Chapter 74.00: CHAPTER 72. The Monkey-Rope.

**
CHAPTER 72. The Monkey-Rope.
**

In the tumultuous business of cutting-in and attending to a whale, there
is much running backwards and forwards among the crew. Now hands are
wanted here, and then again hands are wanted there. There is no staying in
any one place; for at one and the same time everything has to be done
everywhere. It is much the same with him who endeavors the description of
the scene. We must now retrace our way a little. It was mentioned that
upon first breaking ground in the whale’s back, the blubber-hook was
inserted into the original hole there cut by the spades of the mates. But
how did so clumsy and weighty a mass as that same hook get fixed in that
hole? It was inserted there by my particular friend Queequeg, whose duty
it was, as harpooneer, to descend upon the monster’s back for the special
purpose referred to. But in very many cases, circumstances require that
the harpooneer shall remain on the whale till the whole flensing or
stripping operation is concluded. The whale, be it observed, lies almost
entirely submerged, excepting the immediate parts operated upon. So down
there, some ten feet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer
flounders about, half on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass
revolves like a tread-mill beneath him. On the occasion in question,
Queequeg figured in the Highland costume—a shirt and socks—in
which to my eyes, at least, he appeared to uncommon advantage; and no one
had a better chance to observe him, as will presently be seen.

Being the savage’s bowsman, that is, the person who pulled the bow-oar in
his boat (the second one from forward), it was my cheerful duty to attend
upon him while taking that hard-scrabble scramble upon the dead whale’s
back. You have seen Italian organ-boys holding a dancing-ape by a long
cord. Just so, from the ship’s steep side, did I hold Queequeg down there
in the sea, by what is technically called in the fishery a monkey-rope,
attached to a strong strip of canvas belted round his waist.

It was a humorously perilous business for both of us. For, before we
proceed further, it must be said that the monkey-rope was fast at both
ends; fast to Queequeg’s broad canvas belt, and fast to my narrow leather
one. So that for better or for worse, we two, for the time, were wedded;
and should poor Queequeg sink to rise no more, then both usage and honor
demanded, that instead of cutting the cord, it should drag me down in his
wake. So, then, an elongated Siamese ligature united us. Queequeg was my
own inseparable twin brother; nor could I any way get rid of the dangerous
liabilities which the hempen bond entailed.

So strongly and metaphysically did I conceive of my situation then, that
while earnestly watching his motions, I seemed distinctly to perceive that
my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock company of two; that
my free will had received a mortal wound; and that another’s mistake or
misfortune might plunge innocent me into unmerited disaster and death.
Therefore, I saw that here was a sort of interregnum in Providence; for
its even-handed equity never could have so gross an injustice. And yet
still further pondering—while I jerked him now and then from between
the whale and ship, which would threaten to jam him—still further
pondering, I say, I saw that this situation of mine was the precise
situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in most cases, he, one way
or other, has this Siamese connexion with a plurality of other mortals. If
your banker breaks, you snap; if your apothecary by mistake sends you
poison in your pills, you die. True, you may say that, by exceeding
caution, you may possibly escape these and the multitudinous other evil
chances of life. But handle Queequeg’s monkey-rope heedfully as I would,
sometimes he jerked it so, that I came very near sliding overboard. Nor
could I possibly forget that, do what I would, I only had the management
of one end of it. *

*The monkey-rope is found in all whalers; but it was only in the Pequod
that the monkey and his holder were ever tied together. This improvement
upon the original usage was introduced by no less a man than Stubb, in
order to afford the imperilled harpooneer the strongest possible guarantee
for the faithfulness and vigilance of his monkey-rope holder.

I have hinted that I would often jerk poor Queequeg from between the whale
and the ship—where he would occasionally fall, from the incessant
rolling and swaying of both. But this was not the only jamming jeopardy he
was exposed to. Unappalled by the massacre made upon them during the
night, the sharks now freshly and more keenly allured by the before pent
blood which began to flow from the carcass—the rabid creatures
swarmed round it like bees in a beehive.

