Knights and Squires

The chief mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a native of Nantucket, and a Quaker by descent. He was a long, earnest man, and though born on an icy coast, seemed well adapted to endure hot latitudes, his flesh being hard as twice-baked biscuit. Transported to the Indies, his live blood would not spoil like bottled ale. He must have been born in some time of general drought and famine, or upon one of those fast days for which his state is famous. Only some thirty arid summers had he seen; those summers had dried up all his physical superfluousness. But this, his thinness, so to speak, seemed no more the token of wasting anxieties and cares, than it seemed the indication of any bodily blight. It was merely the condensation of the man. He was by no means ill-looking; quite the contrary. His pure tight skin was an excellent fit; and closely wrapped up in it, and embalmed with inner health and strength, like a revivified Egyptian, this Starbuck seemed prepared to endure for long ages to come, and to endure always, as now; for be it Polar snow or torrid sun, like a patent chronometer, his interior vitality was warranted to do well in all climates. Looking into his eyes, you seemed to see there the yet lingering images of those thousand-fold perils he had calmly confronted through life. A staid, steadfast man, whose life for the most part was a telling pantomime of action, and not a tame chapter of sounds. Yet, for all his hardy sobriety and fortitude, there were certain qualities in him which at times affected, and in some cases seemed well nigh to overbalance all the rest. Uncommonly conscientious for a seaman, and endued with a deep natural reverence, the wild watery loneliness of his life did therefore strongly incline him to superstition; but to that sort of superstition, which in some organizations seems rather to spring, somehow, from intelligence than from ignorance. Outward portents and inward presentiments were his. And if at times these things bent the welded iron of his soul, much more did his far-away domestic memories of his young Cape wife and child, tend to bend him still more from the original ruggedness of his nature, and open him still further to those latent influences which, in some honest-hearted men, restrain the gush of dare-devil daring, so often evinced by others in the more perilous vicissitudes of the fishery. “I will have no man in my boat,” said Starbuck, “who is not afraid of a whale.” By this, he seemed to mean, not only that the most reliable and useful courage was that which arises from the fair estimation of the encountered peril, but that an utterly fearless man is a far more dangerous comrade than a coward.

The chief mate of the Pequod was Starbuck, a Nantucket native descended from Quakers. He was a tall, earnest man. Though born on an icy coast, he seemed well suited to hot climates, with flesh as hard as twice-baked biscuit. If taken to the Indies, his living blood would not spoil like bottled ale. He must have been born during some widespread drought and famine, or on one of the fast days his state is famous for. He had seen only about thirty dry summers, and they had dried away all his excess flesh. But his thinness seemed no more a sign of consuming worries and cares than of any physical disease. It was simply the man condensed. He was by no means bad-looking. Quite the opposite. His clear, tight skin fit him perfectly. Closely wrapped in it, and preserved by his inner health and strength like a revived Egyptian, Starbuck seemed ready to endure for ages. He seemed ready to remain always as he was now. In polar snow or blazing sun, his inner vitality, like a guaranteed chronometer, was sure to function well in any climate. Looking into his eyes, you seemed to see lingering images of the countless dangers he had calmly faced throughout his life. He was a steady, steadfast man. His life was mostly an expressive performance of action, not a dull chapter of words. Yet despite his sturdy seriousness and courage, certain qualities sometimes affected him and, in some cases, seemed almost to outweigh all the rest. Starbuck was unusually conscientious for a sailor and naturally reverent. The wild, watery loneliness of his life therefore strongly inclined him to superstition. But his was the kind of superstition that, in some people, seems somehow to arise from intelligence rather than ignorance. He believed in signs from the outside world and feelings of foreboding within himself. If these things sometimes bent the welded iron of his soul, his memories of home, far away, bent it still more. Memories of his young wife from the Cape and their child softened his originally rugged nature. They also made him still more open to hidden influences that, in some honest-hearted men, hold back the recklessness so often shown by others amid the greater dangers and changes of whaling. “I will have no man in my boat,” said Starbuck, “who is not afraid of a whale.” He seemed to mean that the most reliable and useful courage came from a fair assessment of the danger faced. But he also seemed to mean that a completely fearless man was a far more dangerous companion than a coward.

“Aye, aye,” said Stubb, the second mate, “Starbuck, there, is as careful a man as you’ll find anywhere in this fishery.” But we shall ere long see what that word “careful” precisely means when used by a man like Stubb, or almost any other whale hunter.

“Yes, yes,” said Stubb, the second mate. “Starbuck is as careful as any man you’ll find in whaling.” But we’ll soon see exactly what “careful” means to Stubb, or to almost any other whale hunter.

Starbuck was no crusader after perils; in him courage was not a sentiment; but a thing simply useful to him, and always at hand upon all mortally practical occasions. Besides, he thought, perhaps, that in this business of whaling, courage was one of the great staple outfits of the ship, like her beef and her bread, and not to be foolishly wasted. Wherefore he had no fancy for lowering for whales after sun-down; nor for persisting in fighting a fish that too much persisted in fighting him. For, thought Starbuck, I am here in this critical ocean to kill whales for my living, and not to be killed by them for theirs; and that hundreds of men had been so killed Starbuck well knew. What doom was his own father’s? Where, in the bottomless deeps, could he find the torn limbs of his brother?

