The Spirit-Spout

Days, weeks passed, and under easy sail, the ivory Pequod had slowly swept across four several cruising-grounds; that off the Azores; off the Cape de Verdes; on the Plate (so called), being off the mouth of the Rio de la Plata; and the Carrol Ground, an unstaked, watery locality, southerly from St. Helena.

Days and weeks passed as the ivory Pequod sailed slowly under light sail across four different cruising grounds. These lay off the Azores, off the Cape de Verdes, on the so-called Plate, and on the Carrol Ground. The Plate lay off the mouth of the Rio de la Plata. The Carrol Ground was an unmarked stretch of water south of St. Helena.

It was while gliding through these latter waters that one serene and moonlight night, when all the waves rolled by like scrolls of silver; and, by their soft, suffusing seethings, made what seemed a silvery silence, not a solitude; on such a silent night a silvery jet was seen far in advance of the white bubbles at the bow. Lit up by the moon, it looked celestial; seemed some plumed and glittering god uprising from the sea. Fedallah first descried this jet. For of these moonlight nights, it was his wont to mount to the main-mast head, and stand a look-out there, with the same precision as if it had been day. And yet, though herds of whales were seen by night, not one whaleman in a hundred would venture a lowering for them. You may think with what emotions, then, the seamen beheld this old Oriental perched aloft at such unusual hours; his turban and the moon, companions in one sky. But when, after spending his uniform interval there for several successive nights without uttering a single sound; when, after all this silence, his unearthly voice was heard announcing that silvery, moon-lit jet, every reclining mariner started to his feet as if some winged spirit had lighted in the rigging, and hailed the mortal crew. “There she blows!” Had the trump of judgment blown, they could not have quivered more; yet still they felt no terror; rather pleasure. For though it was a most unwonted hour, yet so impressive was the cry, and so deliriously exciting, that almost every soul on board instinctively desired a lowering.

As the ship glided through these waters one serene, moonlit night, all the waves rolled by like scrolls of silver. Their soft, spreading murmurs created what seemed a silvery silence, but not a solitude. On that silent night, a silvery spout appeared far ahead of the white bubbles at the bow. Lit by the moon, it looked heavenly, like a plumed, glittering god rising from the sea. Fedallah spotted the spout first. On moonlit nights, he was in the habit of climbing to the top of the mainmast and keeping watch there, just as carefully as he did by day. Yet though herds of whales were seen at night, not one whaleman in a hundred would dare lower a boat to chase them. You can imagine the sailors’ feelings as they watched this old Oriental perched aloft at such unusual hours, his turban and the moon companions in the same sky. For several nights in a row, Fedallah had spent his usual time aloft without making a sound. But after all that silence, his unearthly voice announced the silvery, moonlit spout. Every resting sailor sprang to his feet, as if a winged spirit had landed in the rigging and called out to the mortal crew. “There she blows!” They could not have trembled more if the trumpet of judgment had sounded. Yet they felt no terror, only pleasure. Though the hour was most unusual, the cry was so striking and wildly exciting that almost everyone on board instinctively wanted to lower a boat.

Walking the deck with quick, side-lunging strides, Ahab commanded the t’gallant sails and royals to be set, and every stunsail spread. The best man in the ship must take the helm. Then, with every mast-head manned, the piled-up craft rolled down before the wind. The strange, upheaving, lifting tendency of the taffrail breeze filling the hollows of so many sails, made the buoyant, hovering deck to feel like air beneath the feet; while still she rushed along, as if two antagonistic influences were struggling in her—one to mount direct to heaven, the other to drive yawingly to some horizontal goal. And had you watched Ahab’s face that night, you would have thought that in him also two different things were warring. While his one live leg made lively echoes along the deck, every stroke of his dead limb sounded like a coffin-tap. On life and death this old man walked. But though the ship so swiftly sped, and though from every eye, like arrows, the eager glances shot, yet the silvery jet was no more seen that night. Every sailor swore he saw it once, but not a second time.

Walking the deck with quick strides that lunged to either side, Ahab ordered the topgallant sails and royals set and every stunsail spread. The best man aboard was to take the helm. Then, with a lookout at every masthead, the heavily canvassed ship rolled along before the wind. The breeze from the stern filled the hollows of so many sails, lifting the ship strangely upward. The buoyant, hovering deck felt like air beneath the sailors’ feet. Yet the ship rushed on, as if two opposing forces struggled within her. One seemed to lift her straight toward heaven, while the other drove her swerving toward some distant goal. Had you watched Ahab’s face that night, you would have thought two different things were also at war within him. His living leg sent lively echoes across the deck, while every step of his dead limb sounded like a tap on a coffin. The old man walked on life and death. But though the ship sped along so swiftly, and eager glances shot like arrows from every eye, the silvery spout was not seen again that night. Every sailor swore he saw it once, but not a second time.

