The Masthead

It was during the more pleasant weather, that in due rotation with the other seamen my first mast-head came round.

During the better weather, my turn came to stand my first watch at the masthead, in rotation with the other sailors.

In most American whalemen the mast-heads are manned almost simultaneously with the vessel’s leaving her port; even though she may have fifteen thousand miles, and more, to sail ere reaching her proper cruising ground. And if, after a three, four, or five years’ voyage she is drawing nigh home with anything empty in her—say, an empty vial even—then, her mast-heads are kept manned to the last; and not till her skysail-poles sail in among the spires of the port, does she altogether relinquish the hope of capturing one whale more.

On most American whaling ships, lookouts take their places at the mastheads almost as soon as the ship leaves port. They do this even if the ship has fifteen thousand miles or more to sail before reaching its hunting grounds. And if the ship is nearing home after a voyage of three, four, or five years with anything empty aboard, even an empty vial, the mastheads remain manned to the end. The crew does not give up hope of catching one more whale until the ship’s skysail poles pass among the spires of the port.

Now, as the business of standing mast-heads, ashore or afloat, is a very ancient and interesting one, let us in some measure expatiate here. I take it, that the earliest standers of mast-heads were the old Egyptians; because, in all my researches, I find none prior to them. For though their progenitors, the builders of Babel, must doubtless, by their tower, have intended to rear the loftiest mast-head in all Asia, or Africa either; yet (ere the final truck was put to it) as that great stone mast of theirs may be said to have gone by the board, in the dread gale of God’s wrath; therefore, we cannot give these Babel builders priority over the Egyptians. And that the Egyptians were a nation of mast-head standers, is an assertion based upon the general belief among archæologists, that the first pyramids were founded for astronomical purposes: a theory singularly supported by the peculiar stair-like formation of all four sides of those edifices; whereby, with prodigious long upliftings of their legs, those old astronomers were wont to mount to the apex, and sing out for new stars; even as the look-outs of a modern ship sing out for a sail, or a whale just bearing in sight. In Saint Stylites, the famous Christian hermit of old times, who built him a lofty stone pillar in the desert and spent the whole latter portion of his life on its summit, hoisting his food from the ground with a tackle; in him we have a remarkable instance of a dauntless stander-of-mast-heads; who was not to be driven from his place by fogs or frosts, rain, hail, or sleet; but valiantly facing everything out to the last, literally died at his post. Of modern standers-of-mast-heads we have but a lifeless set; mere stone, iron, and bronze men; who, though well capable of facing out a stiff gale, are still entirely incompetent to the business of singing out upon discovering any strange sight. There is Napoleon; who, upon the top of the column of Vendome, stands with arms folded, some one hundred and fifty feet in the air; careless, now, who rules the decks below; whether Louis Philippe, Louis Blanc, or Louis the Devil. Great Washington, too, stands high aloft on his towering main-mast in Baltimore, and like one of Hercules’ pillars, his column marks that point of human grandeur beyond which few mortals will go. Admiral Nelson, also, on a capstan of gun-metal, stands his mast-head in Trafalgar Square; and ever when most obscured by that London smoke, token is yet given that a hidden hero is there; for where there is smoke, must be fire. But neither great Washington, nor Napoleon, nor Nelson, will answer a single hail from below, however madly invoked to befriend by their counsels the distracted decks upon which they gaze; however it may be surmised, that their spirits penetrate through the thick haze of the future, and descry what shoals and what rocks must be shunned.

