Cistern and Buckets

Nimble as a cat, Tashtego mounts aloft; and without altering his erect posture, runs straight out upon the overhanging mainyard-arm, to the part where it exactly projects over the hoisted Tun. He has carried with him a light tackle called a whip, consisting of only two parts, travelling through a single-sheaved block. Securing this block, so that it hangs down from the yard-arm, he swings one end of the rope, till it is caught and firmly held by a hand on deck. Then, hand-over-hand, down the other part, the Indian drops through the air, till dexterously he lands on the summit of the head. There—still high elevated above the rest of the company, to whom he vivaciously cries—he seems some Turkish Muezzin calling the good people to prayers from the top of a tower. A short-handled sharp spade being sent up to him, he diligently searches for the proper place to begin breaking into the Tun. In this business he proceeds very heedfully, like a treasure-hunter in some old house, sounding the walls to find where the gold is masoned in. By the time this cautious search is over, a stout iron-bound bucket, precisely like a well-bucket, has been attached to one end of the whip; while the other end, being stretched across the deck, is there held by two or three alert hands. These last now hoist the bucket within grasp of the Indian, to whom another person has reached up a very long pole. Inserting this pole into the bucket, Tashtego downward guides the bucket into the Tun, till it entirely disappears; then giving the word to the seamen at the whip, up comes the bucket again, all bubbling like a dairy-maid’s pail of new milk. Carefully lowered from its height, the full-freighted vessel is caught by an appointed hand, and quickly emptied into a large tub. Then remounting aloft, it again goes through the same round until the deep cistern will yield no more. Towards the end, Tashtego has to ram his long pole harder and harder, and deeper and deeper into the Tun, until some twenty feet of the pole have gone down.

Nimble as a cat, Tashtego climbs aloft. Standing upright, he runs straight out along the overhanging mainyard arm. He stops where it extends directly over the hoisted Tun. He has brought a light tackle called a whip. It has just two lengths of rope running through a block with a single pulley. He secures the block so that it hangs from the yardarm. Then he swings one end of the rope until a hand on deck catches and holds it firmly. Hand over hand, the Indian descends through the air on the other length of rope. He lands deftly on top of the head. Still high above the rest of the crew, he calls out to them cheerfully. He seems like a Turkish Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer from the top of a tower. A sharp, short-handled spade is sent up to him. He carefully searches for the right place to begin breaking into the Tun. He works very cautiously, like a treasure hunter in an old house. The hunter taps the walls to find where the gold has been sealed in the masonry. By the time Tashtego finishes his careful search, a sturdy iron-bound bucket has been attached to one end of the whip. It is exactly like a well bucket. The other end of the rope stretches across the deck, where two or three alert hands hold it. They now hoist the bucket within the Indian’s reach, while another person hands him a very long pole. Tashtego inserts the pole into the bucket and guides it down into the Tun until it disappears completely. Then he gives the word to the seamen handling the whip. The bucket comes up again, bubbling like a dairymaid’s pail of fresh milk. The full bucket is carefully lowered from its height. A designated hand catches it and quickly empties it into a large tub. The bucket is then hoisted up again, and the process is repeated until the deep cistern yields no more. Near the end, Tashtego has to push his long pole harder and harder, and deeper and deeper into the Tun. At last, some twenty feet of the pole have gone down.

Now, the people of the Pequod had been baling some time in this way; several tubs had been filled with the fragrant sperm; when all at once a queer accident happened. Whether it was that Tashtego, that wild Indian, was so heedless and reckless as to let go for a moment his one-handed hold on the great cabled tackles suspending the head; or whether the place where he stood was so treacherous and oozy; or whether the Evil One himself would have it to fall out so, without stating his particular reasons; how it was exactly, there is no telling now; but, on a sudden, as the eightieth or ninetieth bucket came suckingly up—my God! poor Tashtego—like the twin reciprocating bucket in a veritable well, dropped head-foremost down into this great Tun of Heidelburgh, and with a horrible oily gurgling, went clean out of sight!

