The Ship

In bed we concocted our plans for the morrow. But to my surprise and no small concern, Queequeg now gave me to understand, that he had been diligently consulting Yojo—the name of his black little god—and Yojo had told him two or three times over, and strongly insisted upon it everyway, that instead of our going together among the whaling-fleet in harbor, and in concert selecting our craft; instead of this, I say, Yojo earnestly enjoined that the selection of the ship should rest wholly with me, inasmuch as Yojo purposed befriending us; and, in order to do so, had already pitched upon a vessel, which, if left to myself, I, Ishmael, should infallibly light upon, for all the world as though it had turned out by chance; and in that vessel I must immediately ship myself, for the present irrespective of Queequeg.

In bed, we made our plans for the next day. But Queequeg surprised and greatly concerned me with what he said. He had been diligently consulting Yojo, his little black god. Yojo had told him two or three times, and insisted in every way, that I alone should choose our ship. We were not to go together among the whaling fleet in the harbor and choose a ship together. Yojo intended to help us and had already picked out a vessel. If left to myself, I, Ishmael, would certainly find it, just as if by chance. And I was to sign aboard that vessel immediately, without regard to Queequeg for the time being.

I have forgotten to mention that, in many things, Queequeg placed great confidence in the excellence of Yojo’s judgment and surprising forecast of things; and cherished Yojo with considerable esteem, as a rather good sort of god, who perhaps meant well enough upon the whole, but in all cases did not succeed in his benevolent designs.

I forgot to mention that Queequeg trusted Yojo’s judgment and surprising ability to foresee events in many matters. He held Yojo in high regard as a fairly good sort of god. Yojo perhaps meant well on the whole, but did not always succeed in his kind intentions.

Now, this plan of Queequeg’s, or rather Yojo’s, touching the selection of our craft; I did not like that plan at all. I had not a little relied upon Queequeg’s sagacity to point out the whaler best fitted to carry us and our fortunes securely. But as all my remonstrances produced no effect upon Queequeg, I was obliged to acquiesce; and accordingly prepared to set about this business with a determined rushing sort of energy and vigor, that should quickly settle that trifling little affair. Next morning early, leaving Queequeg shut up with Yojo in our little bedroom—for it seemed that it was some sort of Lent or Ramadan, or day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer with Queequeg and Yojo that day; how it was I never could find out, for, though I applied myself to it several times, I never could master his liturgies and XXXIX Articles—leaving Queequeg, then, fasting on his tomahawk pipe, and Yojo warming himself at his sacrificial fire of shavings, I sallied out among the shipping. After much prolonged sauntering and many random inquiries, I learnt that there were three ships up for three-years’ voyages—The Devil-dam, the Tit-bit, and the Pequod. Devil-Dam, I do not know the origin of; Tit-bit is obvious; Pequod, you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated tribe of Massachusetts Indians; now extinct as the ancient Medes. I peered and pryed about the Devil-dam; from her, hopped over to the Tit-bit; and finally, going on board the Pequod, looked around her for a moment, and then decided that this was the very ship for us.

Now, I did not like Queequeg’s plan for choosing our ship at all. Or rather, it was Yojo’s plan. I had counted heavily on Queequeg’s good judgment to find the whaler best suited to carry us and our fortunes safely. But none of my objections had any effect on Queequeg, so I had to give in. I prepared to tackle the task with a rush of energy and vigor, determined to settle that trivial little matter quickly. Early the next morning, I left Queequeg shut up with Yojo in our little bedroom. It seemed that the day was some kind of Lent or Ramadan for Queequeg and Yojo, a day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer. I could never find out how it was observed. Though I tried several times, I never could master his liturgies and XXXIX Articles. So I left Queequeg fasting on his tomahawk pipe, and Yojo warming himself at his sacrificial fire of wood shavings, and went out among the ships. After wandering around for a long time and making many random inquiries, I learned that three ships were available for three-year voyages: The Devil-dam, the Tit-bit, and the Pequod. I do not know where the name Devil-Dam comes from. Tit-bit is obvious. Pequod, as you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated tribe of Massachusetts Indians, now as extinct as the ancient Medes. I looked and poked around the Devil-dam, then hopped over to the Tit-bit. Finally, I went aboard the Pequod and looked around her for a moment. Then I decided that this was the very ship for us.

You may have seen many a quaint craft in your day, for aught I know;—square-toed luggers; mountainous Japanese junks; butter-box galliots, and what not; but take my word for it, you never saw such a rare old craft as this same rare old Pequod. She was a ship of the old school, rather small if anything; with an old-fashioned claw-footed look about her. Long seasoned and weather-stained in the typhoons and calms of all four oceans, her old hull’s complexion was darkened like a French grenadier’s, who has alike fought in Egypt and Siberia. Her venerable bows looked bearded. Her masts—cut somewhere on the coast of Japan, where her original ones were lost overboard in a gale—her masts stood stiffly up like the spines of the three old kings of Cologne. Her ancient decks were worn and wrinkled, like the pilgrim-worshipped flag-stone in Canterbury Cathedral where Becket bled. But to all these her old antiquities, were added new and marvellous features, pertaining to the wild business that for more than half a century she had followed. Old Captain Peleg, many years her chief-mate, before he commanded another vessel of his own, and now a retired seaman, and one of the principal owners of the Pequod,—this old Peleg, during the term of his chief-mateship, had built upon her original grotesqueness, and inlaid it, all over, with a quaintness both of material and device, unmatched by anything except it be Thorkill-Hake’s carved buckler or bedstead. She was apparelled like any barbaric Ethiopian emperor, his neck heavy with pendants of polished ivory. She was a thing of trophies. A cannibal of a craft, tricking herself forth in the chased bones of her enemies. All round, her unpanelled, open bulwarks were garnished like one continuous jaw, with the long sharp teeth of the sperm whale, inserted there for pins, to fasten her old hempen thews and tendons to. Those thews ran not through base blocks of land wood, but deftly travelled over sheaves of sea-ivory. Scorning a turnstile wheel at her reverend helm, she sported there a tiller; and that tiller was in one mass, curiously carved from the long narrow lower jaw of her hereditary foe. The helmsman who steered by that tiller in a tempest, felt like the Tartar, when he holds back his fiery steed by clutching its jaw. A noble craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All noble things are touched with that.

