Wheelbarrow

Next morning, Monday, after disposing of the embalmed head to a barber, for a block, I settled my own and comrade’s bill; using, however, my comrade’s money. The grinning landlord, as well as the boarders, seemed amazingly tickled at the sudden friendship which had sprung up between me and Queequeg—especially as Peter Coffin’s cock and bull stories about him had previously so much alarmed me concerning the very person whom I now companied with.

The next morning, Monday, I sold the embalmed head to a barber to use as a wig stand. Then I paid the bill for Queequeg and myself, though I used Queequeg’s money. The grinning landlord and the boarders seemed greatly amused by our sudden friendship. They were especially amused because Peter Coffin’s tall tales had earlier made me so afraid of Queequeg, the very person I was now spending time with.

We borrowed a wheelbarrow, and embarking our things, including my own poor carpet-bag, and Queequeg’s canvas sack and hammock, away we went down to “the Moss,” the little Nantucket packet schooner moored at the wharf. As we were going along the people stared; not at Queequeg so much—for they were used to seeing cannibals like him in their streets,—but at seeing him and me upon such confidential terms. But we heeded them not, going along wheeling the barrow by turns, and Queequeg now and then stopping to adjust the sheath on his harpoon barbs. I asked him why he carried such a troublesome thing with him ashore, and whether all whaling ships did not find their own harpoons. To this, in substance, he replied, that though what I hinted was true enough, yet he had a particular affection for his own harpoon, because it was of assured stuff, well tried in many a mortal combat, and deeply intimate with the hearts of whales. In short, like many inland reapers and mowers, who go into the farmers’ meadows armed with their own scythes—though in no wise obliged to furnish them—even so, Queequeg, for his own private reasons, preferred his own harpoon.

We borrowed a wheelbarrow and loaded our things onto it. These included my poor carpetbag and Queequeg’s canvas sack and hammock. Then we headed down to “the Moss,” the little Nantucket packet schooner moored at the wharf. As we went along, people stared. They were not staring so much at Queequeg, since they were used to seeing cannibals like him in their streets. What surprised them was seeing how close he and I were. But we paid them no attention. We took turns pushing the wheelbarrow, and Queequeg occasionally stopped to adjust the sheath over his harpoon’s barbs. I asked him why he carried such a troublesome thing ashore and whether all whaling ships provided their own harpoons. He replied, in effect, that what I suggested was true enough, but he was particularly fond of his own harpoon. He knew it was made of reliable material. It had been tested in many a deadly battle and was deeply familiar with the hearts of whales. Many inland reapers and mowers bring their own scythes to the farmers’ meadows, though they are not required to. In much the same way, Queequeg preferred his own harpoon for his own private reasons.

Shifting the barrow from my hand to his, he told me a funny story about the first wheelbarrow he had ever seen. It was in Sag Harbor. The owners of his ship, it seems, had lent him one, in which to carry his heavy chest to his boarding house. Not to seem ignorant about the thing—though in truth he was entirely so, concerning the precise way in which to manage the barrow—Queequeg puts his chest upon it; lashes it fast; and then shoulders the barrow and marches up the wharf. “Why,” said I, “Queequeg, you might have known better than that, one would think. Didn’t the people laugh?”

As I handed him the wheelbarrow, he told me a funny story about the first one he had ever seen. It was in Sag Harbor. Apparently, the owners of his ship had lent him a wheelbarrow to carry his heavy chest to his boarding house. Queequeg didn’t want to seem ignorant, though he really had no idea how to use the wheelbarrow. He put his chest in it, tied it down, then hoisted the wheelbarrow onto his shoulder and marched up the wharf. “Why,” I said, “Queequeg, you might have known better than that, I’d have thought. Didn’t the people laugh?”