Standing watch at a masthead, on land or at sea, is a very old and interesting practice. So let us spend some time on it. I believe the earliest masthead watchers were the ancient Egyptians. In all my research, I have found none before them. Their ancestors, the builders of Babel, surely meant their tower to be the tallest masthead in Asia or Africa. But before the final cap was put on it, their great stone mast might be said to have fallen overboard in the dreadful gale of God’s wrath. So we cannot give the builders of Babel priority over the Egyptians. My claim that the Egyptians were a nation of masthead watchers rests on a common belief among archaeologists. They believe the first pyramids were built for astronomical purposes. This theory finds curious support in the stairlike shape of all four sides of those buildings. Taking enormously high steps, the ancient astronomers could climb to the top and call out when they saw new stars. They did so just as lookouts on a modern ship call out when a sail or a whale comes into view. Saint Stylites, the famous Christian hermit of ancient times, was a remarkable example of a fearless masthead watcher. He built a tall stone pillar in the desert and spent the whole latter part of his life on top. He hauled his food up from the ground with a tackle. Neither fog nor frost, rain, hail, nor sleet could drive him from his place. He bravely faced everything to the end and literally died at his post. Modern masthead watchers are a lifeless lot, mere men of stone, iron, and bronze. Though quite capable of facing a stiff gale, they cannot call out when they spot a strange sight. There is Napoleon, standing with folded arms atop the Vendome column, some 150 feet in the air. He no longer cares who rules the decks below, whether Louis Philippe, Louis Blanc, or Louis the Devil. Great Washington, too, stands high aloft on his towering mainmast in Baltimore. Like one of Hercules’ pillars, his column marks a point of human greatness beyond which few mortals will go. Admiral Nelson, also, stands watch on a capstan of gunmetal in Trafalgar Square. Even when he is most hidden by London smoke, there is still a sign that a hero is there. For where there is smoke, there must be fire. But neither great Washington, nor Napoleon, nor Nelson will answer a single call from below. They remain silent however desperately people call on them to advise the troubled decks they gaze upon. They remain silent, too, however much one might suppose their spirits can see through the thick haze of the future and spot the shoals and rocks to be avoided.

It may seem unwarrantable to couple in any respect the mast-head standers of the land with those of the sea; but that in truth it is not so, is plainly evinced by an item for which Obed Macy, the sole historian of Nantucket, stands accountable. The worthy Obed tells us, that in the early times of the whale fishery, ere ships were regularly launched in pursuit of the game, the people of that island erected lofty spars along the sea-coast, to which the look-outs ascended by means of nailed cleats, something as fowls go upstairs in a hen-house. A few years ago this same plan was adopted by the Bay whalemen of New Zealand, who, upon descrying the game, gave notice to the ready-manned boats nigh the beach. But this custom has now become obsolete; turn we then to the one proper mast-head, that of a whale-ship at sea. The three mast-heads are kept manned from sun-rise to sun-set; the seamen taking their regular turns (as at the helm), and relieving each other every two hours. In the serene weather of the tropics it is exceedingly pleasant the mast-head; nay, to a dreamy meditative man it is delightful. There you stand, a hundred feet above the silent decks, striding along the deep, as if the masts were gigantic stilts, while beneath you and between your legs, as it were, swim the hugest monsters of the sea, even as ships once sailed between the boots of the famous Colossus at old Rhodes. There you stand, lost in the infinite series of the sea, with nothing ruffled but the waves. The tranced ship indolently rolls; the drowsy trade winds blow; everything resolves you into languor. For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner—for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.

It may seem wrong to compare lookouts on land with those at sea in any way. But an account from Obed Macy, Nantucket’s only historian, clearly shows otherwise. The worthy Obed tells us about the early days of whaling, before ships regularly set out in pursuit of whales. The islanders then erected tall spars along the coast. Lookouts climbed them using nailed-on cleats, much as chickens climb a ladder in a henhouse. A few years ago, the Bay whalemen of New Zealand adopted the same plan. When they spotted whales, they alerted the fully crewed boats near the beach. But this practice has now died out. Let us turn, then, to the one true masthead, that of a whale-ship at sea. Lookouts are stationed at all three mastheads from sunrise to sunset. The sailors take regular turns, as they do at the helm, relieving one another every two hours. In the calm weather of the tropics, a watch at the masthead is exceedingly pleasant. Indeed, for a dreamy, thoughtful man, it is delightful. There you stand, a hundred feet above the silent decks, striding across the deep as if the masts were enormous stilts. Beneath you, seemingly between your legs, swim the largest monsters of the sea. So, too, ships once sailed between the boots of the famous Colossus at old Rhodes. There you stand, lost in the endless expanse of the sea, with nothing disturbed but the waves. The entranced ship rolls lazily. The drowsy trade winds blow. Everything leaves you languid. For the most part, a sublime lack of events surrounds you in this tropical whaling life. You hear no news and read no newspapers. Special editions with startling accounts of ordinary events never trick you into needless excitement. You hear nothing of troubles at home, worthless securities, or falling stocks. You never worry about what you will have for dinner. All your meals for three years or more are safely stored in casks, and the menu never changes.