You may have seen many strange vessels in your time, for all I know: square-toed luggers, mountainous Japanese junks, butter-box galliots, and all sorts of others. But take my word for it, you have never seen a rare old vessel like the Pequod. She was an old-fashioned ship, rather small if anything, with a look like a piece of old claw-footed furniture. Her hull had been seasoned and stained by years of typhoons and calms in all four oceans. It was as dark as a French grenadier who had fought in both Egypt and Siberia. Her venerable bow looked bearded. Her original masts had been lost overboard in a gale. Their replacements, cut somewhere on the coast of Japan, stood stiffly like the spines of the three old kings of Cologne. Her ancient decks were worn and wrinkled. They looked like the flagstone in Canterbury Cathedral where Becket bled, worshipped by pilgrims. But these old signs of age were joined by new and marvelous features. They came from the wild business the ship had pursued for more than half a century. Old Captain Peleg had been her chief mate for many years before commanding another vessel of his own. He was now a retired sailor and one of the Pequod's principal owners. While he was her chief mate, Peleg had built on her original grotesqueness. He had decorated her all over with strange materials and designs. Nothing could match them, except perhaps Thorkill-Hake's carved shield or bedstead. She was dressed like a barbaric Ethiopian emperor, his neck heavy with polished ivory pendants. She was covered in trophies, a cannibal of a vessel dressed in the carved bones of her enemies. All around her open, unpaneled bulwarks, long, sharp sperm whale teeth had been set like one continuous jaw. They served as pins for fastening her old hemp ropes, her muscles and tendons. Those ropes did not run through ordinary wooden blocks from the land. Instead, they passed smoothly over pulleys made of sea ivory. Rejecting a wheel at her venerable helm, she showed off a tiller instead. The tiller was carved in one piece from the long, narrow lower jaw of her longtime enemy. In a tempest, the helmsman who steered with it felt like a Tartar holding back his fiery horse by gripping its jaw. A noble vessel, but somehow a most melancholy one! All noble things are touched with melancholy.

Now when I looked about the quarter-deck, for some one having authority, in order to propose myself as a candidate for the voyage, at first I saw nobody; but I could not well overlook a strange sort of tent, or rather wigwam, pitched a little behind the main-mast. It seemed only a temporary erection used in port. It was of a conical shape, some ten feet high; consisting of the long, huge slabs of limber black bone taken from the middle and highest part of the jaws of the right-whale. Planted with their broad ends on the deck, a circle of these slabs laced together, mutually sloped towards each other, and at the apex united in a tufted point, where the loose hairy fibres waved to and fro like the top-knot on some old Pottowottamie Sachem’s head. A triangular opening faced towards the bows of the ship, so that the insider commanded a complete view forward.

I looked around the quarterdeck for someone in authority, so I could offer myself as a candidate for the voyage. At first I saw nobody. But I could hardly miss a strange sort of tent, or rather wigwam, pitched a little behind the mainmast. It seemed to be a temporary structure used while the ship was in port. It was cone-shaped and about ten feet high. It was made of long, huge slabs of flexible black bone from the middle and highest part of a right whale’s jaws. The slabs stood in a circle, with their broad ends planted on the deck. They were laced together and leaned toward one another, meeting at the top in a tufted point. There, loose hairy fibers waved back and forth like the topknot on an old Pottowottamie Sachem’s head. A triangular opening faced the ship’s bow, so that anyone inside had a complete view forward.

And half concealed in this queer tenement, I at length found one who by his aspect seemed to have authority; and who, it being noon, and the ship’s work suspended, was now enjoying respite from the burden of command. He was seated on an old-fashioned oaken chair, wriggling all over with curious carving; and the bottom of which was formed of a stout interlacing of the same elastic stuff of which the wigwam was constructed.

At last, I found a man half hidden in this strange dwelling. He looked as though he had authority. Since it was noon and the ship's work had stopped, he was taking a break from the burden of command. He sat in an old-fashioned oak chair covered in intricate carvings. Its seat was made of sturdy strips of the same flexible material used to build the wigwam.

There was nothing so very particular, perhaps, about the appearance of the elderly man I saw; he was brown and brawny, like most old seamen, and heavily rolled up in blue pilot-cloth, cut in the Quaker style; only there was a fine and almost microscopic net-work of the minutest wrinkles interlacing round his eyes, which must have arisen from his continual sailings in many hard gales, and always looking to windward;—for this causes the muscles about the eyes to become pursed together. Such eye-wrinkles are very effectual in a scowl.

Perhaps there was nothing especially distinctive about the elderly man I saw. He was tanned and muscular, like most old sailors, and wrapped in a heavy blue pilot-cloth coat cut in the Quaker style. But a fine, almost microscopic web of tiny wrinkles crossed around his eyes. The wrinkles must have come from his constant voyages through many fierce gales, always looking into the wind. Looking into the wind makes the muscles around the eyes bunch together. Such wrinkles make a scowl especially effective.

“Is this the Captain of the Pequod?” said I, advancing to the door of the tent.

“Is this the captain of the Pequod?” I asked, approaching the tent’s entrance.

“Supposing it be the captain of the Pequod, what dost thou want of him?” he demanded.

“If it is the captain of the Pequod, what do you want with him?” he demanded.

“I was thinking of shipping.”

“I was thinking of signing on with a ship.”

“Thou wast, wast thou? I see thou art no Nantucketer—ever been in a stove boat?”

“You were, were you? I see you’re no Nantucketer. Ever been in a boat that was smashed in?”

“No, Sir, I never have.”

“No, sir, I never have.”

“Dost know nothing at all about whaling, I dare say—eh?

“You don't know anything at all about whaling, I suppose, eh?

“Nothing, Sir; but I have no doubt I shall soon learn. I’ve been several voyages in the merchant service, and I think that—”

“Nothing, sir. But I have no doubt I’ll soon learn. I’ve been on several voyages on merchant ships, and I think that...”

“Merchant service be damned. Talk not that lingo to me. Dost see that leg?—I’ll take that leg away from thy stern, if ever thou talkest of the marchant service to me again. Marchant service indeed! I suppose now ye feel considerable proud of having served in those marchant ships. But flukes! man, what makes thee want to go a whaling, eh?—it looks a little suspicious, don’t it, eh?—Hast not been a pirate, hast thou?—Didst not rob thy last Captain, didst thou?—Dost not think of murdering the officers when thou gettest to sea?”