This midnight-spout had almost grown a forgotten thing, when, some days after, lo! at the same silent hour, it was again announced: again it was descried by all; but upon making sail to overtake it, once more it disappeared as if it had never been. And so it served us night after night, till no one heeded it but to wonder at it. Mysteriously jetted into the clear moonlight, or starlight, as the case might be; disappearing again for one whole day, or two days, or three; and somehow seeming at every distinct repetition to be advancing still further and further in our van, this solitary jet seemed for ever alluring us on.

The midnight spout had almost been forgotten when, several days later, it was announced again at the same silent hour. Once again, everyone saw it. But when we set sail to catch up with it, it disappeared again, as if it had never been there. It did this night after night, until no one paid it any attention except to wonder at it. The solitary spout rose mysteriously into the clear moonlight or starlight, whichever it happened to be. Then it would disappear again for one, two, or three whole days. Each time it appeared, it somehow seemed to be moving farther and farther ahead of us, forever drawing us on.

Nor with the immemorial superstition of their race, and in accordance with the preternaturalness, as it seemed, which in many things invested the Pequod, were there wanting some of the seamen who swore that whenever and wherever descried; at however remote times, or in however far apart latitudes and longitudes, that unnearable spout was cast by one self-same whale; and that whale, Moby Dick. For a time, there reigned, too, a sense of peculiar dread at this flitting apparition, as if it were treacherously beckoning us on and on, in order that the monster might turn round upon us, and rend us at last in the remotest and most savage seas.

Some sailors swore that the distant spout, which they could never get near, always came from one whale: Moby Dick. They believed this no matter when or where the spout was sighted, or how far apart the sightings were. This belief was in keeping with the sailors’ ancient superstitions and the strange, seemingly supernatural character of the Pequod. For a time, the fleeting apparition also filled us with a particular dread. It seemed to be treacherously beckoning us onward, so that the monster could turn on us at last and tear us apart in the most remote and savage seas.

These temporary apprehensions, so vague but so awful, derived a wondrous potency from the contrasting serenity of the weather, in which, beneath all its blue blandness, some thought there lurked a devilish charm, as for days and days we voyaged along, through seas so wearily, lonesomely mild, that all space, in repugnance to our vengeful errand, seemed vacating itself of life before our urn-like prow.

These passing fears were vague but awful, and the calm weather made them strangely more powerful. Some thought a devilish spell lurked beneath the weather’s clear blue calm. For days and days, we sailed through seas so drearily, so lonesomely calm, that all space seemed to empty itself of life before our urn-shaped prow, as if repelled by our vengeful mission.

But, at last, when turning to the eastward, the Cape winds began howling around us, and we rose and fell upon the long, troubled seas that are there; when the ivory-tusked Pequod sharply bowed to the blast, and gored the dark waves in her madness, till, like showers of silver chips, the foam-flakes flew over her bulwarks; then all this desolate vacuity of life went away, but gave place to sights more dismal than before.

But at last we turned east, and the Cape winds began howling around us. We rose and fell on the long, troubled seas there. The ivory-tusked Pequod bowed sharply into the wind and, in her madness, gored the dark waves. Flakes of foam flew over her sides like showers of silver chips. Then all the bleak emptiness of life disappeared, but it gave way to sights more dismal than before.

Close to our bows, strange forms in the water darted hither and thither before us; while thick in our rear flew the inscrutable sea-ravens. And every morning, perched on our stays, rows of these birds were seen; and spite of our hootings, for a long time obstinately clung to the hemp, as though they deemed our ship some drifting, uninhabited craft; a thing appointed to desolation, and therefore fit roosting-place for their homeless selves. And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred.

Close to our bow, strange shapes darted back and forth in the water. Behind us, mysterious sea-ravens flew in great numbers. Every morning, rows of these birds perched on our ship’s rigging. Despite our hooting, they stubbornly clung to the hemp ropes for a long time. They seemed to think our ship was an empty vessel drifting at sea. It was a thing destined for desolation, and therefore a fitting roost for their homeless selves. And the black sea heaved and heaved, never resting. It was as if its vast tides were a conscience, and the great soul of the world were in anguish and remorse for the long history of sin and suffering it had caused.

