The Life Ring

Steering now south-eastward by Ahab’s levelled steel, and her progress solely determined by Ahab’s level log and line; the Pequod held on her path towards the Equator. Making so long a passage through such unfrequented waters, descrying no ships, and ere long, sideways impelled by unvarying trade winds, over waves monotonously mild; all these seemed the strange calm things preluding some riotous and desperate scene.

The Pequod sailed southeast toward the Equator, guided by Ahab’s compass and measuring her progress solely by his log and line. She made a long voyage through waters rarely visited by ships, and none came into view. Before long, the steady trade winds pushed her sideways over the gently rolling, unchanging waves. All these things seemed strangely calm, as if they came before a wild and desperate scene.

At last, when the ship drew near to the outskirts, as it were, of the Equatorial fishing-ground, and in the deep darkness that goes before the dawn, was sailing by a cluster of rocky islets; the watch—then headed by Flask—was startled by a cry so plaintively wild and unearthly—like half-articulated wailings of the ghosts of all Herod’s murdered Innocents—that one and all, they started from their reveries, and for the space of some moments stood, or sat, or leaned all transfixedly listening, like the carved Roman slave, while that wild cry remained within hearing. The Christian or civilized part of the crew said it was mermaids, and shuddered; but the pagan harpooneers remained unappalled. Yet the grey Manxman—the oldest mariner of all—declared that the wild thrilling sounds that were heard, were the voices of newly drowned men in the sea.

At last, the ship drew near the outer edge of the Equatorial fishing-ground. In the deep darkness before dawn, it sailed past a cluster of rocky islets. The watch, then led by Flask, was startled by a cry so mournfully wild and unearthly that everyone was jolted from their thoughts. It sounded like the half-formed wails of the ghosts of all the Innocents murdered by Herod. For several moments, they stood, sat, or leaned motionless, listening like the carved Roman slave until the wild cry faded from hearing. The Christian, or civilized, members of the crew said the cries came from mermaids, and they shuddered. But the pagan harpooneers were not afraid. Yet the gray Manxman, the oldest sailor of all, declared that the wild, thrilling sounds were the voices of men newly drowned in the sea.

Below in his hammock, Ahab did not hear of this till grey dawn, when he came to the deck; it was then recounted to him by Flask, not unaccompanied with hinted dark meanings. He hollowly laughed, and thus explained the wonder.

Ahab was below in his hammock and did not hear of this until he came on deck at gray dawn. Flask then told him about it, hinting at dark meanings. Ahab laughed hollowly and explained the wonder.

Those rocky islands the ship had passed were the resort of great numbers of seals, and some young seals that had lost their dams, or some dams that had lost their cubs, must have risen nigh the ship and kept company with her, crying and sobbing with their human sort of wail. But this only the more affected some of them, because most mariners cherish a very superstitious feeling about seals, arising not only from their peculiar tones when in distress, but also from the human look of their round heads and semi-intelligent faces, seen peeringly uprising from the water alongside. In the sea, under certain circumstances, seals have more than once been mistaken for men.

The rocky islands the ship had passed were home to large numbers of seals. Some young seals that had lost their mothers, or some mothers that had lost their young, must have surfaced near the ship. They must have followed it, crying and sobbing with a humanlike wail. But this only made some of them more upset. Most sailors are very superstitious about seals, partly because of the strange sounds they make when distressed. Seals also look human when they peer out of the water beside a ship, with their round heads and almost intelligent faces. At sea, under certain circumstances, seals have been mistaken for people more than once.

But the bodings of the crew were destined to receive a most plausible confirmation in the fate of one of their number that morning. At sun-rise this man went from his hammock to his mast-head at the fore; and whether it was that he was not yet half waked from his sleep (for sailors sometimes go aloft in a transition state), whether it was thus with the man, there is now no telling; but, be that as it may, he had not been long at his perch, when a cry was heard—a cry and a rushing—and looking up, they saw a falling phantom in the air; and looking down, a little tossed heap of white bubbles in the blue of the sea.

But the fate of one of the crew that morning would give their fears a convincing confirmation. At sunrise, the man left his hammock and climbed to his post at the top of the front mast. Sailors sometimes climb aloft while still half asleep. There is no way to know now whether this man was still half asleep. But whatever the reason, he had not been at his post long when a cry rang out, followed by a rushing sound. Looking up, the crew saw a ghostly figure falling through the air. Looking down, they saw a small, tumbling heap of white bubbles in the blue sea.