“Damn the merchant service. Don’t talk to me like that. See that leg? I’ll take that leg away from your backside if you ever mention the merchant service to me again. Merchant service indeed! I suppose you’re pretty proud of having served on those merchant ships. But flukes, man, why do you want to go whaling, eh? It looks a little suspicious, doesn’t it, eh? You haven’t been a pirate, have you? You didn’t rob your last captain, did you? You’re not planning to murder the officers when you get to sea, are you?”

I protested my innocence of these things. I saw that under the mask of these half humorous innuendoes, this old seaman, as an insulated Quakerish Nantucketer, was full of his insular prejudices, and rather distrustful of all aliens, unless they hailed from Cape Cod or the Vineyard.

I protested that I was innocent of these things. I could see that behind his half humorous hints, the old seaman had the narrow prejudices of an isolated, Quaker-like Nantucketer. He was rather distrustful of all outsiders, unless they came from Cape Cod or the Vineyard.

“But what takes thee a-whaling? I want to know that before I think of shipping ye.”

“But why do you want to go whaling? I want to know before I consider taking you on as a crew member.”

“Well, sir, I want to see what whaling is. I want to see the world.”

“Well, sir, I want to see what whaling is like. I want to see the world.”

“Want to see what whaling is, eh? Have ye clapped eye on Captain Ahab?”

“Want to see what whaling is like, eh? Have you seen Captain Ahab?”

“Who is Captain Ahab, sir?”

“Who is Captain Ahab, sir?”

“Aye, aye, I thought so. Captain Ahab is the Captain of this ship.”

“Yes, yes, I thought so. Captain Ahab is the captain of this ship.”

“I am mistaken then. I thought I was speaking to the Captain himself.”

“Then I was mistaken. I thought I was speaking to the Captain himself.”

“Thou art speaking to Captain Peleg—that’s who ye are speaking to, young man. It belongs to me and Captain Bildad to see the Pequod fitted out for the voyage, and supplied with all her needs, including crew. We are part owners and agents. But as I was going to say, if thou wantest to know what whaling is, as thou tellest ye do, I can put ye in a way of finding it out before ye bind yourself to it, past backing out. Clap eye on Captain Ahab, young man, and thou wilt find that he has only one leg.”

“You’re speaking to Captain Peleg, young man. Captain Bildad and I are responsible for outfitting the Pequod for the voyage and supplying everything she needs, including a crew. We’re part owners and agents. But as I was saying, you say you want to know what whaling is like. If you do, I can show you a way to find out before you commit yourself and can’t back out. Take a look at Captain Ahab, young man, and you’ll see he has only one leg.”

“What do you mean, sir? Was the other one lost by a whale?”

“What do you mean, sir? Did you lose the other one to a whale?”

“Lost by a whale! Young man, come nearer to me: it was devoured, chewed up, crunched by the monstrousest parmacetty that ever chipped a boat!—ah, ah!”

“Lost to a whale! Young man, come closer. It was devoured, chewed up, and crushed by the most monstrous parmacetty that ever smashed a boat! Ah, ah!”

I was a little alarmed by his energy, perhaps also a little touched at the hearty grief in his concluding exclamation, but said as calmly as I could, “What you say is no doubt true enough, sir; but how could I know there was any peculiar ferocity in that particular whale, though indeed I might have inferred as much from the simple fact of the accident.”

I was a little alarmed by his intensity, and perhaps a little moved by the deep grief in his final exclamation. But I said as calmly as I could, “What you say is no doubt true enough, sir. But how could I know that particular whale was unusually fierce? Though I might indeed have guessed as much from the accident itself.”

“Look ye now, young man, thy lungs are a sort of soft, d’ye see; thou dost not talk shark a bit. Sure, ye’ve been to sea before now; sure of that?”

“Look here, young man, your lungs are a bit soft, you see. You don’t talk shark at all. Sure, you’ve been to sea before. Are you sure of that?”

“Sir,” said I, “I thought I told you that I had been four voyages in the merchant—”

“Sir,” I said, “I thought I told you I had been on four merchant voyages...”

“Hard down out of that! Mind what I said about the marchant service—don’t aggravate me—I won’t have it. But let us understand each other. I have given thee a hint about what whaling is; do ye yet feel inclined for it?”

“Stop right there! Remember what I said about the merchant service. Don’t aggravate me. I won’t stand for it. But let’s understand each other. I’ve given you a hint of what whaling is like. Do you still want to try it?”

“I do, sir.”

“I do, sir.”

“Very good. Now, art thou the man to pitch a harpoon down a live whale’s throat, and then jump after it? Answer, quick!”

“Very good. Now, are you the man to throw a harpoon down a live whale’s throat and then jump after it? Answer quickly!”

“I am, sir, if it should be positively indispensable to do so; not to be got rid of, that is; which I don’t take to be the fact.”

“I am, sir, if it’s absolutely necessary. I mean, if there’s no way around it. But I don’t believe that’s the case.”

“Good again. Now then, thou not only wantest to go a-whaling, to find out by experience what whaling is, but ye also want to go in order to see the world? Was not that what ye said? I thought so. Well then, just step forward there, and take a peep over the weather-bow, and then back to me and tell me what ye see there.”

“Good again. Now then, you want to go whaling not only to find out what it is like through experience. You also want to see the world? Wasn't that what you said? I thought so. Well then, just step forward and take a peek over the weather-bow. Then come back and tell me what you see there.”

For a moment I stood a little puzzled by this curious request, not knowing exactly how to take it, whether humorously or in earnest. But concentrating all his crow’s feet into one scowl, Captain Peleg started me on the errand.

For a moment, I stood there puzzled by this strange request. I wasn't sure whether it was a joke or serious. But Captain Peleg drew all his crow's feet into a scowl and sent me on the errand.

Going forward and glancing over the weather bow, I perceived that the ship swinging to her anchor with the flood-tide, was now obliquely pointing towards the open ocean. The prospect was unlimited, but exceedingly monotonous and forbidding; not the slightest variety that I could see.

I walked forward and glanced over the windward side of the bow. The ship was swinging on its anchor with the incoming tide and now pointed at an angle toward the open ocean. The view was endless, but extremely monotonous and forbidding. I could see no variety at all.

“Well, what’s the report?” said Peleg when I came back; “what did ye see?”

“Well, what’s the news?” Peleg asked when I came back. “What did you see?”

“Not much,” I replied—“nothing but water; considerable horizon though, and there’s a squall coming up, I think.”

“Not much,” I replied. “Nothing but water. A lot of horizon, though, and I think a squall is coming.”

