Chapter 86.00: CHAPTER 84. Pitchpoling.

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CHAPTER 84. Pitchpoling.
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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 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.

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.

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.

“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.