In one of those southern whalesmen, on a long three or four years’ voyage, as often happens, the sum of the various hours you spend at the mast-head would amount to several entire months. And it is much to be deplored that the place to which you devote so considerable a portion of the whole term of your natural life, should be so sadly destitute of anything approaching to a cosy inhabitiveness, or adapted to breed a comfortable localness of feeling, such as pertains to a bed, a hammock, a hearse, a sentry box, a pulpit, a coach, or any other of those small and snug contrivances in which men temporarily isolate themselves. Your most usual point of perch is the head of the t’ gallant-mast, where you stand upon two thin parallel sticks (almost peculiar to whalemen) called the t’ gallant cross-trees. Here, tossed about by the sea, the beginner feels about as cosy as he would standing on a bull’s horns. To be sure, in cold weather you may carry your house aloft with you, in the shape of a watch-coat; but properly speaking the thickest watch-coat is no more of a house than the unclad body; for as the soul is glued inside of its fleshy tabernacle, and cannot freely move about in it, nor even move out of it, without running great risk of perishing (like an ignorant pilgrim crossing the snowy Alps in winter); so a watch-coat is not so much of a house as it is a mere envelope, or additional skin encasing you. You cannot put a shelf or chest of drawers in your body, and no more can you make a convenient closet of your watch-coat.

On one of those southern whaling ships, a voyage often lasts three or four years. The hours you spend at the masthead would add up to several whole months. It is a great shame that a place where you spend so much of your natural life should be so lacking in coziness. It gives you none of the comfortable feeling of being in a particular place that you might find in a bed, a hammock, a hearse, a sentry box, a pulpit, a coach, or any other small, snug space where men isolate themselves for a time. Your usual perch is at the top of the topgallant mast. There you stand on two thin, parallel sticks called topgallant cross-trees, found almost exclusively on whaling ships. Tossed about by the sea, a beginner feels about as cozy there as he would standing on a bull’s horns. In cold weather, of course, you can carry your house up with you in the form of a watch-coat. But strictly speaking, even the thickest watch-coat is no more a house than the naked body. The soul is glued inside its shelter of flesh. It cannot move freely within the body, or even leave it, without great risk of perishing. The soul would be like an inexperienced pilgrim crossing the snowy Alps in winter. In the same way, a watch-coat is less a house than a covering, an extra skin wrapped around you. You cannot put a shelf or a chest of drawers in your body. Nor can you turn your watch-coat into a convenient closet.

Concerning all this, it is much to be deplored that the mast-heads of a southern whale ship are unprovided with those enviable little tents or pulpits, called crow’s-nests, in which the look-outs of a Greenland whaler are protected from the inclement weather of the frozen seas. In the fireside narrative of Captain Sleet, entitled “A Voyage among the Icebergs, in quest of the Greenland Whale, and incidentally for the re-discovery of the Lost Icelandic Colonies of Old Greenland;” in this admirable volume, all standers of mast-heads are furnished with a charmingly circumstantial account of the then recently invented crow’s-nest of the Glacier, which was the name of Captain Sleet’s good craft. He called it the Sleet’s crow’s-nest, in honor of himself; he being the original inventor and patentee, and free from all ridiculous false delicacy, and holding that if we call our own children after our own names (we fathers being the original inventors and patentees), so likewise should we denominate after ourselves any other apparatus we may beget. In shape, the Sleet’s crow’s-nest is something like a large tierce or pipe; it is open above, however, where it is furnished with a movable side-screen to keep to windward of your head in a hard gale. Being fixed on the summit of the mast, you ascend into it through a little trap-hatch in the bottom. On the after side, or side next the stern of the ship, is a comfortable seat, with a locker underneath for umbrellas, comforters, and coats. In front is a leather rack, in which to keep your speaking trumpet, pipe, telescope, and other nautical conveniences. When Captain Sleet in person stood his mast-head in this crow’s-nest of his, he tells us that he always had a rifle with him (also fixed in the rack), together with a powder flask and shot, for the purpose of popping off the stray narwhales, or vagrant sea unicorns infesting those waters; for you cannot successfully shoot at them from the deck owing to the resistance of the water, but to shoot down upon them is a very different thing. Now, it was plainly a labor of love for Captain Sleet to describe, as he does, all the little detailed conveniences of his crow’s-nest; but though he so enlarges upon many of these, and though he treats us to a very scientific account of his experiments in this crow’s-nest, with a small compass he kept there for the purpose of counteracting the errors resulting from what is called the “local attraction” of all binnacle magnets; an error ascribable to the horizontal vicinity of the iron in the ship’s planks, and in the Glacier’s case, perhaps, to there having been so many broken-down blacksmiths among her crew; I say, that though the Captain is very discreet and scientific here, yet, for all his learned “binnacle deviations,” “azimuth compass observations,” and “approximate errors,” he knows very well, Captain Sleet, that he was not so much immersed in those profound magnetic meditations, as to fail being attracted occasionally towards that well replenished little case-bottle, so nicely tucked in on one side of his crow’s nest, within easy reach of his hand. Though, upon the whole, I greatly admire and even love the brave, the honest, and learned Captain; yet I take it very ill of him that he should so utterly ignore that case-bottle, seeing what a faithful friend and comforter it must have been, while with mittened fingers and hooded head he was studying the mathematics aloft there in that bird’s nest within three or four perches of the pole.