“Well, what does thou think then of seeing the world? Do ye wish to go round Cape Horn to see any more of it, eh? Can’t ye see the world where you stand?”

“Well, what do you think about seeing the world? Do you want to go around Cape Horn to see more of it, eh? Can’t you see the world right where you stand?”

I was a little staggered, but go a-whaling I must, and I would; and the Pequod was as good a ship as any—I thought the best—and all this I now repeated to Peleg. Seeing me so determined, he expressed his willingness to ship me.

I was a little shaken, but I had to go whaling, and I would. The Pequod was as good a ship as any. I thought it was the best. I repeated all this to Peleg. Seeing how determined I was, he said he was willing to take me on as a crew member.

“And thou mayest as well sign the papers right off,” he added—“come along with ye.” And so saying, he led the way below deck into the cabin.

“And you might as well sign the papers right away,” he added. “Come along.” With that, he led the way below deck into the cabin.

Seated on the transom was what seemed to me a most uncommon and surprising figure. It turned out to be Captain Bildad, who along with Captain Peleg was one of the largest owners of the vessel; the other shares, as is sometimes the case in these ports, being held by a crowd of old annuitants; widows, fatherless children, and chancery wards; each owning about the value of a timber head, or a foot of plank, or a nail or two in the ship. People in Nantucket invest their money in whaling vessels, the same way that you do yours in approved state stocks bringing in good interest.

Sitting on the bench was someone who struck me as a very unusual and surprising figure. He turned out to be Captain Bildad. He and Captain Peleg were among the largest owners of the ship. As sometimes happens in these ports, the other shares were held by a crowd of elderly people living on fixed incomes, widows, fatherless children, and children under court guardianship. Each owned about the value of a timber head, a foot of plank, or a nail or two in the ship. People in Nantucket invest their money in whaling ships, just as you invest yours in reliable government bonds that pay good interest.

Now, Bildad, like Peleg, and indeed many other Nantucketers, was a Quaker, the island having been originally settled by that sect; and to this day its inhabitants in general retain in an uncommon measure the peculiarities of the Quaker, only variously and anomalously modified by things altogether alien and heterogeneous. For some of these same Quakers are the most sanguinary of all sailors and whale-hunters. They are fighting Quakers; they are Quakers with a vengeance.

Now, Bildad, like Peleg and many other Nantucketers, was a Quaker. The island had originally been settled by that religious group. To this day, its inhabitants generally retain an unusual number of Quaker traits. Yet those traits have been changed in various odd ways by things entirely foreign to them. For some of these same Quakers are the bloodiest of all sailors and whale hunters. They are fighting Quakers. They are Quakers with a vengeance.

So that there are instances among them of men, who, named with Scripture names—a singularly common fashion on the island—and in childhood naturally imbibing the stately dramatic thee and thou of the Quaker idiom; still, from the audacious, daring, and boundless adventure of their subsequent lives, strangely blend with these unoutgrown peculiarities, a thousand bold dashes of character, not unworthy a Scandinavian sea-king, or a poetical Pagan Roman. And when these things unite in a man of greatly superior natural force, with a globular brain and a ponderous heart; who has also by the stillness and seclusion of many long night-watches in the remotest waters, and beneath constellations never seen here at the north, been led to think untraditionally and independently; receiving all nature’s sweet or savage impressions fresh from her own virgin voluntary and confiding breast, and thereby chiefly, but with some help from accidental advantages, to learn a bold and nervous lofty language—that man makes one in a whole nation’s census—a mighty pageant creature, formed for noble tragedies. Nor will it at all detract from him, dramatically regarded, if either by birth or other circumstances, he have what seems a half wilful overruling morbidness at the bottom of his nature. For all men tragically great are made so through a certain morbidness. Be sure of this, O young ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease. But, as yet we have not to do with such an one, but with quite another; and still a man, who, if indeed peculiar, it only results again from another phase of the Quaker, modified by individual circumstances.

Some of these men have names from Scripture, a remarkably common fashion on the island. As children, they naturally absorbed the stately, dramatic “thee” and “thou” of Quaker speech. They never outgrew these habits. Yet their later lives of daring, reckless, and limitless adventure added countless bold traits to their characters. These traits would have been worthy of a Scandinavian sea-king or a Pagan Roman of poetry. Sometimes these qualities come together in a man of far greater natural force, with a round brain and a weighty heart. He has also spent many long, quiet night watches alone in the most distant waters. There, beneath constellations never seen here in the north, he has come to think independently, without regard for tradition. He has received all nature’s gentle or savage impressions fresh from her own untouched, freely giving, and trusting breast. Through these experiences above all, though aided by some advantages of chance, he has learned a bold, vigorous, lofty language. Such a man is one in a whole nation’s census, a magnificent figure made for noble tragedies. Nor, from a dramatic point of view, will his stature suffer if a dark tendency lies deep in his nature. Whether it comes from birth or circumstance, this tendency seems partly willful and rules over him. For all men who are tragically great are made so by a certain darkness of spirit. Be sure of this, young ambition: all mortal greatness is but disease. But we are not yet concerned with such a man. We have to do with quite another, who, if he is peculiar, is so only because he represents another side of the Quaker, shaped by his individual circumstances.

Like Captain Peleg, Captain Bildad was a well-to-do, retired whaleman. But unlike Captain Peleg—who cared not a rush for what are called serious things, and indeed deemed those self-same serious things the veriest of all trifles—Captain Bildad had not only been originally educated according to the strictest sect of Nantucket Quakerism, but all his subsequent ocean life, and the sight of many unclad, lovely island creatures, round the Horn—all that had not moved this native born Quaker one single jot, had not so much as altered one angle of his vest. Still, for all this immutableness, was there some lack of common consistency about worthy Captain Bildad. Though refusing, from conscientious scruples, to bear arms against land invaders, yet himself had illimitably invaded the Atlantic and Pacific; and though a sworn foe to human bloodshed, yet had he in his straight-bodied coat, spilled tuns upon tuns of leviathan gore. How now in the contemplative evening of his days, the pious Bildad reconciled these things in the reminiscence, I do not know; but it did not seem to concern him much, and very probably he had long since come to the sage and sensible conclusion that a man’s religion is one thing, and this practical world quite another. This world pays dividends. Rising from a little cabin-boy in short clothes of the drabbest drab, to a harpooneer in a broad shad-bellied waistcoat; from that becoming boat-header, chief-mate, and captain, and finally a ship owner; Bildad, as I hinted before, had concluded his adventurous career by wholly retiring from active life at the goodly age of sixty, and dedicating his remaining days to the quiet receiving of his well-earned income.

