Pitchpoling

To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft’s bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to some particular presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the event.

Carriage axles are greased so they turn easily and quickly. For much the same reason, some whalers grease the bottoms of their boats. This can do no harm, and it may well be a considerable advantage. After all, oil and water repel each other, oil is slippery, and the aim is to make the boat slide along splendidly. Queequeg strongly believed in greasing his boat. One morning, not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, he took more care than usual with the job. The boat hung over the ship’s side, and he crawled underneath it. He rubbed in the grease as if he were trying hard to grow hair on the craft’s bald keel. He seemed to be acting on a particular premonition. And events soon showed that his premonition was not without reason.

Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra’s barges from Actium.

Around noon, whales were spotted. But as soon as the ship sailed toward them, they turned and fled swiftly and wildly, like Cleopatra’s barges fleeing Actium.

Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb’s was foremost. By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal flight, with added fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious. What then remained?

Nevertheless, the boats chased the whale, with Stubb’s boat in the lead. With great effort, Tashtego finally managed to drive a harpoon into the whale. But the wounded whale did not dive. Instead, it kept swimming straight ahead, even faster than before. The constant strain on the harpoon would sooner or later pull it out. They had to lance the fleeing whale or accept losing it. But they could not pull the boat alongside the whale, because it was swimming so fast and furiously. What else could they do?

Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced, none exceed that fine manœuvre with the lance called pitchpoling. Small sword, or broad sword, in all its exercises boasts nothing like it. It is only indispensable with an inveterate running whale; its grand fact and feature is the wonderful distance to which the long lance is accurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat, under extreme headway. Steel and wood included, the entire spear is some ten or twelve feet in length; the staff is much slighter than that of the harpoon, and also of a lighter material—pine. It is furnished with a small rope called a warp, of considerable length, by which it can be hauled back to the hand after darting.

Of all the remarkable tricks and skills a veteran whaleman is often forced to use, none surpasses pitchpoling. This is a fine maneuver with a lance. No technique with a small sword or a broad sword can match it. Pitchpoling is indispensable only when a whale keeps running away. Its most remarkable feature is the distance the long lance can be thrown with accuracy. The whaleman throws it from a boat rocking and jerking violently as it speeds forward. Including its steel point and wooden shaft, the lance is about ten or twelve feet long. Its shaft is much thinner than a harpoon’s and is made of a lighter material, pine. A long, thin rope called a warp is attached to the lance. The warp lets the whaleman pull the lance back after throwing it.

But before going further, it is important to mention here, that though the harpoon may be pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet it is seldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful, on account of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoon as compared with the lance, which in effect become serious drawbacks. As a general thing, therefore, you must first get fast to a whale, before any pitchpoling comes into play.

But before going further, it is important to note that a harpoon can be pitchpoled like a lance. But this is seldom done, and it succeeds even less often. The harpoon is heavier and shorter than the lance, which are serious drawbacks. Generally, then, you must first fasten yourself to a whale before pitchpoling comes into play.

Look now at Stubb; a man who from his humorous, deliberate coolness and equanimity in the direst emergencies, was specially qualified to excel in pitchpoling. Look at him; he stands upright in the tossed bow of the flying boat; wrapt in fleecy foam, the towing whale is forty feet ahead. Handling the long lance lightly, glancing twice or thrice along its length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlingly gathers up the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to secure its free end in his grasp, leaving the rest unobstructed. Then holding the lance full before his waistband’s middle, he levels it at the whale; when, covering him with it, he steadily depresses the butt-end in his hand, thereby elevating the point till the weapon stands fairly balanced upon his palm, fifteen feet in the air. He minds you somewhat of a juggler, balancing a long staff on his chin. Next moment with a rapid, nameless impulse, in a superb lofty arch the bright steel spans the foaming distance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale. Instead of sparkling water, he now spouts red blood.

Look at Stubb now. His good-humored, deliberate calm and composure in the most dangerous emergencies made him especially suited to excel at pitchpoling. He stands upright in the pitching bow of the speeding boat. Forty feet ahead, the whale towing the boat is wrapped in white foam. Stubb handles the long lance lightly, glancing along it two or three times to check that it is perfectly straight. Whistling, he gathers the coiled line in one hand, gripping its free end and leaving the rest free to run. Then he holds the lance directly in front of his waistband and aims it at the whale. Keeping it aimed, he steadily lowers the butt end in his hand. This raises the point until the lance stands balanced on his palm, fifteen feet in the air. He looks rather like a juggler balancing a long staff on his chin. The next moment, with a quick, indescribable movement, he sends the bright steel soaring in a magnificent arc across the foaming gap. It quivers in the whale’s vital spot. Now the whale spouts red blood instead of sparkling water.

“That drove the spigot out of him!” cried Stubb. “’Tis July’s immortal Fourth; all fountains must run wine today! Would now, it were old Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakable old Monongahela! Then, Tashtego, lad, I’d have ye hold a canakin to the jet, and we’d drink round it! Yea, verily, hearts alive, we’d brew choice punch in the spread of his spout-hole there, and from that live punch-bowl quaff the living stuff.”

“That knocked the spigot out of him!” cried Stubb. “It’s the glorious Fourth of July. All fountains must run with wine today! I wish it were old Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or the indescribable old Monongahela! Then, Tashtego, lad, I’d have you hold a small cup to the jet, and we’d all drink from it! Yes, by heaven, we’d mix fine punch in his open blowhole. Then we’d drink the living stuff from that living punch bowl.”

Again and again to such gamesome talk, the dexterous dart is repeated, the spear returning to its master like a greyhound held in skilful leash. The agonized whale goes into his flurry; the tow-line is slackened, and the pitchpoler dropping astern, folds his hands, and mutely watches the monster die.

Again and again, amid such playful talk, the spear is skillfully thrown. It returns to its master like a greyhound on a skillfully handled leash. The agonized whale enters its death throes. The tow-line is loosened, and the pitchpoler falls behind. He folds his hands and silently watches the monster die.