Ahab

For several days after leaving Nantucket, nothing above hatches was seen of Captain Ahab. The mates regularly relieved each other at the watches, and for aught that could be seen to the contrary, they seemed to be the only commanders of the ship; only they sometimes issued from the cabin with orders so sudden and peremptory, that after all it was plain they but commanded vicariously. Yes, their supreme lord and dictator was there, though hitherto unseen by any eyes not permitted to penetrate into the now sacred retreat of the cabin.

For several days after leaving Nantucket, Captain Ahab was not seen on deck. The mates regularly took turns standing watch. As far as anyone could tell, they seemed to be the ship's only commanders. But sometimes they came out of the cabin with orders so sudden and forceful that they were clearly commanding on someone else's behalf. Yes, their supreme lord and dictator was there. Yet only those allowed inside the cabin, now a sacred retreat, had seen him.

Every time I ascended to the deck from my watches below, I instantly gazed aft to mark if any strange face were visible; for my first vague disquietude touching the unknown captain, now in the seclusion of the sea, became almost a perturbation. This was strangely heightened at times by the ragged Elijah’s diabolical incoherences uninvitedly recurring to me, with a subtle energy I could not have before conceived of. But poorly could I withstand them, much as in other moods I was almost ready to smile at the solemn whimsicalities of that outlandish prophet of the wharves. But whatever it was of apprehensiveness or uneasiness—to call it so—which I felt, yet whenever I came to look about me in the ship, it seemed against all warrantry to cherish such emotions. For though the harpooneers, with the great body of the crew, were a far more barbaric, heathenish, and motley set than any of the tame merchant-ship companies which my previous experiences had made me acquainted with, still I ascribed this—and rightly ascribed it—to the fierce uniqueness of the very nature of that wild Scandinavian vocation in which I had so abandonedly embarked. But it was especially the aspect of the three chief officers of the ship, the mates, which was most forcibly calculated to allay these colourless misgivings, and induce confidence and cheerfulness in every presentment of the voyage. Three better, more likely sea-officers and men, each in his own different way, could not readily be found, and they were every one of them Americans; a Nantucketer, a Vineyarder, a Cape man. Now, it being Christmas when the ship shot from out her harbor, for a space we had biting Polar weather, though all the time running away from it to the southward; and by every degree and minute of latitude which we sailed, gradually leaving that merciless winter, and all its intolerable weather behind us. It was one of those less lowering, but still grey and gloomy enough mornings of the transition, when with a fair wind the ship was rushing through the water with a vindictive sort of leaping and melancholy rapidity, that as I mounted to the deck at the call of the forenoon watch, so soon as I levelled my glance towards the taffrail, foreboding shivers ran over me. Reality outran apprehension; Captain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck.

Every time I came up to the deck from my watches below, I immediately looked aft for an unfamiliar face. My first vague uneasiness about the unknown captain had grown into something close to agitation, now that we were alone at sea. At times, the ragged Elijah’s devilish, confused words returned to me unbidden. They made my uneasiness strangely worse, with a subtle power I could never have imagined before. I could hardly resist them, though in other moods I was almost ready to smile at that strange waterfront prophet’s solemn absurdities. But whatever fear or uneasiness I felt, looking around the ship seemed to give me no reason to harbor it. The harpooneers and most of the crew were far more wild, heathen, and varied than any crews I had known on ordinary merchant ships. Still, I attributed that difference, rightly, to the fiercely distinctive nature of the wild Scandinavian trade I had plunged into so recklessly. Above all, the appearance of the ship’s three chief officers, the mates, helped dispel my vague misgivings. They inspired confidence and made every prospect of the voyage seem cheerful. It would have been hard to find three better, more promising sea officers and men, each in his own way. All three were Americans: one from Nantucket, one from Martha’s Vineyard, and one from Cape Cod. The ship had sailed out of the harbor at Christmas, and for a while we had bitter polar weather. Yet all the time we were sailing south, away from it. With every degree and minute of latitude we sailed, we gradually left that merciless winter and all its unbearable weather behind us. One morning during this change in weather, the sky was less threatening, though still gray and gloomy enough. With a favorable wind, the ship rushed through the water, leaping along with a vengeful, melancholy speed. I came up to the deck at the call for the forenoon watch. As soon as I looked toward the stern rail, shivers of foreboding ran through me. Reality surpassed my fears. Captain Ahab stood on his quarterdeck.