Like Captain Peleg, Captain Bildad was a wealthy, retired whaleman. But Captain Peleg cared nothing for what people called serious matters. In fact, he considered those very matters the most trivial things of all. Captain Bildad, by contrast, had been raised in the strictest sect of Nantucket Quakerism. All his later life at sea had not changed this native-born Quaker one bit. Even the sight of many lovely, unclothed islanders around Cape Horn had not changed him. It had not so much as altered one angle of his vest. Yet, for all his unchanging ways, worthy Captain Bildad was not entirely consistent. His conscience kept him from taking up arms against invaders on land. Yet he himself had invaded the Atlantic and Pacific without limit. And though he was a sworn enemy of human bloodshed, he had spilled tons upon tons of whale blood. He had done it all in his straight-cut Quaker coat. I do not know how the pious Bildad reconciled these things as he reflected in the twilight of his life. But the contradiction did not seem to trouble him much. Very likely, he had long ago reached a wise and sensible conclusion. A man’s religion is one thing, and the practical world quite another. This world pays dividends. Bildad had risen from a little cabin boy in short clothes of the dullest gray-brown to a harpooneer in a broad, shad-bellied waistcoat. From there, he became a boat-header, chief mate, captain, and finally a shipowner. As I hinted before, Bildad ended his adventurous career by retiring completely from active life at the ripe age of sixty. He dedicated his remaining days to quietly collecting his well-earned income.

Now, Bildad, I am sorry to say, had the reputation of being an incorrigible old hunks, and in his sea-going days, a bitter, hard task-master. They told me in Nantucket, though it certainly seems a curious story, that when he sailed the old Categut whaleman, his crew, upon arriving home, were mostly all carried ashore to the hospital, sore exhausted and worn out. For a pious man, especially for a Quaker, he was certainly rather hard-hearted, to say the least. He never used to swear, though, at his men, they said; but somehow he got an inordinate quantity of cruel, unmitigated hard work out of them. When Bildad was a chief-mate, to have his drab-coloured eye intently looking at you, made you feel completely nervous, till you could clutch something—a hammer or a marling-spike, and go to work like mad, at something or other, never mind what. Indolence and idleness perished before him. His own person was the exact embodiment of his utilitarian character. On his long, gaunt body, he carried no spare flesh, no superfluous beard, his chin having a soft, economical nap to it, like the worn nap of his broad-brimmed hat.

Now, I am sorry to say that Bildad had a reputation as a hopeless old miser. In his seafaring days, he had been a harsh, bitter taskmaster. People in Nantucket told me a curious story about his time sailing the old whaling ship Categut. When his crew returned home, most of them had to be carried ashore to the hospital, utterly exhausted and worn out. For a religious man, especially a Quaker, he was certainly rather hard-hearted, to say the least. They said he never swore at his men, though. Somehow, he still got an excessive amount of cruel, unrelenting hard work out of them. When Bildad was a chief mate, a fixed stare from his dull-colored eye made you terribly nervous. You felt that way until you could grab something, a hammer or a marling-spike, and work like mad at something, anything at all. Laziness and idleness could not survive in his presence. His own body perfectly embodied his practical character. His long, gaunt frame carried no spare flesh or unnecessary beard. His chin had a soft, sparse fuzz, like the worn nap on his broad-brimmed hat.

Such, then, was the person that I saw seated on the transom when I followed Captain Peleg down into the cabin. The space between the decks was small; and there, bolt-upright, sat old Bildad, who always sat so, and never leaned, and this to save his coat tails. His broad-brim was placed beside him; his legs were stiffly crossed; his drab vesture was buttoned up to his chin; and spectacles on nose, he seemed absorbed in reading from a ponderous volume.

That was the man I saw sitting on the bench when I followed Captain Peleg down into the cabin. There was little space between the decks. Old Bildad sat there perfectly upright. He always sat that way and never leaned back, so he would not wear out his coat tails. His broad-brimmed hat lay beside him, and his legs were crossed stiffly. His plain clothes were buttoned up to his chin. With spectacles on his nose, he seemed absorbed in a large, heavy book.

“Bildad,” cried Captain Peleg, “at it again, Bildad, eh? Ye have been studying those Scriptures, now, for the last thirty years, to my certain knowledge. How far ye got, Bildad?”

“Bildad,” cried Captain Peleg, “reading those Scriptures again, are you? I know you’ve been studying them for the last thirty years. How far have you gotten, Bildad?”

As if long habituated to such profane talk from his old shipmate, Bildad, without noticing his present irreverence, quietly looked up, and seeing me, glanced again inquiringly towards Peleg.

Bildad seemed long used to such profane talk from his old shipmate. Without reacting to Peleg’s irreverence, he quietly looked up. When he saw me, he glanced at Peleg again, as if asking a question.

“He says he’s our man, Bildad,” said Peleg, “he wants to ship.”

“He says he’s the man we’re looking for, Bildad,” said Peleg. “He wants to join the crew.”

“Dost thee?” said Bildad, in a hollow tone, and turning round to me.

“Do you?” Bildad said in a hollow voice, turning to me.

“I dost,” said I unconsciously, he was so intense a Quaker.

“I do,” I said without thinking, because he was such an intense Quaker.

“What do ye think of him, Bildad?” said Peleg.

“What do you think of him, Bildad?” said Peleg.

“He’ll do,” said Bildad, eyeing me, and then went on spelling away at his book in a mumbling tone quite audible.

“He’ll do,” said Bildad, looking me over. Then he went back to reading his book, mumbling loudly enough to be heard.

I thought him the queerest old Quaker I ever saw, especially as Peleg, his friend and old shipmate, seemed such a blusterer. But I said nothing, only looking round me sharply. Peleg now threw open a chest, and drawing forth the ship’s articles, placed pen and ink before him, and seated himself at a little table. I began to think it was high time to settle with myself at what terms I would be willing to engage for the voyage. I was already aware that in the whaling business they paid no wages; but all hands, including the captain, received certain shares of the profits called lays, and that these lays were proportioned to the degree of importance pertaining to the respective duties of the ship’s company. I was also aware that being a green hand at whaling, my own lay would not be very large; but considering that I was used to the sea, could steer a ship, splice a rope, and all that, I made no doubt that from all I had heard I should be offered at least the 275th lay—that is, the 275th part of the clear net proceeds of the voyage, whatever that might eventually amount to. And though the 275th lay was what they call a rather long lay, yet it was better than nothing; and if we had a lucky voyage, might pretty nearly pay for the clothing I would wear out on it, not to speak of my three years’ beef and board, for which I would not have to pay one stiver.

