CHAPTER 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 manoeuvre 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.