It is a great pity that the mastheads of southern whale ships lack those enviable little tents or shelters called crow’s-nests. These protect the lookouts on Greenland whalers from the harsh weather of the frozen seas. Captain Sleet wrote a fireside account called “A Voyage among the Icebergs, in quest of the Greenland Whale, and incidentally for the re-discovery of the Lost Icelandic Colonies of Old Greenland;” In this admirable volume, everyone who stands watch at a masthead can find a charmingly detailed account of a recent invention. It was the crow’s-nest aboard the Glacier, Captain Sleet’s fine ship. He called it the Sleet’s crow’s-nest in his own honor. He was its original inventor and patent holder, and he was free of all ridiculous false modesty. He reasoned that fathers name their children after themselves because they are the original inventors and patent holders. So, he thought, we should likewise name any other apparatus we bring into being after ourselves. The Sleet’s crow’s-nest is shaped somewhat like a large barrel. It is open at the top, however, and has a movable side screen. In a hard gale, you can position the screen between your head and the wind. The crow’s-nest is fixed at the top of the mast, and you climb into it through a small trapdoor in the bottom. On the aft side, facing the stern of the ship, is a comfortable seat. Beneath it is a locker for umbrellas, scarves, and coats. In front is a leather rack for your speaking trumpet, pipe, telescope, and other nautical conveniences. Captain Sleet tells us that whenever he stood watch in his own crow’s-nest, he always took a rifle with him. He kept it in the rack, along with a powder flask and shot. He used it to shoot the stray narwhals, or wandering sea unicorns, that infested those waters. You cannot shoot them successfully from the deck because of the resistance of the water, but shooting down at them is quite another matter. Clearly, Captain Sleet loved describing every little convenience of his crow’s-nest. He goes on at length about many of them. He also gives us a very scientific account of his experiments there with a small compass. He kept it to counteract errors caused by what is called the “local attraction” of all binnacle magnets. These errors arise from the iron lying level with the magnets in the ship’s planks. In the Glacier’s case, perhaps they also arose from the many failed blacksmiths among her crew. The Captain is very discreet and scientific about all this. Yet, for all his learned talk of “binnacle deviations,” “azimuth compass observations,” and “approximate errors,” Captain Sleet knows very well that his profound thoughts about magnetism did not completely absorb him. From time to time, he was also attracted to the well stocked little bottle case. It was tucked neatly into one side of his crow’s-nest, within easy reach. On the whole, I greatly admire and even love the brave, honest, learned Captain. Yet I take it very ill that he should completely ignore that bottle case. It must have been a faithful friend and comforter to him. There he was, studying mathematics aloft in that bird’s nest, with his fingers in mittens and his head in a hood, within three or four perches of the pole.

But if we Southern whale-fishers are not so snugly housed aloft as Captain Sleet and his Greenlandmen were; yet that disadvantage is greatly counter-balanced by the widely contrasting serenity of those seductive seas in which we South fishers mostly float. For one, I used to lounge up the rigging very leisurely, resting in the top to have a chat with Queequeg, or any one else off duty whom I might find there; then ascending a little way further, and throwing a lazy leg over the top-sail yard, take a preliminary view of the watery pastures, and so at last mount to my ultimate destination.

But we Southern whale-fishers are not housed as snugly aloft as Captain Sleet and his Greenlandmen were. That disadvantage is largely offset by the striking calm of the seductive seas where we Southern fishers mostly sail. I, for one, used to climb the rigging at a leisurely pace. I would rest in the top and chat with Queequeg or anyone else off duty whom I found there. Then I would climb a little higher and lazily throw a leg over the topsail yard. I would take a first look at the watery pastures before finally climbing to my destination.