Cape of Good Hope, do they call ye? Rather Cape Tormentoso, as called of yore; for long allured by the perfidious silences that before had attended us, we found ourselves launched into this tormented sea, where guilty beings transformed into those fowls and these fish, seemed condemned to swim on everlastingly without any haven in store, or beat that black air without any horizon. But calm, snow-white, and unvarying; still directing its fountain of feathers to the sky; still beckoning us on from before, the solitary jet would at times be descried.

Do they call you the Cape of Good Hope? Better to call you Cape Tormentoso, as they once did. We had long been lured on by the treacherous calm that had surrounded us. Then we found ourselves in this tormented sea. Here, guilty beings seemed to have been turned into birds and fish. The fish seemed condemned to swim forever, with no haven ahead. The birds seemed doomed to beat through the black air, with no horizon in sight. But from time to time, we could still see the solitary spout ahead, beckoning us on. Calm, snow-white, and unchanged, it still sent its fountain of spray toward the sky.

During all this blackness of the elements, Ahab, though assuming for the time the almost continual command of the drenched and dangerous deck, manifested the gloomiest reserve; and more seldom than ever addressed his mates. In tempestuous times like these, after everything above and aloft has been secured, nothing more can be done but passively to await the issue of the gale. Then Captain and crew become practical fatalists. So, with his ivory leg inserted into its accustomed hole, and with one hand firmly grasping a shroud, Ahab for hours and hours would stand gazing dead to windward, while an occasional squall of sleet or snow would all but congeal his very eyelashes together. Meantime, the crew driven from the forward part of the ship by the perilous seas that burstingly broke over its bows, stood in a line along the bulwarks in the waist; and the better to guard against the leaping waves, each man had slipped himself into a sort of bowline secured to the rail, in which he swung as in a loosened belt. Few or no words were spoken; and the silent ship, as if manned by painted sailors in wax, day after day tore on through all the swift madness and gladness of the demoniac waves. By night the same muteness of humanity before the shrieks of the ocean prevailed; still in silence the men swung in the bowlines; still wordless Ahab stood up to the blast. Even when wearied nature seemed demanding repose he would not seek that repose in his hammock. Never could Starbuck forget the old man’s aspect, when one night going down into the cabin to mark how the barometer stood, he saw him with closed eyes sitting straight in his floor-screwed chair; the rain and half-melted sleet of the storm from which he had some time before emerged, still slowly dripping from the unremoved hat and coat. On the table beside him lay unrolled one of those charts of tides and currents which have previously been spoken of. His lantern swung from his tightly clenched hand. Though the body was erect, the head was thrown back so that the closed eyes were pointed towards the needle of the tell-tale that swung from a beam in the ceiling.*

Throughout the darkness of the storm, Ahab took almost constant command of the drenched and dangerous deck. Yet he remained grimly withdrawn and spoke to his mates even less often than usual. In storms like these, once everything on deck and aloft has been secured, nothing more can be done. All that remains is to wait helplessly for the gale to run its course. Then captain and crew become fatalists in practice. So Ahab stood for hours, his ivory leg set in its usual hole and one hand gripping a shroud. He stared directly into the wind, while passing squalls of sleet or snow nearly froze his eyelashes together. Meanwhile, dangerous seas crashed over the bows and drove the crew from the forward part of the ship. They stood in a line along the bulwarks at midship. To guard against the leaping waves, each man had slipped into a kind of bowline secured to the rail. Each swung in his bowline as if it were a loose belt. Few words, if any, were spoken. The silent ship, as if crewed by painted wax sailors, tore on day after day through the swift madness and joy of the demonic waves. At night, the men remained just as silent before the ocean’s shrieks. Still they swung silently in their bowlines, and still Ahab stood wordless against the blast. Even when his weary body seemed to demand rest, he would not seek it in his hammock. Starbuck would never forget how the old man looked one night. Starbuck had gone down to the cabin to check the barometer and saw Ahab sitting upright in his chair, which was screwed to the floor. Ahab’s eyes were closed. He had come in from the storm some time before, but he had not removed his hat or coat. Rain and half-melted sleet still dripped slowly from them. On the table beside him lay one of the charts of tides and currents mentioned earlier, unrolled. His lantern swung from his tightly clenched hand. Though his body was upright, his head was thrown back. His closed eyes pointed toward the needle of the tell-tale that swung from a ceiling beam.*

*The cabin-compass is called the tell-tale, because without going to the compass at the helm, the Captain, while below, can inform himself of the course of the ship.

*The cabin compass is called the tell-tale because it lets the captain check the ship’s course while below. He does not need to go to the compass at the helm.

Terrible old man! thought Starbuck with a shudder, sleeping in this gale, still thou steadfastly eyest thy purpose.

Terrible old man! Starbuck thought with a shudder. Even asleep in this gale, you remain fixed on your purpose.