The crew of the Pequod had been bailing this way for some time, filling several tubs with fragrant sperm. Then, all at once, a strange accident happened. Perhaps Tashtego, that wild Indian, was careless and reckless enough to let go of the great cable tackles suspending the head. He had been holding on with one hand. Or perhaps the place where he stood was treacherous and slippery. Or perhaps the Evil One himself wanted it to happen, without giving his particular reasons. No one can say now exactly how it happened. But suddenly, as the eightieth or ninetieth bucket came up with a sucking sound, my God! Poor Tashtego plunged headfirst into this great Tun of Heidelburgh, like the second bucket in an actual well as the first rises. With a horrible oily gurgle, he disappeared completely from sight!

“Man overboard!” cried Daggoo, who amid the general consternation first came to his senses. “Swing the bucket this way!” and putting one foot into it, so as the better to secure his slippery hand-hold on the whip itself, the hoisters ran him high up to the top of the head, almost before Tashtego could have reached its interior bottom. Meantime, there was a terrible tumult. Looking over the side, they saw the before lifeless head throbbing and heaving just below the surface of the sea, as if that moment seized with some momentous idea; whereas it was only the poor Indian unconsciously revealing by those struggles the perilous depth to which he had sunk.

“Man overboard!” cried Daggoo, the first to recover his senses amid the general alarm. “Swing the bucket this way!” He put one foot in it to get a better grip on the slippery hoisting rope. The men hoisting him raised him high to the top of the head. They did this almost before Tashtego could have reached the bottom inside. Meanwhile, there was a terrible uproar. Looking over the side, the crew saw the previously lifeless head throbbing and heaving just below the sea’s surface. It looked as if the head had just been seized by some momentous idea. But it was only the poor Indian, whose struggles unknowingly revealed the dangerous depth to which he had sunk.

At this instant, while Daggoo, on the summit of the head, was clearing the whip—which had somehow got foul of the great cutting tackles—a sharp cracking noise was heard; and to the unspeakable horror of all, one of the two enormous hooks suspending the head tore out, and with a vast vibration the enormous mass sideways swung, till the drunk ship reeled and shook as if smitten by an iceberg. The one remaining hook, upon which the entire strain now depended, seemed every instant to be on the point of giving way; an event still more likely from the violent motions of the head.

At that moment, Daggoo was on top of the head, clearing the whip, a lifting rope. It had somehow become tangled in the great cutting tackles. Then a sharp crack was heard. To the unspeakable horror of all, one of the two enormous hooks holding up the head tore free. The enormous mass swung sideways with a tremendous vibration. The drunken ship reeled and shook as if struck by an iceberg. The entire weight now hung from the one remaining hook, which seemed about to give way at any moment. The violent swinging of the head made the hook even more likely to fail.

“Come down, come down!” yelled the seamen to Daggoo, but with one hand holding on to the heavy tackles, so that if the head should drop, he would still remain suspended; the negro having cleared the foul line, rammed down the bucket into the now collapsed well, meaning that the buried harpooneer should grasp it, and so be hoisted out.

“Come down, come down!” the seamen yelled to Daggoo. But he held on to the heavy tackles with one hand, so that if the head dropped, he would remain suspended. Having freed the tangled line, he pushed the bucket down into the collapsed well. He meant for the buried harpooneer to grab the bucket and be hoisted out.

“In heaven’s name, man,” cried Stubb, “are you ramming home a cartridge there?—Avast! How will that help him; jamming that iron-bound bucket on top of his head? Avast, will ye!”

“For heaven’s sake, man,” cried Stubb, “are you ramming a cartridge into a gun? Stop! How will jamming that iron-bound bucket on his head help him? Stop, will you!”

“Stand clear of the tackle!” cried a voice like the bursting of a rocket.

“Stay clear of the rigging!” shouted a voice like an exploding rocket.