Starbuck did not go looking for danger. Courage was not a feeling to him. It was simply useful, and always there when he faced matters of life and death. Besides, he perhaps thought that courage was one of a whaling ship’s essential supplies, like its beef and bread. It was not to be wasted foolishly. So he did not like launching the boats after whales after sunset. Nor did he like to keep fighting a whale that fought back too fiercely. For Starbuck thought: I am here in this dangerous ocean to kill whales for my living, not to be killed by them for theirs. And Starbuck knew well that hundreds of men had been killed that way. What fate had his own father met? Where in the bottomless depths could he find his brother’s torn limbs?

With memories like these in him, and, moreover, given to a certain superstitiousness, as has been said; the courage of this Starbuck which could, nevertheless, still flourish, must indeed have been extreme. But it was not in reasonable nature that a man so organized, and with such terrible experiences and remembrances as he had; it was not in nature that these things should fail in latently engendering an element in him, which, under suitable circumstances, would break out from its confinement, and burn all his courage up. And brave as he might be, it was that sort of bravery chiefly, visible in some intrepid men, which, while generally abiding firm in the conflict with seas, or winds, or whales, or any of the ordinary irrational horrors of the world, yet cannot withstand those more terrific, because more spiritual terrors, which sometimes menace you from the concentrating brow of an enraged and mighty man.

With memories like these, and being somewhat superstitious as well, Starbuck must have had extraordinary courage for it to survive. But given his nature and his terrible experiences and memories, something else was bound to take root within him. Under the right circumstances, it would break free and burn up all his courage. Brave as he was, his courage was chiefly the kind seen in some fearless men. Such courage generally holds firm against seas, winds, whales, or any of the world's ordinary, irrational horrors. Yet it cannot withstand the more terrifying spiritual fears that sometimes threaten you from the furrowed brow of a powerful, enraged man.

But were the coming narrative to reveal in any instance, the complete abasement of poor Starbuck’s fortitude, scarce might I have the heart to write it; for it is a thing most sorrowful, nay shocking, to expose the fall of valour in the soul. Men may seem detestable as joint stock-companies and nations; knaves, fools, and murderers there may be; men may have mean and meagre faces; but man, in the ideal, is so noble and so sparkling, such a grand and glowing creature, that over any ignominious blemish in him all his fellows should run to throw their costliest robes. That immaculate manliness we feel within ourselves, so far within us, that it remains intact though all the outer character seem gone; bleeds with keenest anguish at the undraped spectacle of a valor-ruined man. Nor can piety itself, at such a shameful sight, completely stifle her upbraidings against the permitting stars. But this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and robes, but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou shalt see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike; that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from God; Himself! The great God absolute! The centre and circumference of all democracy! His omnipresence, our divine equality!

But if the story ahead should ever reveal that poor Starbuck’s courage had completely failed, I could hardly bear to write it. For exposing the collapse of courage in a person’s soul is deeply sorrowful, even shocking. Men may seem detestable as corporations and nations. There may be scoundrels, fools, and murderers. Men may have petty, pinched faces. But man in the ideal is so noble and radiant, such a grand and glowing creature, that all his fellows should rush to cover any shameful flaw in him with their finest robes. We feel that perfect manliness so deep within ourselves that it remains intact, even when our outward character seems entirely lost. And it bleeds with the sharpest anguish at the sight of a man stripped of courage. Even religious devotion cannot entirely silence its protests against the stars that allow such a shameful sight. But the majestic dignity I speak of is not the dignity of kings and robes. It is the abundant dignity that needs no ceremonial robes. You will see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike. This democratic dignity radiates endlessly in every direction from God himself! The great, absolute God! The center and circumference of all democracy! His presence everywhere is our divine equality!

If, then, to meanest mariners, and renegades and castaways, I shall hereafter ascribe high qualities, though dark; weave round them tragic graces; if even the most mournful, perchance the most abased, among them all, shall at times lift himself to the exalted mounts; if I shall touch that workman’s arm with some ethereal light; if I shall spread a rainbow over his disastrous set of sun; then against all mortal critics bear me out in it, thou just Spirit of Equality, which hast spread one royal mantle of humanity over all my kind! Bear me out in it, thou great democratic God! who didst not refuse to the swart convict, Bunyan, the pale, poetic pearl; Thou who didst clothe with doubly hammered leaves of finest gold, the stumped and paupered arm of old Cervantes; Thou who didst pick up Andrew Jackson from the pebbles; who didst hurl him upon a war-horse; who didst thunder him higher than a throne! Thou who, in all Thy mighty, earthly marchings, ever cullest Thy selectest champions from the kingly commons; bear me out in it, O God!

If I give the humblest sailors, renegades, and castaways noble qualities, though dark ones, and surround them with tragic grace, support me. If even the most sorrowful among them, perhaps the most degraded of all, sometimes rises to great heights, support me. If I touch that working man’s arm with a heavenly light, or spread a rainbow over his disastrous sunset, support me. Defend me against all human critics, you just Spirit of Equality, who have spread one royal cloak of humanity over all humankind! Support me, you great democratic God! You did not deny Bunyan, the dark-skinned convict, the pale, poetic pearl. You clothed the maimed and impoverished arm of old Cervantes with leaves of the finest gold, hammered twice. You picked Andrew Jackson up from the pebbles. You hurled him onto a warhorse. You thundered him higher than a throne! In all your mighty marches across the earth, you always choose your finest champions from the kingly common people. Support me, O God!