Upon this, he told me another story. The people of his island of Rokovoko, it seems, at their wedding feasts express the fragrant water of young cocoanuts into a large stained calabash like a punchbowl; and this punchbowl always forms the great central ornament on the braided mat where the feast is held. Now a certain grand merchant ship once touched at Rokovoko, and its commander—from all accounts, a very stately punctilious gentleman, at least for a sea captain—this commander was invited to the wedding feast of Queequeg’s sister, a pretty young princess just turned of ten. Well; when all the wedding guests were assembled at the bride’s bamboo cottage, this Captain marches in, and being assigned the post of honor, placed himself over against the punchbowl, and between the High Priest and his majesty the King, Queequeg’s father. Grace being said,—for those people have their grace as well as we—though Queequeg told me that unlike us, who at such times look downwards to our platters, they, on the contrary, copying the ducks, glance upwards to the great Giver of all feasts—Grace, I say, being said, the High Priest opens the banquet by the immemorial ceremony of the island; that is, dipping his consecrated and consecrating fingers into the bowl before the blessed beverage circulates. Seeing himself placed next the Priest, and noting the ceremony, and thinking himself—being Captain of a ship—as having plain precedence over a mere island King, especially in the King’s own house—the Captain coolly proceeds to wash his hands in the punchbowl;—taking it I suppose for a huge finger-glass. “Now,” said Queequeg, “what you tink now?—Didn’t our people laugh?”

Then he told me another story. At wedding feasts on his island of Rokovoko, people squeeze the fragrant water from young coconuts into a large, stained calabash, like a punchbowl. The bowl is always the main decoration on the braided mat where the feast is held. Once, a grand merchant ship stopped at Rokovoko. By all accounts, its captain was a very stately, proper gentleman, at least for a sea captain. He was invited to the wedding feast of Queequeg’s sister, a pretty young princess who had just turned ten. When all the guests had assembled at the bride’s bamboo cottage, the captain marched in. He was given the place of honor, facing the punchbowl, between the High Priest and His Majesty the King, Queequeg’s father. Grace was said, for those people say grace just as we do. Queequeg told me that we look down at our plates on such occasions, but his people do the opposite. Like ducks, they glance upward to the great Giver of all feasts. Once grace was said, the High Priest opened the banquet with an ancient island ceremony. He dipped his sacred fingers, which also made things sacred, into the bowl before the blessed drink was passed around. The captain saw that he was seated next to the Priest and noticed the ceremony. He also thought that, as a ship’s captain, he clearly outranked a mere island King, especially in the King’s own house. So he calmly began washing his hands in the punchbowl. I suppose he took it for a huge finger bowl. “Now,” said Queequeg, “what do you think? Didn’t our people laugh?”

At last, passage paid, and luggage safe, we stood on board the schooner. Hoisting sail, it glided down the Acushnet river. On one side, New Bedford rose in terraces of streets, their ice-covered trees all glittering in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of casks on casks were piled upon her wharves, and side by side the world-wandering whale ships lay silent and safely moored at last; while from others came a sound of carpenters and coopers, with blended noises of fires and forges to melt the pitch, all betokening that new cruises were on the start; that one most perilous and long voyage ended, only begins a second; and a second ended, only begins a third, and so on, for ever and for aye. Such is the endlessness, yea, the intolerableness of all earthly effort.

At last, our passage paid for and our luggage safe, we stood aboard the schooner. The sails went up, and the schooner glided down the Acushnet river. On one side, New Bedford rose in terraces of streets. Its ice-covered trees glittered in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of casks were piled on the wharves. Whale ships that had wandered the world lay side by side, silent and safely moored at last. From other ships came the sounds of carpenters and coopers, mingled with the noise of fires and forges melting pitch. All these sounds showed that new voyages were about to begin. One long, dangerous voyage ends, only for a second to begin. The second ends, only for a third to begin, and so on, forever and ever. Such is the endlessness, indeed, the unbearable nature of all earthly effort.

Gaining the more open water, the bracing breeze waxed fresh; the little Moss tossed the quick foam from her bows, as a young colt his snortings. How I snuffed that Tartar air!—how I spurned that turnpike earth!—that common highway all over dented with the marks of slavish heels and hoofs; and turned me to admire the magnanimity of the sea which will permit no records.

As we reached more open water, the invigorating breeze grew stronger. The little Moss tossed foam from her bows, like a young colt snorting. How I breathed in that Tartar air! How I scorned the land, that common highway dented everywhere with the marks of slavish heels and hoofs! Instead, I admired the generosity of the sea, which allows no trace to remain.

