The Rendering Furnaces

Besides her hoisted boats, an American whaler is outwardly distinguished by her try-works. She presents the curious anomaly of the most solid masonry joining with oak and hemp in constituting the completed ship. It is as if from the open field a brick-kiln were transported to her planks.

Besides her raised boats, an American whaler can be recognized by her try-works. The ship is a curious combination of solid masonry, oak, and hemp. It is as if a brick kiln had been moved from an open field onto her deck.

The try-works are planted between the foremast and mainmast, the most roomy part of the deck. The timbers beneath are of a peculiar strength, fitted to sustain the weight of an almost solid mass of brick and mortar, some ten feet by eight square, and five in height. The foundation does not penetrate the deck, but the masonry is firmly secured to the surface by ponderous knees of iron bracing it on all sides, and screwing it down to the timbers. On the flanks it is cased with wood, and at top completely covered by a large, sloping, battened hatchway. Removing this hatch we expose the great try-pots, two in number, and each of several barrels’ capacity. When not in use, they are kept remarkably clean. Sometimes they are polished with soapstone and sand, till they shine within like silver punch-bowls. During the night-watches some cynical old sailors will crawl into them and coil themselves away there for a nap. While employed in polishing them—one man in each pot, side by side—many confidential communications are carried on, over the iron lips. It is a place also for profound mathematical meditation. It was in the left hand try-pot of the Pequod, with the soapstone diligently circling round me, that I was first indirectly struck by the remarkable fact, that in geometry all bodies gliding along the cycloid, my soapstone for example, will descend from any point in precisely the same time.

The try-works sit between the foremast and mainmast, the roomiest part of the deck. The timbers beneath them are especially strong. They support an almost solid mass of brick and mortar, about ten feet long, eight feet wide, and five feet high. The foundation does not go through the deck. Instead, massive iron braces hold the brickwork firmly in place on all sides and screw it down to the timbers. Wood covers the sides, and a large, sloping, battened hatch covers the top completely. Removing the hatch reveals the two great try-pots, each large enough to hold several barrels. When not in use, the pots are kept remarkably clean. Sometimes they are polished with soapstone and sand until their insides shine like silver punch bowls. During the night watches, some cynical old sailors crawl into the pots and curl up for a nap. Men polishing the pots, one in each pot, side by side, often exchange confidences over the iron rims. It is also a place for deep mathematical thought. I was in the Pequod’s left-hand try-pot, diligently moving the soapstone in circles around me, when I first indirectly realized a remarkable fact. In geometry, all objects gliding along a cycloid, my soapstone for example, descend from any point in precisely the same time.

Removing the fire-board from the front of the try-works, the bare masonry of that side is exposed, penetrated by the two iron mouths of the furnaces, directly underneath the pots. These mouths are fitted with heavy doors of iron. The intense heat of the fire is prevented from communicating itself to the deck, by means of a shallow reservoir extending under the entire inclosed surface of the works. By a tunnel inserted at the rear, this reservoir is kept replenished with water as fast as it evaporates. There are no external chimneys; they open direct from the rear wall. And here let us go back for a moment.

When the fire-board is removed from the front of the try-works, the bare masonry is exposed. Two iron furnace openings pierce the masonry directly beneath the pots. These openings have heavy iron doors. A shallow reservoir extends beneath the entire enclosed area of the try-works, keeping the intense heat from reaching the deck. A funnel at the rear keeps the reservoir filled with water as fast as it evaporates. There are no external chimneys. The chimneys open directly from the rear wall. And here let us go back for a moment.

It was about nine o’clock at night that the Pequod’s try-works were first started on this present voyage. It belonged to Stubb to oversee the business.

The Pequod’s try-works were first started on this voyage at about nine o’clock at night. Stubb was in charge of overseeing the work.

“All ready there? Off hatch, then, and start her. You cook, fire the works.” This was an easy thing, for the carpenter had been thrusting his shavings into the furnace throughout the passage. Here be it said that in a whaling voyage the first fire in the try-works has to be fed for a time with wood. After that no wood is used, except as a means of quick ignition to the staple fuel. In a word, after being tried out, the crisp, shrivelled blubber, now called scraps or fritters, still contains considerable of its unctuous properties. These fritters feed the flames. Like a plethoric burning martyr, or a self-consuming misanthrope, once ignited, the whale supplies his own fuel and burns by his own body. Would that he consumed his own smoke! for his smoke is horrible to inhale, and inhale it you must, and not only that, but you must live in it for the time. It has an unspeakable, wild, Hindoo odor about it, such as may lurk in the vicinity of funereal pyres. It smells like the left wing of the day of judgment; it is an argument for the pit.

“Everyone ready? Take off the hatch, then, and get her going. Cook, light the try-works.” Lighting the fire was easy because the carpenter had been stuffing his shavings into the furnace throughout the passage. On a whaling voyage, the first fire in the try-works must be fed with wood for a while. After that, wood is used only to quickly ignite the main fuel. Once the blubber has been boiled down for oil, it is crisp and shriveled and is called scraps or fritters. But the fritters still contain a good deal of oil, and they feed the flames. Like an overfed burning martyr or a misanthrope consuming himself, the whale supplies his own fuel. Once set alight, he burns on his own body. If only he consumed his own smoke! The smoke is horrible to breathe, yet breathe it you must. Not only that, but you must live in it for the time being. It has an indescribable, wild, Hindoo smell, like one that might linger near funeral pyres. It smells like the left wing of the day of judgment. It is an argument for the pit.

