Stubb’s whale had been killed quite a ways from the ship. The sea was dead calm. We linked three small boats together in a line, and began the slow, grinding work of hauling the huge carcass back to the Pequod.
Eighteen of us, thirty‑six arms, one‑hundred‑and‑eighty thumbs and fingers. Hour after hour we strained against that heavy, lifeless body floating in the ocean. It barely moved at all, only creeping forward in tiny jerks every so often. That told you just how massive this thing really was.
Back in China, on the great Hang‑Ho canal or whatever its name is, four or five men walking along the bank can pull a big, loaded river barge along at about a mile every hour. But this whale, our giant floating cargo, dragged through the water like it was stuffed full of solid lead.
Night fell. Three dim lanterns hung high up in the Pequod’s rigging, showing us the way home. As we drew closer, we saw Ahab toss more lanterns over the ship’s rail.
He stared blankly out at the rolling whale corpse for a moment. He barked out the usual orders to secure the body for the night. Then he handed his lantern off to a sailor, walked down into his cabin, and did not come back on deck until morning.
Ahab had been sharp and energetic while we hunted this whale. Now that the animal was dead, though, he seemed restless, dissatisfied, almost defeated. Looking at this dead whale only reminded him Moby Dick was still out there, unkilled. A hundred whales hauled alongside his ship would bring him no closer to his single, all‑consuming obsession.
Listening to the noise on deck, you would have thought the crew were about to drop anchor in deep water. Heavy chains clattered across the planks and rattled out through the gun ports. But these chains were not for anchoring the ship. They were to tie down the whale.
They fastened its head to the stern and its tail to the bow. The whale’s huge black body pressed right up against the hull. Night hid the masts and ropes above. In the dark, ship and whale looked like two enormous oxen yoked together — one lying down, the other still standing.
(A quick practical note: when you tie a whale alongside, the strongest hold is on its tail flukes. The tail is denser and heavier than most of the rest of the body. Even in death it stays flexible and sinks well below the waves. You cannot reach it from a small boat to loop a chain around it. The sailors had a clever trick. They took a strong thin rope, tied a wooden float to one end and a weight in the middle, and secured the other end to the ship. They guided the float all the way around the far side of the whale. Once the rope looped the whole body, they pulled the heavy chain along that guide‑line. They slid the chain down the whale’s body and locked it tight around the narrow base of the tail, right where the big flukes spread out.)
On deck Ahab fell quiet, brooding. Stubb, the second mate, was high on victory. He was unusually excited, but still good‑natured about it. He took over so completely that Starbuck, his superior, stepped back and let him run things for a while.
One strange reason for Stubb’s good mood soon became obvious. Stubb loved rich food. He was especially fond of eating whale meat.
“A steak. I want a whale steak before I sleep!” he shouted. “Daggoo! Climb over the side. Cut me a piece from the narrow end of him!”
These whalers generally did not make their “enemy” pay for the costs of the voyage, not before they cashed in on their catch. But some Nantucket men genuinely enjoyed that particular cut of sperm whale, the tapered rear section of its body.
Around midnight, the steak was cut and cooked. Lit by two lanterns burning sperm‑oil, Stubb stood at the capstan eating his whale supper like that big winch drum was a dining‑room sideboard.
Stubb was not the only one feasting on whale flesh that night.
Thousands upon thousands of sharks swarmed all over the dead giant. They crunched and tore at its fat. Men asleep in their bunks below were repeatedly jolted awake. Shark tails slammed hard against the hull, just inches from where their hearts lay.
Leaning over the rail you could barely see them in the murky black water. They rolled onto their backs and bit out huge round chunks of whale flesh, pieces as big as a man’s head.
How sharks carve those neat round bites out of such solid‑looking skin is almost a mystery of nature. The marks they leave look exactly like the hollow depressions a carpenter makes when countersinking a screw into wood.
During bloody sea battles, sharks hover near ship decks, staring up like hungry dogs waiting for scraps of red meat. They will gobble up any dead man thrown overboard. While sailors slash at each other on deck, sharks tear apart corpses underneath. Flip the whole scene upside down and it is still the same brutal mess.
