malicious difference! And yet, I say again, and swear it now, that
there’s something all glorious and gracious in the wind. These warm
Trade Winds, at least, that in the clear heavens blow straight on, in
strong and steadfast, vigorous mildness; and veer not from their mark,
however the baser currents of the sea may turn and tack, and mightiest
Mississippies of the land swift and swerve about, uncertain where to go
at last. And by the eternal Poles! these same Trades that so directly
blow my good ship on; these Trades, or something like them—something so
unchangeable, and full as strong, blow my keeled soul along! To it!
Aloft there! What d’ye see?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing! and noon at hand! The doubloon goes a-begging! See the sun!
Aye, aye, it must be so. I’ve oversailed him. How, got the start? Aye,
he’s chasing _me_ now; not I, _him_—that’s bad; I might have known it,
too. Fool! the lines—the harpoons he’s towing. Aye, aye, I have run him
by last night. About! about! Come down, all of ye, but the regular look
outs! Man the braces!”
Steering as she had done, the wind had been somewhat on the Pequod’s
quarter, so that now being pointed in the reverse direction, the braced
ship sailed hard upon the breeze as she rechurned the cream in her own
white wake.
“Against the wind he now steers for the open jaw,” murmured Starbuck to
himself, as he coiled the new-hauled main-brace upon the rail. “God
keep us, but already my bones feel damp within me, and from the inside
wet my flesh. I misdoubt me that I disobey my God in obeying him!”
“Stand by to sway me up!” cried Ahab, advancing to the hempen basket.
“We should meet him soon.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” and straightway Starbuck did Ahab’s bidding, and once
more Ahab swung on high.
A whole hour now passed; gold-beaten out to ages. Time itself now held
long breaths with keen suspense. But at last, some three points off the
weather bow, Ahab descried the spout again, and instantly from the
three mast-heads three shrieks went up as if the tongues of fire had
voiced it.
“Forehead to forehead I meet thee, this third time, Moby Dick! On deck
there!—brace sharper up; crowd her into the wind’s eye. He’s too far
off to lower yet, Mr. Starbuck. The sails shake! Stand over that
helmsman with a top-maul! So, so; he travels fast, and I must down. But
let me have one more good round look aloft here at the sea; there’s
time for that. An old, old sight, and yet somehow so young; aye, and
not changed a wink since I first saw it, a boy, from the sand-hills of
Nantucket! The same!—the same!—the same to Noah as to me. There’s a
soft shower to leeward. Such lovely leewardings! They must lead
somewhere—to something else than common land, more palmy than the
palms. Leeward! the white whale goes that way; look to windward, then;
the better if the bitterer quarter. But good bye, good bye, old
mast-head! What’s this?—green? aye, tiny mosses in these warped cracks.
No such green weather stains on Ahab’s head! There’s the difference now
between man’s old age and matter’s. But aye, old mast, we both grow old
together; sound in our hulls, though, are we not, my ship? Aye, minus a
leg, that’s all. By heaven this dead wood has the better of my live
flesh every way. I can’t compare with it; and I’ve known some ships
made of dead trees outlast the lives of men made of the most vital
stuff of vital fathers. What’s that he said?