By midnight the works were in full operation. We were clear from the carcase; sail had been made; the wind was freshening; the wild ocean darkness was intense. But that darkness was licked up by the fierce flames, which at intervals forked forth from the sooty flues, and illuminated every lofty rope in the rigging, as with the famed Greek fire. The burning ship drove on, as if remorselessly commissioned to some vengeful deed. So the pitch and sulphur-freighted brigs of the bold Hydriote, Canaris, issuing from their midnight harbors, with broad sheets of flame for sails, bore down upon the Turkish frigates, and folded them in conflagrations.

By midnight, the work was in full operation. We had left the carcass behind and set sail. The wind was picking up, and the wild ocean was intensely dark. But fierce flames swallowed up the darkness. At intervals, they forked out from the sooty flues, lighting every tall rope in the rigging like the famous Greek fire. The burning ship raced on, as if sent without mercy to carry out some act of revenge. In the same way, the bold Hydriote Canaris sent his brigs, loaded with pitch and sulfur, out of their harbors at midnight. With broad sheets of flame for sails, they bore down on the Turkish frigates and engulfed them in fire.

The hatch, removed from the top of the works, now afforded a wide hearth in front of them. Standing on this were the Tartarean shapes of the pagan harpooneers, always the whale-ship’s stokers. With huge pronged poles they pitched hissing masses of blubber into the scalding pots, or stirred up the fires beneath, till the snaky flames darted, curling, out of the doors to catch them by the feet. The smoke rolled away in sullen heaps. To every pitch of the ship there was a pitch of the boiling oil, which seemed all eagerness to leap into their faces. Opposite the mouth of the works, on the further side of the wide wooden hearth, was the windlass. This served for a sea-sofa. Here lounged the watch, when not otherwise employed, looking into the red heat of the fire, till their eyes felt scorched in their heads. Their tawny features, now all begrimed with smoke and sweat, their matted beards, and the contrasting barbaric brilliancy of their teeth, all these were strangely revealed in the capricious emblazonings of the works. As they narrated to each other their unholy adventures, their tales of terror told in words of mirth; as their uncivilized laughter forked upwards out of them, like the flames from the furnace; as to and fro, in their front, the harpooneers wildly gesticulated with their huge pronged forks and dippers; as the wind howled on, and the sea leaped, and the ship groaned and dived, and yet steadfastly shot her red hell further and further into the blackness of the sea and the night, and scornfully champed the white bone in her mouth, and viciously spat round her on all sides; then the rushing Pequod, freighted with savages, and laden with fire, and burning a corpse, and plunging into that blackness of darkness, seemed the material counterpart of her monomaniac commander’s soul.

The hatch had been removed from the top of the try-works, leaving a wide hearth in front of the furnaces. Standing there were the pagan harpooneers, looking like figures from hell. They were always the stokers on a whaling ship. With huge pronged poles, they tossed hissing masses of blubber into the scalding pots or stirred the fires beneath them. The snakelike flames darted and curled out of the furnace doors, trying to catch the harpooneers by the feet. Smoke rolled away in dark, sullen heaps. Whenever the ship pitched, the boiling oil pitched too, seeming eager to leap into their faces. The windlass stood across the wide wooden hearth from the mouths of the furnaces. It served as a sofa at sea. The watch lounged there when they had no other work, gazing into the red fire until their eyes felt scorched. Smoke and sweat had blackened their tawny faces. The shifting light of the furnaces strangely revealed their matted beards and their brilliantly white teeth, barbaric by contrast. They told one another of their unholy adventures, recounting tales of terror with cheerful words. Their savage laughter shot upward like flames from the furnace. Before them, the harpooneers moved back and forth, gesturing wildly with their huge pronged forks and dippers. The wind howled, the sea leaped, and the ship groaned and plunged. Yet the ship steadily drove its red hell farther and farther into the black sea and night. It scornfully chomped the white bone in its mouth and viciously spat all around itself. Then the rushing Pequod seemed the physical counterpart of its single-minded commander’s soul. It carried savages and fire, burned a corpse, and plunged into that blackness of darkness.

So seemed it to me, as I stood at her helm, and for long hours silently guided the way of this fire-ship on the sea. Wrapped, for that interval, in darkness myself, I but the better saw the redness, the madness, the ghastliness of others. The continual sight of the fiend shapes before me, capering half in smoke and half in fire, these at last begat kindred visions in my soul, so soon as I began to yield to that unaccountable drowsiness which ever would come over me at a midnight helm.

That was how it seemed to me as I stood at the helm. For long hours, I silently steered this fire-ship across the sea. I was surrounded by darkness, which let me see the redness, madness, and horror of the others all the more clearly. I watched the devilish figures constantly as they danced, half in smoke and half in fire. At last, they stirred similar visions in my soul, as soon as I began to give in to that strange drowsiness that always came over me at the helm at midnight.