Almost in the same instant, with a thunder-boom, the enormous mass dropped into the sea, like Niagara’s Table-Rock into the whirlpool; the suddenly relieved hull rolled away from it, to far down her glittering copper; and all caught their breath, as half swinging—now over the sailors’ heads, and now over the water—Daggoo, through a thick mist of spray, was dimly beheld clinging to the pendulous tackles, while poor, buried-alive Tashtego was sinking utterly down to the bottom of the sea! But hardly had the blinding vapor cleared away, when a naked figure with a boarding-sword in his hand, was for one swift moment seen hovering over the bulwarks. The next, a loud splash announced that my brave Queequeg had dived to the rescue. One packed rush was made to the side, and every eye counted every ripple, as moment followed moment, and no sign of either the sinker or the diver could be seen. Some hands now jumped into a boat alongside, and pushed a little off from the ship.

Almost at the same instant, the enormous mass dropped into the sea with a thunderous boom. It fell like Niagara’s Table-Rock into the whirlpool. Suddenly freed from the weight, the hull rolled away, exposing its glittering copper far below. Everyone caught their breath. Through a thick mist of spray, they could dimly see Daggoo clinging to the swinging tackles. He swung partly over the sailors’ heads, then partly over the water. Meanwhile, poor Tashtego, buried alive, was sinking all the way to the bottom of the sea! But the blinding mist had hardly cleared when a naked figure appeared for one swift moment above the bulwarks. He held a boarding-sword in his hand. The next moment, a loud splash announced that my brave Queequeg had dived to the rescue. Everyone rushed together to the side. They watched every ripple, but moment after moment passed without any sign of either Tashtego or Queequeg. Some sailors now jumped into a boat alongside and pushed a little way off from the ship.

“Ha! ha!” cried Daggoo, all at once, from his now quiet, swinging perch overhead; and looking further off from the side, we saw an arm thrust upright from the blue waves; a sight strange to see, as an arm thrust forth from the grass over a grave.

“Ha! ha!” Daggoo suddenly cried from his now quiet, swinging perch overhead. Looking farther out from the side, we saw an arm sticking upright from the blue waves. It was as strange a sight as an arm sticking out of the grass over a grave.

“Both! both!—it is both!”—cried Daggoo again with a joyful shout; and soon after, Queequeg was seen boldly striking out with one hand, and with the other clutching the long hair of the Indian. Drawn into the waiting boat, they were quickly brought to the deck; but Tashtego was long in coming to, and Queequeg did not look very brisk.

“Both! Both! It’s both of them!” Daggoo cried again with a joyful shout. Soon after, Queequeg was seen swimming boldly with one hand and clutching the Indian’s long hair with the other. Both were pulled into the waiting boat and quickly brought on deck. But Tashtego took a long time to regain consciousness, and Queequeg did not look very lively.

Now, how had this noble rescue been accomplished? Why, diving after the slowly descending head, Queequeg with his keen sword had made side lunges near its bottom, so as to scuttle a large hole there; then dropping his sword, had thrust his long arm far inwards and upwards, and so hauled out poor Tash by the head. He averred, that upon first thrusting in for him, a leg was presented; but well knowing that that was not as it ought to be, and might occasion great trouble;—he had thrust back the leg, and by a dexterous heave and toss, had wrought a somerset upon the Indian; so that with the next trial, he came forth in the good old way—head foremost. As for the great head itself, that was doing as well as could be expected.

Now, how had this noble rescue been accomplished? Queequeg dived after the slowly sinking head. With his sharp sword, he made sideways thrusts near the bottom, cutting a large hole in it. Then he dropped his sword and thrust his long arm far inside and upward, pulling poor Tash out by the head. Queequeg said that when he first reached in, he found a leg. But he knew well that a leg was not what he wanted and might cause great trouble. So he pushed the leg back and, with a skillful heave and toss, turned the Indian over. On the next try, Tash came out in the good old way, headfirst. As for the great head itself, it was doing as well as could be expected.