I thought he was the strangest old Quaker I had ever seen. His friend and old shipmate Peleg seemed such a blustering fellow. But I said nothing and looked around me carefully. Peleg opened a chest and took out the ship’s articles. He placed pen and ink before him and sat down at a small table. I began to think it was time to decide what terms I would accept for the voyage. I already knew that whaling ships paid no wages. Instead, everyone aboard, including the captain, received a share of the profits called a lay. Each share depended on the importance of the person’s duties aboard ship. I also knew that, as a beginner at whaling, I would not receive a very large share. But I was used to the sea. I could steer a ship, splice a rope, and so on. From all I had heard, I had no doubt I would be offered at least the 275th lay. That meant one 275th of the voyage’s net profits, whatever those might eventually be. The 275th lay was what they called a rather long lay, but it was better than nothing. And if we had a lucky voyage, it might nearly pay for the clothes I would wear out. That was not to mention my food and lodging for three years, for which I would not have to pay a penny.

It might be thought that this was a poor way to accumulate a princely fortune—and so it was, a very poor way indeed. But I am one of those that never take on about princely fortunes, and am quite content if the world is ready to board and lodge me, while I am putting up at this grim sign of the Thunder Cloud. Upon the whole, I thought that the 275th lay would be about the fair thing, but would not have been surprised had I been offered the 200th, considering I was of a broad-shouldered make.

You might think this was a poor way to build a princely fortune. And it was, a very poor way indeed. But I am not one to worry about princely fortunes. I am content if the world will give me food and lodging while I stay at this grim sign of the Thunder Cloud. On the whole, I thought a 275th lay would be fair. But given my broad shoulders, I would not have been surprised to be offered a 200th lay.

But one thing, nevertheless, that made me a little distrustful about receiving a generous share of the profits was this: Ashore, I had heard something of both Captain Peleg and his unaccountable old crony Bildad; how that they being the principal proprietors of the Pequod, therefore the other and more inconsiderable and scattered owners, left nearly the whole management of the ship’s affairs to these two. And I did not know but what the stingy old Bildad might have a mighty deal to say about shipping hands, especially as I now found him on board the Pequod, quite at home there in the cabin, and reading his Bible as if at his own fireside. Now while Peleg was vainly trying to mend a pen with his jack-knife, old Bildad, to my no small surprise, considering that he was such an interested party in these proceedings; Bildad never heeded us, but went on mumbling to himself out of his book, “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth—”

But one thing made me a little doubtful that I would get a generous share of the profits. Ashore, I had heard something about Captain Peleg and his strange old friend Bildad. They were the principal owners of the Pequod. So the other owners, who had smaller shares and were scattered about, left nearly all the ship’s business to them. I thought stingy old Bildad might have a great deal to say about hiring crew. That seemed especially possible now that I found him aboard the Pequod. He was quite at home in the cabin, reading his Bible as if he were sitting by his own fireside. Now Peleg was trying in vain to mend a pen with his pocketknife. Old Bildad paid us no attention and kept mumbling to himself from his book. This surprised me, since he had such a stake in what was going on. He read, “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth...”

“Well, Captain Bildad,” interrupted Peleg, “what d’ye say, what lay shall we give this young man?”

“Well, Captain Bildad,” Peleg interrupted, “what do you say? What share of the profits should we give this young man?”

“Thou knowest best,” was the sepulchral reply, “the seven hundred and seventy-seventh wouldn’t be too much, would it?—‘where moth and rust do corrupt, but lay—’”

“You know best,” came the hollow reply. “The seven hundred and seventy-seventh wouldn’t be too much, would it? ‘Where moth and rust corrupt, but lay...’”

Lay, indeed, thought I, and such a lay! the seven hundred and seventy-seventh! Well, old Bildad, you are determined that I, for one, shall not lay up many lays here below, where moth and rust do corrupt. It was an exceedingly long lay that, indeed; and though from the magnitude of the figure it might at first deceive a landsman, yet the slightest consideration will show that though seven hundred and seventy-seven is a pretty large number, yet, when you come to make a teenth of it, you will then see, I say, that the seven hundred and seventy-seventh part of a farthing is a good deal less than seven hundred and seventy-seven gold doubloons; and so I thought at the time.

A share, indeed, I thought, and what a share! One seven hundred and seventy-seventh! Well, old Bildad, you are determined that I, for one, won't lay up many shares here on earth, where moth and rust destroy them. That was an exceptionally long lay, indeed. The size of the number might fool a landlubber at first. But a moment's thought will show that, although seven hundred and seventy-seven is a pretty large number, a fraction of that size is another matter. One seven hundred and seventy-seventh of a farthing is a good deal less than seven hundred and seventy-seven gold doubloons. That was what I thought at the time.

“Why, blast your eyes, Bildad,” cried Peleg, “thou dost not want to swindle this young man! he must have more than that.”

“Damn it, Bildad,” cried Peleg, “you don’t want to swindle this young man! He must have more than that.”

“Seven hundred and seventy-seventh,” again said Bildad, without lifting his eyes; and then went on mumbling—“for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

“Seven hundred and seventy-seventh,” Bildad said again, without looking up. Then he went on mumbling, “for where your treasure is, your heart will be there too.”

“I am going to put him down for the three hundredth,” said Peleg, “do ye hear that, Bildad! The three hundredth lay, I say.”

“I’m going to sign him up for a one three-hundredth share,” said Peleg. “Do you hear that, Bildad? A one three-hundredth share, I say.”

Bildad laid down his book, and turning solemnly towards him said, “Captain Peleg, thou hast a generous heart; but thou must consider the duty thou owest to the other owners of this ship—widows and orphans, many of them—and that if we too abundantly reward the labors of this young man, we may be taking the bread from those widows and those orphans. The seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay, Captain Peleg.”

Bildad put down his book and turned solemnly toward him. “Captain Peleg, you have a generous heart. But you must consider your duty to the other owners of this ship. Many of them are widows and orphans. If we reward this young man too generously for his work, we may be taking bread from those widows and orphans. The seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay, Captain Peleg.”