And right in among those sharks was Queequeg; who often pushed them aside
with his floundering feet. A thing altogether incredible were it not that
attracted by such prey as a dead whale, the otherwise miscellaneously
carnivorous shark will seldom touch a man.

Nevertheless, it may well be believed that since they have such a ravenous
finger in the pie, it is deemed but wise to look sharp to them.
Accordingly, besides the monkey-rope, with which I now and then jerked the
poor fellow from too close a vicinity to the maw of what seemed a
peculiarly ferocious shark—he was provided with still another
protection. Suspended over the side in one of the stages, Tashtego and
Daggoo continually flourished over his head a couple of keen whale-spades,
wherewith they slaughtered as many sharks as they could reach. This
procedure of theirs, to be sure, was very disinterested and benevolent of
them. They meant Queequeg’s best happiness, I admit; but in their hasty
zeal to befriend him, and from the circumstance that both he and the
sharks were at times half hidden by the blood-muddled water, those
indiscreet spades of theirs would come nearer amputating a leg than a
tail. But poor Queequeg, I suppose, straining and gasping there with that
great iron hook—poor Queequeg, I suppose, only prayed to his Yojo,
and gave up his life into the hands of his gods.

Well, well, my dear comrade and twin-brother, thought I, as I drew in and
then slacked off the rope to every swell of the sea—what matters it,
after all? Are you not the precious image of each and all of us men in
this whaling world? That unsounded ocean you gasp in, is Life; those
sharks, your foes; those spades, your friends; and what between sharks and
spades you are in a sad pickle and peril, poor lad.

But courage! There is good cheer in store for you, Queequeg. For now, as
with blue lips and blood-shot eyes the exhausted savage at last climbs up
the chains and stands all dripping and involuntarily trembling over the
side; the steward advances, and with a benevolent, consolatory glance
hands him—what? Some hot Cognac? No! Hands him, ye gods! Hands him a
cup of tepid ginger and water!

“Ginger? Do I smell ginger?” suspiciously asked Stubb, coming near. “Yes,
this must be ginger,” peering into the as yet untasted cup. Then standing
as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards the astonished
steward slowly saying, “Ginger? Ginger? And will you have the goodness to
tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, where lies the virtue of ginger? Ginger! Is ginger
the sort of fuel you use, Dough-boy, to kindle a fire in this shivering
cannibal? Ginger! —what the devil is ginger? Sea-coal? Firewood? —lucifer
matches? —tinder? —gunpowder? —what the devil is ginger, I
say, that you offer this cup to our poor Queequeg here.”

“There is some sneaking Temperance Society movement about this business,”
he suddenly added, now approaching Starbuck, who had just come from
forward. “Will you look at that kannakin, sir: smell of it, if you
please.” Then watching the mate’s countenance, he added, “The steward, Mr.
Starbuck, had the face to offer that calomel and jalap to Queequeg, there,
this instant off the whale. Is the steward an apothecary, sir? And may I
ask whether this is the sort of bitters by which he blows back the life
into a half-drowned man?”

“I trust not,” said Starbuck, “it is poor stuff enough.”

“Aye, aye, steward,” cried Stubb, “we’ll teach you to drug a harpooneer;
none of your apothecary’s medicine here; you want to poison us, do ye? You
have got out insurances on our lives and want to murder us all, and pocket
the proceeds, do ye?”

“It was not me,” cried Dough-Boy, “it was Aunt Charity that brought the
ginger on board; and bade me never give the harpooneers any spirits, but
only this ginger-jub—so she called it.”

“Ginger-jub! You gingerly rascal! Take that! And run along with ye to the
lockers, and get something better. I hope I do no wrong, Mr. Starbuck. It
is the captain’s orders—grog for the harpooneer on a whale.”

“Enough,” replied Starbuck, “only don’t hit him again, but—”

“Oh, I never hurt when I hit, except when I hit a whale or something of
that sort; and this fellow’s a weazel. What were you about saying, sir?”

“Only this: go down with him, and get what thou wantest thyself.”

When Stubb reappeared, he came with a dark flask in one hand, and a sort
of tea-caddy in the other. The first contained strong spirits, and was
handed to Queequeg; the second was Aunt Charity’s gift, and that was
freely given to the waves.