At the same foam-fountain, Queequeg seemed to drink and reel with me. His dusky nostrils swelled apart; he showed his filed and pointed teeth. On, on we flew; and our offing gained, the Moss did homage to the blast; ducked and dived her bows as a slave before the Sultan. Sideways leaning, we sideways darted; every ropeyarn tingling like a wire; the two tall masts buckling like Indian canes in land tornadoes. So full of this reeling scene were we, as we stood by the plunging bowsprit, that for some time we did not notice the jeering glances of the passengers, a lubber-like assembly, who marvelled that two fellow beings should be so companionable; as though a white man were anything more dignified than a whitewashed negro. But there were some boobies and bumpkins there, who, by their intense greenness, must have come from the heart and centre of all verdure. Queequeg caught one of these young saplings mimicking him behind his back. I thought the bumpkin’s hour of doom was come. Dropping his harpoon, the brawny savage caught him in his arms, and by an almost miraculous dexterity and strength, sent him high up bodily into the air; then slightly tapping his stern in mid-somerset, the fellow landed with bursting lungs upon his feet, while Queequeg, turning his back upon him, lighted his tomahawk pipe and passed it to me for a puff.

Queequeg seemed to drink from the same fountain of foam and reel along with me. His dark nostrils flared, and he showed his filed, pointed teeth. On and on we flew. Once we reached open water, the Moss bowed to the wind, dipping and plunging her bows like a slave before the Sultan. We leaned sideways and darted sideways. Every rope strand vibrated like a wire, and the two tall masts bent like Indian canes in a land tornado. We stood by the plunging bowsprit, so caught up in the wild scene that we did not notice the passengers’ mocking glances for some time. They were a clumsy lot, amazed that two fellow beings could be such good companions. They acted as though a white man were anything more dignified than a whitewashed Negro. But some fools and country bumpkins among them were so green they must have come from the very heart of all greenery. Queequeg caught one of these young saplings imitating him behind his back. I thought the bumpkin’s final hour had come. The muscular savage dropped his harpoon and caught him in his arms. With almost miraculous skill and strength, he sent the fellow flying high into the air. Then Queequeg gave him a light tap on the backside in mid somersault. The fellow landed on his feet, his lungs bursting, while Queequeg turned his back on him, lit his tomahawk pipe, and passed it to me for a puff.

“Capting! Capting!” yelled the bumpkin, running towards that officer; “Capting, Capting, here’s the devil.”

“Captain! Captain!” yelled the country bumpkin, running toward the officer. “Captain, Captain, here’s the devil.”

“Hallo, you sir,” cried the Captain, a gaunt rib of the sea, stalking up to Queequeg, “what in thunder do you mean by that? Don’t you know you might have killed that chap?”

“Hey, you there,” shouted the Captain. Thin as a rib of the sea, he strode up to Queequeg. “What on earth do you mean by that? Don’t you know you could have killed that fellow?”

“What him say?” said Queequeg, as he mildly turned to me.

“What did he say?” Queequeg asked, turning gently to me.

“He say,” said I, “that you came near kill-e that man there,” pointing to the still shivering greenhorn.

“He says you almost killed that man there,” I said, pointing to the inexperienced sailor, who was still shivering.

“Kill-e,” cried Queequeg, twisting his tattooed face into an unearthly expression of disdain, “ah! him bevy small-e fish-e; Queequeg no kill-e so small-e fish-e; Queequeg kill-e big whale!”

“Kill it?” cried Queequeg, twisting his tattooed face into an unearthly expression of disgust. “Ah! That is a very small fish. Queequeg does not kill such small fish. Queequeg kills big whales!”

“Look you,” roared the Captain, “I’ll kill-e you, you cannibal, if you try any more of your tricks aboard here; so mind your eye.”

“Listen,” roared the Captain, “I’ll kill you, you cannibal, if you try any more of your tricks aboard this ship. So watch yourself.”

