Stubb was the second‑in‑command mate. He came from Cape Cod, so everyone called him a Cape‑Cod man.
He was easy‑going. He was neither a coward nor some fearless hero. Danger just washed over him. Even when a whale hunt turned deadly, he kept working, totally calm, like a regular carpenter going through his daily job.
He ran his whale‑boat in a cheerful, careless way. Deadly fights with whales felt like nothing more than a dinner party, and his crew were just invited guests.
He cared a lot about keeping his boat comfortable, much like an old carriage driver fussing over his seat.
When they pulled right up beside an enraged whale in the heat of battle, he would swing his sharp killing lance cool and casual. It was like a wandering repairman whistling while he swung his hammer.
He would hum his old silly tunes while sitting right next to an angry giant whale. Years of hunting had turned deadly danger into something relaxed for Stubb.
Nobody really knew what he thought about dying. It was hard to tell if he even thought about it at all. If a full meal ever made him ponder death, he pictured it like a sailor’s watch call. You climb up into the rigging, follow the order, and figure out what is going on once you get there.
Lots of things made Stubb so laid‑back and fearless. The whole world was full of serious, stressed‑out people carrying heavy burdens, but Stubb trudged through life cheerfully. A huge part of that strange, almost reckless good mood came from his pipe.
That short black pipe stuck in his mouth was as much a part of his face as his nose. You would be just as shocked to see him climb out of bed without his nose as without his pipe.
He kept a whole row of pre‑filled pipes on a rack close by. Every night before he slept, he smoked them one after another, lighting each from the last until they were all gone. Then he refilled them, ready for the next day. When Stubb got dressed in the morning, the very first thing he did was stick a pipe in his mouth, long before he pulled on his trousers.
All that constant smoking probably helped shape his strange personality. Every sailor knows the air out here, on land or sea, is thick with the quiet misery of countless people. During cholera outbreaks, people held camphor‑soaked cloths over their mouths. In much the same way, Stubb’s tobacco smoke acted like his personal protection against all of life’s troubles.
Flask was the third mate. He was born in Tisbury on Martha’s Vineyard. Short, stocky, and red‑faced, he was fiercely aggressive toward whales. For some reason, he believed these massive sea creatures had personally insulted him, generation after generation. Killing every whale he met became a point of pride for him.
He felt no awe for the whales’ huge bodies and strange, mysterious ways. He never worried about the danger they posed. To Flask, these magnificent beasts were just over‑grown mice, or big water rats. A little trickery, some time and effort, and you could kill them and boil down their blubber.
His ignorance‑fueled fearlessness made him playful about whale hunting. He chased whales for fun. A three‑year long voyage rounding Cape Horn was just one big long joke to him.
People can be split two ways, just like carpenter’s nails. There are tough, solid ones built to hold tight and last. Little Flask was exactly that kind.
Onboard the Pequod, the crew nicknamed him King‑Post. That was the name for a short, thick timber used on arctic whaling ships. Many beams branched off it to hold the ship steady against smashing ice‑churned seas. Flask’s build reminded them of that sturdy timber.
These three mates — Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask — were important men. By whaling custom, each of them commanded one of the ship’s whale boats as boat‑leader.
Whenever Captain Ahab called everyone to battle and sent the boats racing after whales, these three mates acted like company commanders. Armed with their long sharp lances, they were an elite trio of spearmen, while the harpooners threw the heavy harpoons.
In this dangerous whaling trade, every mate worked closely with his own boat‑steerer, the harpooner. If a mate’s lance got bent or broken mid‑fight, the harpooner handed him a fresh one. The two men usually built tight, loyal friendships. That is why it makes sense to list out the Pequod’s harpooners and say which mate each one served.
First was Queequeg. Starbuck, the chief mate, had picked him as his right‑hand man. Everyone already knew who Queequeg was.
Next came Tashtego. He was a full‑blooded Native American from Gay Head, the western tip of Martha’s Vineyard. A small leftover native village still stood there. That village had sent many of Nantucket’s bravest harpooners out to sea. Sailors called all those men Gay‑Headers.
Tashtego had long dark hair, high cheekbones, and deep black eyes. His eyes were wide like someone from Asia, yet sharp and icy. He was a direct descendant of proud warrior hunters who once roamed the mainland forests hunting moose with bows and arrows.
He no longer tracked wild animals through woods. Now he chased giant whales across the ocean. His perfectly accurate harpoon took the place of his ancestors’ deadly arrows.
Looking at his lean, powerful, twisting muscles, you could almost believe the old puritan superstitions. Some folks thought wild native men were children of dark spirits. Tashtego served as second‑mate Stubb’s harpooner.
The third harpooner was Daggoo. He was a towering, jet‑black man with the stride of a lion. Two big gold hoop earrings hung from his ears. They were so huge, sailors joked they could tie ship ropes to them.
When he was young, Daggoo had signed onto a whaling ship that anchored in a quiet bay near his African home. He had barely travelled anywhere besides Africa, Nantucket, and the rough ports whalers visited. After years out at sea, he still kept all his native strength and pride. Standing six feet five inches tall in his socks, he walked across the deck like a giraffe. You had to tilt your head way back just to look him in the eye. A white man standing before him looked like someone waving a white flag begging for truce against a fortress.
This imposing giant, Daggoo, worked for tiny Flask. Next to Daggoo, Flask looked like a small chess piece.
Most of the rest of the crew were not born Americans. Even though nearly all the ship’s officers were American, less than half of the regular sailors came from the United States. It was the same for the army, navy, and the crews building canals and railroads back home. Americans supplied the leadership and brains, while people from all over the world supplied the muscle.
Many whaling sailors came from the Azores. Nantucket whalers would stop there on their way out, hiring tough farmers from those rocky islands. Whaling ships out of England would pick up extra men in the Shetland Islands, and drop them off again on the way home. Somehow, island people made the best whalers.
Almost every man aboard the Pequod was an islander. I called them isolatoes. They did not feel connected to the rest of humanity. Each one lived inside his own separate little world.
Now all these lonely souls were stuck together on one single ship. What a strange group they made. It was like a wild assembly pulled from every island and every corner of the globe. They sailed along with old Captain Ahab on the Pequod, heading off to confront the grievances of the world. Very few of them would ever come home again.
Poor little Pip, the Black boy from Alabama, would never make it back. You would see him soon, standing on the ship’s front deck beating his little tambourine. Later on, he would be called up to heaven. There he would play for angels, celebrated as a hero, even though people on board this ship called him a coward.