CHAPTER 84

  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.

  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.

  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?

  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 manoeuvre 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.

  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 to a

whale, before any 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 wrap 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 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.

  "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."

  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.