Once Stubb was gone, Ahab leaned against the ship’s railing for a long while.
Then, just as he had taken to doing these nights, he called over one of the men on watch. He told the sailor to go fetch his ivory stool and his pipe.
The sailor lit the pipe from the compass lamp. Ahab set the stool on the wind‑facing side of the deck and sat down to smoke.
Old stories say the sea‑obsessed Danish kings from Norse days built their royal thrones out of narwhal tusks.
Looking at Ahab perched on that bone‑made seat, you could not help but picture him as royalty. He was the ruler of this wooden ship, a king of the ocean, and master over all the great whales.
Time slipped by. Thick smoke streamed fast and steady out of his mouth, only to blow straight back into his own face by the wind.
At last he pulled the pipe away from his lips and talked to himself out loud.
“What is this. Smoking does not calm me anymore. Oh my old pipe. If even your comfort fails me, things must be truly bad.”
“I have been puffing away without real joy. I was not relaxing at all. Foolishly, I kept smoking facing into the wind. Every shaky breath I take feels like the final spout of a dying whale — powerful, and full of nothing but torment.”
“What right do I even have to this pipe? It is made for peace, meant to float soft white smoke around gentle grey‑haired old men. Not around my ragged, iron‑grey hair.”
“I will not smoke another draw.”
He hurled the still‑burning pipe out into the ocean.
Flame hissed the second it hit the water. The ship sailed right past the small bubbles the sinking pipe left behind.
Hat pulled low over his brow, Ahab lurched forward and began pacing across the wooden deck.