But that night, in particular, a strange (and ever since inexplicable) thing occurred to me. Starting from a brief standing sleep, I was horribly conscious of something fatally wrong. The jaw-bone tiller smote my side, which leaned against it; in my ears was the low hum of sails, just beginning to shake in the wind; I thought my eyes were open; I was half conscious of putting my fingers to the lids and mechanically stretching them still further apart. But, spite of all this, I could see no compass before me to steer by; though it seemed but a minute since I had been watching the card, by the steady binnacle lamp illuminating it. Nothing seemed before me but a jet gloom, now and then made ghastly by flashes of redness. Uppermost was the impression, that whatever swift, rushing thing I stood on was not so much bound to any haven ahead as rushing from all havens astern. A stark, bewildered feeling, as of death, came over me. Convulsively my hands grasped the tiller, but with the crazy conceit that the tiller was, somehow, in some enchanted way, inverted. My God! what is the matter with me? thought I. Lo! in my brief sleep I had turned myself about, and was fronting the ship’s stern, with my back to her prow and the compass. In an instant I faced back, just in time to prevent the vessel from flying up into the wind, and very probably capsizing her. How glad and how grateful the relief from this unnatural hallucination of the night, and the fatal contingency of being brought by the lee!

But that particular night, something strange happened to me, something I have never been able to explain. I woke from a brief sleep while standing and felt a terrible certainty that something was fatally wrong. The jawbone tiller struck the side I had been leaning against it. I heard the low hum of the sails, which were just beginning to shake in the wind. I thought my eyes were open. I was half aware of putting my fingers to my eyelids and mechanically pulling them farther apart. But despite all this, I could see no compass before me to steer by. Yet it seemed only a minute since I had been watching the compass card, lit by the steady binnacle lamp. Ahead of me there seemed to be nothing but pitch darkness, now and then made ghastly by flashes of red. Above all, I felt that whatever swift thing I stood on was rushing away from all harbors behind it. It did not seem so much to be heading toward any harbor ahead. A stark, bewildered feeling, like death, came over me. My hands gripped the tiller convulsively, but I had the crazy idea that the tiller was somehow magically upside down. My God! What is the matter with me? I thought. Then I realized that during my brief sleep I had turned around. I was facing the ship’s stern, with my back to her bow and the compass. I turned back at once, just in time to keep the vessel from swinging into the wind and very probably capsizing. How glad and grateful I was to be free of that unnatural nighttime hallucination, and of the deadly risk of being brought by the lee!

Look not too long in the face of the fire, O man! Never dream with thy hand on the helm! Turn not thy back to the compass; accept the first hint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its redness makes all things look ghastly. To-morrow, in the natural sun, the skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking flames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp—all others but liars!

Do not stare too long into the fire, O man! Never dream with your hand on the helm! Do not turn your back on the compass. Pay attention to the first sign of the tiller jerking. Do not trust artificial fire when its red light makes everything look ghastly. Tomorrow, in the natural sunlight, the skies will be bright. Those who glared like devils in the flickering flames will look very different in the morning, at least gentler. The glorious, golden, joyful sun is the only true lamp. All others are liars!

Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, nor Rome’s accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him, that mortal man cannot be true—not true, or undeveloped. With books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon’s, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe. “All is vanity.” ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold of unchristian Solomon’s wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and jails, and walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of operas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor devils all of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais as passing wise, and therefore jolly;—not that man is fitted to sit down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably wondrous Solomon.

Nevertheless, the sun does not hide Virginia’s Dismal Swamp, Rome’s cursed Campagna, or the vast Sahara. Nor does it hide the millions of miles of deserts and all the sorrows beneath the moon. The sun does not hide the ocean, the dark side of this earth, which covers two thirds of it. So a mortal man with more joy than sorrow in him cannot be true. He is either untrue or undeveloped. The same is true of books. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon’s. Ecclesiastes is the finely hammered steel of sorrow. “All is vanity.” ALL. This willful world has not yet grasped the wisdom of unchristian Solomon. But consider a man who avoids hospitals and jails, hurries across graveyards, and prefers talking about operas to hell. He calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, and Rousseau poor devils, all of them sick men. Throughout his carefree life, he swears that Rabelais is exceptionally wise, and therefore cheerful. That man is not fit to sit on tombstones and break the green, damp earth with the unfathomably wondrous Solomon.

But even Solomon, he says, “the man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain” (i.e., even while living) “in the congregation of the dead.” Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.

But even Solomon says, “the person who strays from the path of understanding will remain” (i.e., even while living) “among the dead.” So do not give yourself up to fire, or it may turn you inside out and deaden you, as it did to me for a time. There is a wisdom that brings sorrow, but there is a sorrow that brings madness. And in some souls there is a Catskill eagle. It can dive into the darkest gorges, then soar out again and vanish into the sunny skies. And even if the eagle flies forever within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains. So even at its lowest swoop, the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds on the plain, even when they soar.