“Thou Bildad!” roared Peleg, starting up and clattering about the cabin. “Blast ye, Captain Bildad, if I had followed thy advice in these matters, I would afore now had a conscience to lug about that would be heavy enough to founder the largest ship that ever sailed round Cape Horn.”

“Bildad!” roared Peleg, jumping up and clattering around the cabin. “Damn you, Captain Bildad, if I had followed your advice in these matters, I would be carrying a terrible burden of guilt by now. It would be heavy enough to sink the largest ship that ever sailed around Cape Horn.”

“Captain Peleg,” said Bildad steadily, “thy conscience may be drawing ten inches of water, or ten fathoms, I can’t tell; but as thou art still an impenitent man, Captain Peleg, I greatly fear lest thy conscience be but a leaky one; and will in the end sink thee foundering down to the fiery pit, Captain Peleg.”

“Captain Peleg,” said Bildad steadily, “your conscience may draw ten inches of water, or ten fathoms. I can’t tell. But you are still an unrepentant man, Captain Peleg. So I greatly fear that your conscience is a leaky one. I fear it will eventually sink you down to the fiery pit, Captain Peleg.”

“Fiery pit! fiery pit! ye insult me, man; past all natural bearing, ye insult me. It’s an all-fired outrage to tell any human creature that he’s bound to hell. Flukes and flames! Bildad, say that again to me, and start my soul-bolts, but I’ll—I’ll—yes, I’ll swallow a live goat with all his hair and horns on. Out of the cabin, ye canting, drab-coloured son of a wooden gun—a straight wake with ye!”

“Fiery pit! Fiery pit! You insult me, man. Your insults are more than anyone can bear. It’s a damned outrage to tell any human being they’re bound for hell. Flukes and flames! Bildad, say that to me again, and I swear I’ll, I’ll, yes, I’ll swallow a live goat, hair, horns and all. Out of the cabin, you preaching, drab-colored son of a wooden gun. Get straight out of here!”

As he thundered out this he made a rush at Bildad, but with a marvellous oblique, sliding celerity, Bildad for that time eluded him.

As he thundered this out, he rushed at Bildad. But Bildad slid sideways with remarkable speed and escaped him this time.

Alarmed at this terrible outburst between the two principal and responsible owners of the ship, and feeling half a mind to give up all idea of sailing in a vessel so questionably owned and temporarily commanded, I stepped aside from the door to give egress to Bildad, who, I made no doubt, was all eagerness to vanish from before the awakened wrath of Peleg. But to my astonishment, he sat down again on the transom very quietly, and seemed to have not the slightest intention of withdrawing. He seemed quite used to impenitent Peleg and his ways. As for Peleg, after letting off his rage as he had, there seemed no more left in him, and he, too, sat down like a lamb, though he twitched a little as if still nervously agitated. “Whew!” he whistled at last—“the squall’s gone off to leeward, I think. Bildad, thou used to be good at sharpening a lance, mend that pen, will ye. My jack-knife here needs the grindstone. That’s he; thank ye, Bildad. Now then, my young man, Ishmael’s thy name, didn’t ye say? Well then, down ye go here, Ishmael, for the three hundredth lay.”

I was alarmed by this terrible outburst between the ship’s two principal, responsible owners. I was half inclined to give up sailing on a ship with such questionable owners and a temporary commander. I stepped away from the door to let Bildad out. I had no doubt he was eager to escape Peleg’s awakened wrath. But to my astonishment, he sat down again on the bench, very quietly. He seemed to have no intention of leaving. He seemed quite used to Peleg’s unrepentant ways. As for Peleg, once he had let out his rage, none seemed left in him. He too sat down like a lamb, though he twitched a little, as if still nervous. “Whew!” he whistled at last. “I think the squall has passed downwind. Bildad, you used to be good at sharpening a lance. Fix that pen, will you? My pocketknife needs sharpening. That’s it. Thank you, Bildad. Now then, young man, you said your name was Ishmael, didn’t you? Well then, Ishmael, I’ll put you down here for the three hundredth lay.”

“Captain Peleg,” said I, “I have a friend with me who wants to ship too—shall I bring him down to-morrow?”

“Captain Peleg,” I said, “I have a friend with me who wants to join the crew too. Should I bring him down tomorrow?”

“To be sure,” said Peleg. “Fetch him along, and we’ll look at him.”

“Of course,” said Peleg. “Bring him along, and we’ll take a look at him.”

“What lay does he want?” groaned Bildad, glancing up from the book in which he had again been burying himself.

“What share does he want?” Bildad groaned, glancing up from the book he had buried himself in again.

“Oh! never thee mind about that, Bildad,” said Peleg. “Has he ever whaled it any?” turning to me.

“Oh, never mind that, Bildad,” said Peleg. He turned to me. “Has he ever been whaling?”

“Killed more whales than I can count, Captain Peleg.”

“Killed more whales than I can count, Captain Peleg.”

“Well, bring him along then.”

“Well, bring him along then.”

And, after signing the papers, off I went; nothing doubting but that I had done a good morning’s work, and that the Pequod was the identical ship that Yojo had provided to carry Queequeg and me round the Cape.

After signing the papers, I went on my way. I had no doubt that I had done a good morning’s work. I was sure the Pequod was the very ship Yojo had provided to carry Queequeg and me around the Cape.

But I had not proceeded far, when I began to bethink me that the Captain with whom I was to sail yet remained unseen by me; though, indeed, in many cases, a whale-ship will be completely fitted out, and receive all her crew on board, ere the captain makes himself visible by arriving to take command; for sometimes these voyages are so prolonged, and the shore intervals at home so exceedingly brief, that if the captain have a family, or any absorbing concernment of that sort, he does not trouble himself much about his ship in port, but leaves her to the owners till all is ready for sea. However, it is always as well to have a look at him before irrevocably committing yourself into his hands. Turning back I accosted Captain Peleg, inquiring where Captain Ahab was to be found.

But I had not gone far when I realized I had yet to see the captain I was to sail with. Often, a whaling ship is fully equipped and all its crew are aboard before the captain arrives to take command. Some voyages last so long, and the time spent at home between them is so brief. If the captain has a family or some other absorbing concern, he pays little attention to his ship in port. Instead, he leaves the ship to its owners until all is ready for sea. Still, it is always wise to take a look at the captain before committing yourself to his care for good. I turned back and asked Captain Peleg where I could find Captain Ahab.