There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the recovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has overrunningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them, or taking away one particle from their compacted aged robustness. His whole high, broad form, seemed made of solid bronze, and shaped in an unalterable mould, like Cellini’s cast Perseus. Threading its way out from among his grey hairs, and continuing right down one side of his tawny scorched face and neck, till it disappeared in his clothing, you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish. It resembled that perpendicular seam sometimes made in the straight, lofty trunk of a great tree, when the upper lightning tearingly darts down it, and without wrenching a single twig, peels and grooves out the bark from top to bottom, ere running off into the soil, leaving the tree still greenly alive, but branded. Whether that mark was born with him, or whether it was the scar left by some desperate wound, no one could certainly say. By some tacit consent, throughout the voyage little or no allusion was made to it, especially by the mates. But once Tashtego’s senior, an old Gay-Head Indian among the crew, superstitiously asserted that not till he was full forty years old did Ahab become that way branded, and then it came upon him, not in the fury of any mortal fray, but in an elemental strife at sea. Yet, this wild hint seemed inferentially negatived, by what a grey Manxman insinuated, an old sepulchral man, who, having never before sailed out of Nantucket, had never ere this laid eye upon wild Ahab. Nevertheless, the old sea-traditions, the immemorial credulities, popularly invested this old Manxman with preternatural powers of discernment. So that no white sailor seriously contradicted him when he said that if ever Captain Ahab should be tranquilly laid out—which might hardly come to pass, so he muttered—then, whoever should do that last office for the dead, would find a birth-mark on him from crown to sole.

There seemed to be no sign that he was ill or recovering from an illness. He looked like a man cut down from a stake after the fire had ravaged all his limbs. Yet the fire had not consumed them or taken away any of their solid, aged strength. His whole tall, broad figure seemed made of solid bronze, shaped in an unchangeable mold like Cellini’s cast Perseus. A thin, pale, discolored mark ran out from his gray hair. It continued down one side of his tawny, scorched face and neck until it disappeared beneath his clothes. It resembled the vertical seam sometimes left in the straight, tall trunk of a great tree. Lightning strikes from above and tears down the trunk without breaking off a single twig. It strips and grooves the bark from top to bottom before passing into the ground. The tree remains green and alive, but marked. No one could say for certain whether he was born with the mark or it was a scar from some terrible wound. By unspoken agreement, almost no one mentioned it during the voyage, especially the mates. But an old Gay-Head Indian among the crew, older than Tashtego, once offered a superstitious explanation. He claimed that Ahab had not been marked until he was a full forty years old. Then, he said, the mark came not from a violent fight with another person, but from a struggle with the elements at sea. Yet an old, gray Manxman hinted at something that seemed to contradict this wild suggestion. The Manxman was a grave, deathly sort of man. He had never sailed out of Nantucket before and had never laid eyes on wild Ahab until this voyage. Nevertheless, old sea traditions and age-old superstitions led people to believe he had supernatural powers of insight. So no white sailor seriously contradicted him when he spoke of Captain Ahab’s death. He said that if Ahab were ever laid out peacefully, whoever prepared his body would find a birthmark running from head to foot. The Manxman muttered that a peaceful laying out might hardly come to pass.

So powerfully did the whole grim aspect of Ahab affect me, and the livid brand which streaked it, that for the first few moments I hardly noted that not a little of this overbearing grimness was owing to the barbaric white leg upon which he partly stood. It had previously come to me that this ivory leg had at sea been fashioned from the polished bone of the sperm whale’s jaw. “Aye, he was dismasted off Japan,” said the old Gay-Head Indian once; “but like his dismasted craft, he shipped another mast without coming home for it. He has a quiver of ’em.”