The life-buoy—a long slender cask—was dropped from the stern, where it always hung obedient to a cunning spring; but no hand rose to seize it, and the sun having long beat upon this cask it had shrunken, so that it slowly filled, and that parched wood also filled at its every pore; and the studded iron-bound cask followed the sailor to the bottom, as if to yield him his pillow, though in sooth but a hard one.

The life buoy, a long, slender cask, was dropped from the stern. It always hung there, ready to be released by a clever spring. But no hand rose to seize it. The sun had beaten on the cask for so long that the wood had shrunk. So the cask slowly filled with water, and the dried wood soaked it up through every pore. The studded, iron-bound cask followed the sailor to the bottom, as if to give him a pillow, though a hard one.

And thus the first man of the Pequod that mounted the mast to look out for the White Whale, on the White Whale’s own peculiar ground; that man was swallowed up in the deep. But few, perhaps, thought of that at the time. Indeed, in some sort, they were not grieved at this event, at least as a portent; for they regarded it, not as a foreshadowing of evil in the future, but as the fulfilment of an evil already presaged. They declared that now they knew the reason of those wild shrieks they had heard the night before. But again the old Manxman said nay.

And so the first man on the Pequod to climb the mast and look for the White Whale was swallowed by the deep. He had been looking for the whale in its own particular hunting grounds. But perhaps few thought of that at the time. Indeed, in a way, they were not saddened by the event, at least as an omen. They saw it not as a warning of future evil, but as the fulfillment of evil already foretold. They said they now knew the reason for the wild shrieks they had heard the night before. But again the old Manxman said no.

The lost life-buoy was now to be replaced; Starbuck was directed to see to it; but as no cask of sufficient lightness could be found, and as in the feverish eagerness of what seemed the approaching crisis of the voyage, all hands were impatient of any toil but what was directly connected with its final end, whatever that might prove to be; therefore, they were going to leave the ship’s stern unprovided with a buoy, when by certain strange signs and inuendoes Queequeg hinted a hint concerning his coffin.

The lost life buoy now had to be replaced, and Starbuck was told to see to it. But no cask light enough could be found. The voyage seemed to be approaching its crisis, and all hands were feverishly eager for it. They were impatient with any work that was not directly connected to the voyage’s final end, whatever that might be. So they were going to leave the ship’s stern without a buoy. Then Queequeg, through strange signs and hints, made a suggestion about his coffin.

“A life-buoy of a coffin!” cried Starbuck, starting.

“A coffin as a life buoy!” cried Starbuck, startled.

“Rather queer, that, I should say,” said Stubb.

“That’s rather strange, I’d say,” said Stubb.

“It will make a good enough one,” said Flask, “the carpenter here can arrange it easily.”

“It will make a good enough one,” said Flask. “The carpenter here can easily arrange it.”

“Bring it up; there’s nothing else for it,” said Starbuck, after a melancholy pause. “Rig it, carpenter; do not look at me so—the coffin, I mean. Dost thou hear me? Rig it.”

“Bring it up. There’s nothing else we can do,” said Starbuck after a sorrowful pause. “Rig it, carpenter. Don’t look at me like that. I mean the coffin. Do you hear me? Rig it.”

“And shall I nail down the lid, sir?” moving his hand as with a hammer.

“Should I nail down the lid, sir?” He moved his hand as if holding a hammer.

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

“And shall I caulk the seams, sir?” moving his hand as with a caulking-iron.

“And should I caulk the seams, sir?” He moved his hand as if using a caulking iron.

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

“And shall I then pay over the same with pitch, sir?” moving his hand as with a pitch-pot.

“And should I then coat it with pitch, sir?” He moved his hand as if holding a pitch pot.

“Away! what possesses thee to this? Make a life-buoy of the coffin, and no more.—Mr. Stubb, Mr. Flask, come forward with me.”

“Enough! What has gotten into you? Make a life buoy out of the coffin, and say no more. Mr. Stubb, Mr. Flask, come forward with me.”