“And what dost thou want of Captain Ahab? It’s all right enough; thou art shipped.”

“And what do you want with Captain Ahab? It’s all right. You’ve signed on.”

“Yes, but I should like to see him.”

“Yes, but I’d like to see him.”

“But I don’t think thou wilt be able to at present. I don’t know exactly what’s the matter with him; but he keeps close inside the house; a sort of sick, and yet he don’t look so. In fact, he ain’t sick; but no, he isn’t well either. Any how, young man, he won’t always see me, so I don’t suppose he will thee. He’s a queer man, Captain Ahab—so some think—but a good one. Oh, thou’lt like him well enough; no fear, no fear. He’s a grand, ungodly, god-like man, Captain Ahab; doesn’t speak much; but, when he does speak, then you may well listen. Mark ye, be forewarned; Ahab’s above the common; Ahab’s been in colleges, as well as ’mong the cannibals; been used to deeper wonders than the waves; fixed his fiery lance in mightier, stranger foes than whales. His lance! aye, the keenest and the surest that out of all our isle! Oh! he ain’t Captain Bildad; no, and he ain’t Captain Peleg; he’s Ahab, boy; and Ahab of old, thou knowest, was a crowned king!”

“But I don’t think you’ll be able to see him right now. I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with him, but he stays inside the house. He’s sort of sick, though he doesn’t look sick. In fact, he isn’t sick, but he isn’t well either. Anyway, young man, he won’t always see me, so I don’t suppose he’ll see you. Some people think Captain Ahab is a strange man, but he’s a good one. Oh, you’ll like him well enough. No fear, no fear. Captain Ahab is a grand, ungodly, god-like man. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, you’d do well to listen. Take note and be warned: Ahab is above ordinary men. Ahab has been to college and lived among cannibals. He’s used to wonders deeper than the waves. He’s driven his fiery lance into mightier, stranger enemies than whales. His lance! Yes, the sharpest and surest on our whole island! Oh, he isn’t Captain Bildad, and he isn’t Captain Peleg. He’s Ahab, boy, and Ahab of old, you know, was a crowned king!”

“And a very vile one. When that wicked king was slain, the dogs, did they not lick his blood?”

“And a very wicked one. When that wicked king was killed, didn’t the dogs lick his blood?”

“Come hither to me—hither, hither,” said Peleg, with a significance in his eye that almost startled me. “Look ye, lad; never say that on board the Pequod. Never say it anywhere. Captain Ahab did not name himself. ’Twas a foolish, ignorant whim of his crazy, widowed mother, who died when he was only a twelvemonth old. And yet the old squaw Tistig, at Gayhead, said that the name would somehow prove prophetic. And, perhaps, other fools like her may tell thee the same. I wish to warn thee. It’s a lie. I know Captain Ahab well; I’ve sailed with him as mate years ago; I know what he is—a good man—not a pious, good man, like Bildad, but a swearing good man—something like me—only there’s a good deal more of him. Aye, aye, I know that he was never very jolly; and I know that on the passage home, he was a little out of his mind for a spell; but it was the sharp shooting pains in his bleeding stump that brought that about, as any one might see. I know, too, that ever since he lost his leg last voyage by that accursed whale, he’s been a kind of moody—desperate moody, and savage sometimes; but that will all pass off. And once for all, let me tell thee and assure thee, young man, it’s better to sail with a moody good captain than a laughing bad one. So good-bye to thee—and wrong not Captain Ahab, because he happens to have a wicked name. Besides, my boy, he has a wife—not three voyages wedded—a sweet, resigned girl. Think of that; by that sweet girl that old man has a child: hold ye then there can be any utter, hopeless harm in Ahab? No, no, my lad; stricken, blasted, if he be, Ahab has his humanities!”

“Come here, come here,” said Peleg, with a look in his eye that almost startled me. “Listen, lad, never say that aboard the Pequod. Never say it anywhere. Captain Ahab did not name himself. His widowed mother chose the name on a foolish, ignorant whim. She was mad, and she died when he was only a year old. And yet old Tistig, the Native woman at Gayhead, said the name would somehow prove prophetic. Perhaps other fools like her may tell you the same thing. I want to warn you. It’s a lie. “I know Captain Ahab well. I sailed with him as his mate years ago. I know what he is. He’s a good man, not a pious, good man like Bildad, but a swearing good man, something like me. Only there’s a good deal more to him. Yes, yes, I know he was never very cheerful. And I know he was a little out of his mind for a while on the voyage home. But the sharp, shooting pains in his bleeding stump brought that on, as anyone could see. “I also know he’s been moody ever since that cursed whale took his leg on the last voyage. He’s been desperately moody, and sometimes savage. But that will all pass. And let me tell you once and for all, young man, you’re better off sailing with a moody good captain than a laughing bad one. So goodbye to you, and don’t judge Captain Ahab unfairly because he happens to have a wicked name. “Besides, my boy, he has a wife. They’ve been married for less than three voyages. She’s a sweet, patient girl. Think of that. That old man has a child with her. Can you really believe, then, that Ahab is utterly, hopelessly evil? No, no, my lad. Even if Ahab has been stricken and ruined, he still has his human side!”

As I walked away, I was full of thoughtfulness; what had been incidentally revealed to me of Captain Ahab, filled me with a certain wild vagueness of painfulness concerning him. And somehow, at the time, I felt a sympathy and a sorrow for him, but for I don’t know what, unless it was the cruel loss of his leg. And yet I also felt a strange awe of him; but that sort of awe, which I cannot at all describe, was not exactly awe; I do not know what it was. But I felt it; and it did not disincline me towards him; though I felt impatience at what seemed like mystery in him, so imperfectly as he was known to me then. However, my thoughts were at length carried in other directions, so that for the present dark Ahab slipped my mind.

As I walked away, I was lost in thought. What I had learned by chance about Captain Ahab filled me with a wild, vague sense of pain for him. Somehow, I felt sympathy and sorrow for him, though I did not know why. Perhaps it was because of the cruel loss of his leg. And yet I also felt a strange awe of him. But I cannot describe that feeling at all. It was not exactly awe, and I do not know what it was. Still, I felt it, and it did not make me dislike him. Though I knew so little of him then, I felt impatient with what seemed mysterious about him. Eventually, however, my thoughts turned elsewhere, and for the moment dark Ahab slipped my mind.