Let me make a clean breast of it here, and frankly admit that I kept but sorry guard. With the problem of the universe revolving in me, how could I—being left completely to myself at such a thought-engendering altitude—how could I but lightly hold my obligations to observe all whale-ships’ standing orders, “Keep your weather eye open, and sing out every time.”

Let me confess plainly that I kept a poor lookout. The problem of the universe was turning over in my mind. I was completely alone at a height that inspired such thoughts. How could I take seriously my duty to follow the standing orders on all whale-ships: “Keep your eyes open and call out every time”?

And let me in this place movingly admonish you, ye ship-owners of Nantucket! Beware of enlisting in your vigilant fisheries any lad with lean brow and hollow eye; given to unseasonable meditativeness; and who offers to ship with the Phædon instead of Bowditch in his head. Beware of such an one, I say; your whales must be seen before they can be killed; and this sunken-eyed young Platonist will tow you ten wakes round the world, and never make you one pint of sperm the richer. Nor are these monitions at all unneeded. For nowadays, the whale-fishery furnishes an asylum for many romantic, melancholy, and absent-minded young men, disgusted with the carking cares of earth, and seeking sentiment in tar and blubber. Childe Harold not unfrequently perches himself upon the mast-head of some luckless disappointed whale-ship, and in moody phrase ejaculates:—

And here let me earnestly warn you, shipowners of Nantucket! Beware of hiring any boy with a lean brow and hollow eyes for your watchful fisheries. Beware of one given to untimely thought, who offers to sail with the Phædon instead of Bowditch in his head. Beware of such a boy, I say. You must see whales before you can kill them. This hollow-eyed young Platonist will tow you around the world ten times without earning you a single pint of sperm. Nor are these warnings at all unnecessary. Nowadays, the whale fishery offers refuge to many romantic, melancholy, absent-minded young men. They are disgusted with the nagging cares of life on land and seek romance in tar and blubber. Childe Harold often perches on the masthead of some unlucky, disappointed whale-ship and cries out gloomily:

Very often do the captains of such ships take those absent-minded young philosophers to task, upbraiding them with not feeling sufficient “interest” in the voyage; half-hinting that they are so hopelessly lost to all honorable ambition, as that in their secret souls they would rather not see whales than otherwise. But all in vain; those young Platonists have a notion that their vision is imperfect; they are short-sighted; what use, then, to strain the visual nerve? They have left their opera-glasses at home.

Very often, the captains of such ships scold those absent-minded young philosophers for not showing enough “interest” in the voyage. The captains half suggest that these young men have lost all honorable ambition. Deep down, they would rather not see whales than see them. But all this scolding is in vain. Those young Platonists believe their vision is imperfect. They are nearsighted, so why strain their eyes? They have left their opera glasses at home.

“Why, thou monkey,” said a harpooneer to one of these lads, “we’ve been cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarce as hen’s teeth whenever thou art up here.” Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Cranmer’s sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over.

“Why, you monkey,” a harpooneer said to one of these lads, “we’ve been cruising for almost three years, and you haven’t spotted a whale yet. Whales are as scarce as hen’s teeth whenever you’re up here.” Perhaps they were. Or perhaps there were schools of whales on the distant horizon. But the rhythm of the waves blends with the absent-minded youth’s thoughts, lulling him into an opium-like daze of empty, unconscious daydreaming. At last, he loses his sense of identity. He takes the mysterious ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul that fills mankind and nature. Every strange, beautiful thing that glides past, half seen, and escapes him seems to embody his elusive thoughts. So does every barely visible fin rising from a shape he cannot make out. These thoughts fill the soul only by constantly flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, your spirit flows back to where it came from and spreads through time and space. Like Cranmer’s scattered Pantheistic ashes, it finally becomes part of every shore around the globe.

There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!

There is no life in you now, except the rocking life given to you by the gently rolling ship. The ship borrows that motion from the sea, and the sea from God’s mysterious tides. But while you sleep and dream, move a foot or hand an inch, or loosen your grip at all, and your sense of self returns in horror. You hover above Descartian vortices. And perhaps, at midday, in the finest weather, you give one half-choked shriek. Then you drop through the clear air into the summer sea, never to rise again. Take heed, you Pantheists!