Moby Dick

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.



CHAPTER 85

The Fountain


That for six thousand years--and no one knows how many millions
of ages before--the great whales should have been spouting all over
the sea, and sprinkling and mistifying the gardens of the deep,
as with so many sprinkling or mistifying pots; and that for some
centuries back, thousands of hunters should have been close by
the fountain of the whale, watching these sprinklings and spoutings--
that all this should be, and yet, that down to this blessed minute
(fifteen and a quarter minutes past one o'clock P.M. of this
sixteenth day of December, A.D. 1851), it should still remain
a problem, whether these spoutings are, after all, really water,
or nothing but vapor--this is surely a noteworthy thing.

Let us, then, look at this matter, along with some interesting
items contingent.  Every one knows that by the peculiar
cunning of their gills, the finny tribes in general breathe
the air which at all times is combined with the element
in which they swim; hence, a herring or a cod might live
a century, and never once raise its head above the surface.
But owing to his marked internal structure which gives him
regular lungs, like a human being's, the whale can only live
by inhaling the disengaged air in the open atmosphere.
Wherefore the necessity for his periodical visits to the upper world.
But he cannot in any degree breathe through his mouth, for,
in his ordinary attitude, the Sperm Whale's mouth is buried
at least eight feet beneath the surface; and what is still more,
his windpipe has no connexion with his mouth.  No, he breathes
through his spiracle alone; and this is on the top of his head.

If I say, that in any creature breathing is only a function
indispensable to vitality, inasmuch as it withdraws
from the air a certain element, which being subsequently
brought into contact with the blood imparts to the blood
its vivifying principle, I do not think I shall err;
though I may possibly use some superfluous scientific words.
Assume it, and it follows that if all the blood in a man could
be aerated with one breath, he might then seal up his nostrils
and not fetch another for a considerable time.  That is to say,
he would then live without breathing.  Anomalous as it may seem,
this is precisely the case with the whale, who systematically lives,
by intervals, his full hour and more (when at the bottom)
without drawing a single breath, or so much as in any way
inhaling a particle of air; for, remember, he has no gills.
How is this?  Between his ribs and on each side of his spine
he is supplied with a remarkable involved Cretan labyrinth
of vermicelli-like vessels, which vessels, when he quits
the surface, are completely distended with oxygenated blood.
So that for an hour or more, a thousand fathoms in the sea,
he carries a surplus stock of vitality in him, just as the camel
crossing the waterless desert carries a surplus supply