“He goes off in a huff. The whole he can endure; at the parts he baulks. Now I don’t like this. I make a leg for Captain Ahab, and he wears it like a gentleman; but I make a bandbox for Queequeg, and he won’t put his head into it. Are all my pains to go for nothing with that coffin? And now I’m ordered to make a life-buoy of it. It’s like turning an old coat; going to bring the flesh on the other side now. I don’t like this cobbling sort of business—I don’t like it at all; it’s undignified; it’s not my place. Let tinkers’ brats do tinkerings; we are their betters. I like to take in hand none but clean, virgin, fair-and-square mathematical jobs, something that regularly begins at the beginning, and is at the middle when midway, and comes to an end at the conclusion; not a cobbler’s job, that’s at an end in the middle, and at the beginning at the end. It’s the old woman’s tricks to be giving cobbling jobs. Lord! what an affection all old women have for tinkers. I know an old woman of sixty-five who ran away with a bald-headed young tinker once. And that’s the reason I never would work for lonely widow old women ashore, when I kept my job-shop in the Vineyard; they might have taken it into their lonely old heads to run off with me. But heigh-ho! there are no caps at sea but snow-caps. Let me see. Nail down the lid; caulk the seams; pay over the same with pitch; batten them down tight, and hang it with the snap-spring over the ship’s stern. Were ever such things done before with a coffin? Some superstitious old carpenters, now, would be tied up in the rigging, ere they would do the job. But I’m made of knotty Aroostook hemlock; I don’t budge. Cruppered with a coffin! Sailing about with a grave-yard tray! But never mind. We workers in woods make bridal-bedsteads and card-tables, as well as coffins and hearses. We work by the month, or by the job, or by the profit; not for us to ask the why and wherefore of our work, unless it be too confounded cobbling, and then we stash it if we can. Hem! I’ll do the job, now, tenderly. I’ll have me—let’s see—how many in the ship’s company, all told? But I’ve forgotten. Any way, I’ll have me thirty separate, Turk’s-headed life-lines, each three feet long hanging all round to the coffin. Then, if the hull go down, there’ll be thirty lively fellows all fighting for one coffin, a sight not seen very often beneath the sun! Come hammer, caulking-iron, pitch-pot, and marling-spike! Let’s to it.”

“He storms off in a huff. He can stand the whole thing, but he balks at the parts. Now, I don’t like this. I make a leg for Captain Ahab, and he wears it like a gentleman. But I make a hatbox for Queequeg, and he won’t put his head in it. Was all my work on that coffin for nothing? And now I’m ordered to turn it into a life buoy. It’s like turning an old coat inside out, putting the flesh on the other side now. I don’t like this patchwork business. I don’t like it at all. It’s beneath my dignity. It’s not my place. Let tinkers’ children do the tinkering. We’re better than they are. I only like to take on clean, untouched, straightforward mathematical jobs. A proper job starts at the beginning, reaches the middle halfway through, and ends at the end. It’s not a patchwork job that ends in the middle and starts at the end. Giving out patchwork jobs is an old woman’s trick. Lord, how all old women love tinkers! I know an old woman of sixty-five who once ran away with a bald young tinker. That’s why I never worked for lonely old widows ashore when I had my workshop on the Vineyard. They might have got it into their lonely old heads to run off with me. But heigh-ho! There are no caps at sea but snowcaps. Let me see. Nail down the lid, caulk the seams, coat them with pitch, and batten them down tight. Then hang the coffin over the ship’s stern with the snap-spring. Has anyone ever done such things to a coffin before? Some superstitious old carpenters would be tied up in the rigging before they’d do the job. But I’m made of knotty Aroostook hemlock. I don’t budge. A coffin strapped to her stern! Sailing around with a graveyard tray! But never mind. We woodworkers make bridal bedsteads and card tables, as well as coffins and hearses. We work by the month, by the job, or for a share of the profit. It’s not for us to ask why our work is wanted. But if it’s too much like confounded patchwork, we put it aside if we can. Hmm! I’ll do the job carefully now. I’ll have, let’s see, how many people are in the ship’s company, all told? But I’ve forgotten. Anyway, I’ll have thirty separate lifelines hanging all around the coffin. Each one will be three feet long, with a Turk’s-head knot. Then, if the hull goes down, thirty lively fellows will be fighting over one coffin. That’s a sight not often seen under the sun! Come on, hammer, caulking iron, pitch pot, and marling-spike! Let’s get to it.”