But it so happened just then, that it was high time for the Captain to mind his own eye. The prodigious strain upon the main-sail had parted the weather-sheet, and the tremendous boom was now flying from side to side, completely sweeping the entire after part of the deck. The poor fellow whom Queequeg had handled so roughly, was swept overboard; all hands were in a panic; and to attempt snatching at the boom to stay it, seemed madness. It flew from right to left, and back again, almost in one ticking of a watch, and every instant seemed on the point of snapping into splinters. Nothing was done, and nothing seemed capable of being done; those on deck rushed towards the bows, and stood eyeing the boom as if it were the lower jaw of an exasperated whale. In the midst of this consternation, Queequeg dropped deftly to his knees, and crawling under the path of the boom, whipped hold of a rope, secured one end to the bulwarks, and then flinging the other like a lasso, caught it round the boom as it swept over his head, and at the next jerk, the spar was that way trapped, and all was safe. The schooner was run into the wind, and while the hands were clearing away the stern boat, Queequeg, stripped to the waist, darted from the side with a long living arc of a leap. For three minutes or more he was seen swimming like a dog, throwing his long arms straight out before him, and by turns revealing his brawny shoulders through the freezing foam. I looked at the grand and glorious fellow, but saw no one to be saved. The greenhorn had gone down. Shooting himself perpendicularly from the water, Queequeg, now took an instant’s glance around him, and seeming to see just how matters were, dived down and disappeared. A few minutes more, and he rose again, one arm still striking out, and with the other dragging a lifeless form. The boat soon picked them up. The poor bumpkin was restored. All hands voted Queequeg a noble trump; the captain begged his pardon. From that hour I clove to Queequeg like a barnacle; yea, till poor Queequeg took his last long dive.

But just then, it was high time for the captain to look out for himself. The enormous strain on the mainsail had snapped the weather sheet, the rope holding the sail on the windward side. The tremendous boom was swinging from side to side, sweeping the entire rear of the deck. It swept overboard the poor fellow Queequeg had handled so roughly. Everyone panicked, and trying to grab the boom and stop it seemed like madness. It flew from right to left and back again, almost in a single tick of a watch. Every instant, it seemed about to snap into splinters. Nothing was done, and nothing seemed possible. Those on deck rushed toward the bow and watched the boom as if it were an angry whale’s lower jaw. In the middle of this confusion, Queequeg dropped quickly to his knees and crawled beneath the swinging boom. He grabbed a rope and secured one end to the ship’s side. Then he threw the other end like a lasso, catching it around the boom as it swept overhead. At the next jerk, the rope trapped the boom, and all was safe. The schooner was turned into the wind. While the crew were getting the boat at the stern ready, Queequeg stripped to the waist. He leaped from the side in one long, living arc. For three minutes or more, he swam like a dog, throwing his long arms straight out before him. His muscular shoulders emerged in turn through the freezing foam. I watched the grand and glorious fellow, but I saw no one to be saved. The greenhorn had gone under. Queequeg thrust himself upright out of the water and took a quick look around. Seeming to understand exactly what had happened, he dived down and disappeared. A few minutes later, he rose again, swimming with one arm and dragging a lifeless body with the other. The boat soon picked them up, and the poor country fellow was brought back to life. Everyone agreed that Queequeg was a truly noble fellow, and the captain begged his pardon. From that hour, I clung to Queequeg like a barnacle, right up until poor Queequeg took his last long dive.

Was there ever such unconsciousness? He did not seem to think that he at all deserved a medal from the Humane and Magnanimous Societies. He only asked for water—fresh water—something to wipe the brine off; that done, he put on dry clothes, lighted his pipe, and leaning against the bulwarks, and mildly eyeing those around him, seemed to be saying to himself—“It’s a mutual, joint-stock world, in all meridians. We cannibals must help these Christians.”

Was anyone ever so unaware of his own courage? He did not seem to think he deserved a medal from the Humane and Magnanimous Societies. He only asked for fresh water to wipe off the salt water. Afterward, he put on dry clothes and lit his pipe. He leaned against the ship’s rail and looked calmly at the people around him. He seemed to be saying to himself, “Everywhere in the world, we all depend on one another. We cannibals must help these Christians.”