Ahab’s whole grim appearance and the pale scar running down his face affected me so powerfully that I hardly noticed his white leg at first. Yet that barbaric leg, on which he partly stood, gave him much of his overwhelming grimness. I had heard that the ivory leg had been made at sea from the polished bone of a sperm whale’s jaw. “Yes, he was dismasted off Japan,” the old Gay-Head Indian once said. “But like his dismasted ship, he fitted another mast without coming home for it. He has a quiver full of them.”

I was struck with the singular posture he maintained. Upon each side of the Pequod’s quarter deck, and pretty close to the mizzen shrouds, there was an auger hole, bored about half an inch or so, into the plank. His bone leg steadied in that hole; one arm elevated, and holding by a shroud; Captain Ahab stood erect, looking straight out beyond the ship’s ever-pitching prow. There was an infinity of firmest fortitude, a determinate, unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and fearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye. And not only that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion in his face; in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some mighty woe.

I was struck by the unusual way he stood. On each side of the Pequod’s quarterdeck, close to the mizzen shrouds, a hole had been drilled about half an inch into the plank. Captain Ahab stood upright, his bone leg steadied in one hole and one arm raised to hold a shroud. He looked straight ahead, beyond the ship’s constantly pitching prow. His fixed, fearless gaze showed endless fortitude and a determined will that would never surrender. He said nothing, and his officers said nothing to him. Yet every small gesture and expression showed their uneasy, if not painful, awareness that their troubled captain was watching them. And that was not all. The stricken, brooding Ahab stood before them with the agony of crucifixion on his face. He carried the full, unspeakable, kingly and commanding dignity of some great sorrow.

Ere long, from his first visit in the air, he withdrew into his cabin. But after that morning, he was every day visible to the crew; either standing in his pivot-hole, or seated upon an ivory stool he had; or heavily walking the deck. As the sky grew less gloomy; indeed, began to grow a little genial, he became still less and less a recluse; as if, when the ship had sailed from home, nothing but the dead wintry bleakness of the sea had then kept him so secluded. And, by and by, it came to pass, that he was almost continually in the air; but, as yet, for all that he said, or perceptibly did, on the at last sunny deck, he seemed as unnecessary there as another mast. But the Pequod was only making a passage now; not regularly cruising; nearly all whaling preparatives needing supervision the mates were fully competent to, so that there was little or nothing, out of himself, to employ or excite Ahab, now; and thus chase away, for that one interval, the clouds that layer upon layer were piled upon his brow, as ever all clouds choose the loftiest peaks to pile themselves upon.

Before long, he went back to his cabin after his first appearance on deck. But after that morning, the crew saw him every day. He stood in his pivot-hole, sat on an ivory stool, or walked heavily across the deck. As the sky grew less gloomy and even a little pleasant, he became less and less of a recluse. It was as if only the dead, wintry bleakness of the sea had kept him secluded after the ship left home. Before long, he was on deck almost all the time. Yet, judging by anything he said or could be seen doing, he seemed as unnecessary on the now sunny deck as another mast. But the Pequod was only making a passage now, not regularly cruising for whales. The mates were fully capable of supervising nearly all the preparations for whaling. So there was little or nothing outside himself to occupy or excite Ahab and, for that interval, drive away the clouds piled layer upon layer on his brow. Clouds always choose the highest peaks to pile themselves upon.

Nevertheless, ere long, the warm, warbling persuasiveness of the pleasant, holiday weather we came to, seemed gradually to charm him from his mood. For, as when the red-cheeked, dancing girls, April and May, trip home to the wintry, misanthropic woods; even the barest, ruggedest, most thunder-cloven old oak will at least send forth some few green sprouts, to welcome such glad-hearted visitants; so Ahab did, in the end, a little respond to the playful allurings of that girlish air. More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look, which, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile.

Nevertheless, before long, the warm, melodious charm of the pleasant, holiday weather we sailed into seemed to draw Ahab out of his mood. April and May are like rosy-cheeked girls dancing home to the cold, unfriendly woods. Even the barest, roughest old oak, split by lightning, will send out a few green shoots to welcome such joyful visitors. In the same way, Ahab finally responded a little to the playful charms of that girlish air. More than once, a faint hint of expression appeared on his face. In any other man, it would soon have blossomed into a smile.