And thus, through the courage and great skill in obstetrics of Queequeg, the deliverance, or rather, delivery of Tashtego, was successfully accomplished, in the teeth, too, of the most untoward and apparently hopeless impediments; which is a lesson by no means to be forgotten. Midwifery should be taught in the same course with fencing and boxing, riding and rowing.

And so, thanks to Queequeg’s courage and great skill in delivering babies, Tashtego’s rescue, or rather, delivery, was successfully accomplished. It succeeded despite the most difficult and seemingly hopeless obstacles. This is a lesson we should never forget. Midwifery should be taught alongside fencing, boxing, riding, and rowing.

I know that this queer adventure of the Gay-Header’s will be sure to seem incredible to some landsmen, though they themselves may have either seen or heard of some one’s falling into a cistern ashore; an accident which not seldom happens, and with much less reason too than the Indian’s, considering the exceeding slipperiness of the curb of the Sperm Whale’s well.

I know the Gay-Header’s strange adventure will surely seem unbelievable to some landsmen. Yet they may have seen or heard of someone falling into a cistern on land. Such accidents happen fairly often, and with much less reason than the Indian’s accident. After all, the rim of the Sperm Whale’s well is extremely slippery.

But, peradventure, it may be sagaciously urged, how is this? We thought the tissued, infiltrated head of the Sperm Whale, was the lightest and most corky part about him; and yet thou makest it sink in an element of a far greater specific gravity than itself. We have thee there. Not at all, but I have ye; for at the time poor Tash fell in, the case had been nearly emptied of its lighter contents, leaving little but the dense tendinous wall of the well—a double welded, hammered substance, as I have before said, much heavier than the sea water, and a lump of which sinks in it like lead almost. But the tendency to rapid sinking in this substance was in the present instance materially counteracted by the other parts of the head remaining undetached from it, so that it sank very slowly and deliberately indeed, affording Queequeg a fair chance for performing his agile obstetrics on the run, as you may say. Yes, it was a running delivery, so it was.

But perhaps someone might reasonably object: How can this be? We thought the Sperm Whale's head, with its tissue and the substance filling it, was his lightest, most corklike part. Yet you make it sink in a liquid far denser than the head itself. We have caught you there. Not at all. I have caught you. When poor Tash fell in, the case had been nearly emptied of its lighter contents. Little remained but the dense, sinewy wall of the well. As I said before, this wall is a double layer of material, welded and hammered together. It is much heavier than seawater, and a lump of it sinks almost like lead. But in this case, the other parts of the head were still attached to the wall. They greatly slowed its tendency to sink rapidly. So the head sank very slowly and deliberately, giving Queequeg a fair chance to perform his nimble obstetrics on the run, you might say. Yes, it was a running delivery, so it was.

Now, had Tashtego perished in that head, it had been a very precious perishing; smothered in the very whitest and daintiest of fragrant spermaceti; coffined, hearsed, and tombed in the secret inner chamber and sanctum sanctorum of the whale. Only one sweeter end can readily be recalled—the delicious death of an Ohio honey-hunter, who seeking honey in the crotch of a hollow tree, found such exceeding store of it, that leaning too far over, it sucked him in, so that he died embalmed. How many, think ye, have likewise fallen into Plato’s honey head, and sweetly perished there?

Now, if Tashtego had died in that head, it would have been a very precious death. He would have been smothered in the whitest, most delicate, fragrant spermaceti. He would have been enclosed in a coffin, carried in a hearse, and buried in the whale’s secret inner chamber, its holiest sanctuary. Only one sweeter end readily comes to mind: the delicious death of an Ohio honey-hunter. He was looking for honey in the fork of a hollow tree and found an enormous supply. He leaned too far over, and the honey sucked him in, so that he died embalmed in it. How many people, do you think, have likewise fallen into Plato’s honey head and sweetly died there?