Sharks always follow slave ships crossing the Atlantic too. They cruise alongside, ready if a body needs to be tossed over the side.
Still, you will never see sharks in such staggering numbers, never see them so wild and greedy, as when they circle a dead sperm‑whale tied to a whaler’s hull at night. If you have never witnessed that sight, hold off on judging whether devil‑worship is foolish, or whether you ought to try making friends with evil.
Stubb paid no mind to the raucous shark banquet right beside him. No more than the sharks paid attention to Stubb’s own noisy chewing.
“Cook! Where is old Fleece?” he yelled. He spread his legs wide to steady himself for supper. He jabbed his fork into his food like he was stabbing with a whaling lance. “Cook! Get over here!”
Old Fleece, the ship’s black cook, had been dragged out of his warm hammock in the middle of the night. He was not happy about it. Like many old men, his knees were bad. He shuffled over from the galley. He leaned on a pair of crude tongs hammered out of bent iron hoops.
He limped across the deck and stopped opposite Stubb’s makeshift table. He folded his hands on top of his two‑legged walking stick. He hunched his back and tilted his head, turning his better ear toward Stubb.
“Cook,” Stubb said, shoving a reddish chunk of meat into his mouth, “don’t you think this steak is over‑cooked? You cooked it too long. It’s too soft. I keep telling you: whale steak ought to be tough to taste good. Look at those sharks down there. You see how they like it tough and barely cooked? Listen to all that racket they are making! Cook, go talk to them. Tell them they can eat all they want, politely and calmly. But they have to shut that noise down. I can’t even hear myself think. Go give them my message. Take this lantern.” He snatched up a lantern and handed it over. “Go preach to those sharks.”
Old Fleece took the lantern, scowling. He limped to the ship’s rail. He held the light low over the waves so he could see his audience. He waved his iron tongs solemnly. He leaned far out over the water and started talking to the sharks. Stubb crept up quietly behind him and listened to every word.
“Fellow creatures. I been told to tell you to quit that infernal noise. You hear me? Stop that loud smacking of jaws! Mister Stubb says you can stuff your bellies full. But for heaven’s sake, cut out all that racket!”
“Cook!” Stubb snapped, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “Cook! You must not swear while you are preaching. That is no way to convert sinners.”
“If you think you can do better, you talk to them,” Fleece grumbled, turning to leave.
“No, cook. Keep going.”
“Very well, beloved fellow‑creatures,” Fleece began again.
“That’s the spirit!” Stubb approved. “Soft‑talk them. Keep it up.”
“You sharks are greedy by nature. But I say to you, stop that terrible thrashing with your tails! How do you expect to hear anything if you keep slapping and biting like that?”
“Cook!” Stubb grabbed him by the collar. “No swearing. Speak to them like gentlemen.”
Fleece started his sermon one more time.
“I do not blame you for being greedy. Greed is your nature. Nothing can change that. But you must learn to control that wicked nature. That is the point. You are sharks, yes. But if you can master the shark inside you, then you become angels. An angel is nothing more than a shark that has learned self‑control.
Now listen, brothers. Try for once to behave yourselves while you feed on this whale. Do not snatch chunks out of each other’s mouths. Every shark has just as much right to this whale as the next one. Though actually, none of you own this whale. It belongs to other men.
Some of you have huge mouths, bigger than others. But big mouths often go with tiny stomachs. Those big jaws are not for swallowing whole. They are supposed to tear off fat for the smaller sharks that cannot push through the crowd to feed.”
“Well said, old Fleece!” Stubb called out. “Real Christian speech. Go on.”
“No point going on,” Fleece sighed. “Those rascals will keep fighting and thrashing. They don’t hear a single word. You cannot preach to gluttons like these until their bellies are full — and their bellies have no bottom. Even when they do fill up, they will not listen. They sink down to the coral and sleep forever.”
“Honestly, I think you are right,” Stubb said. “Give them your blessing, Fleece, then I will get back to supper.”
Fleece lifted both hands over the noisy mass of sharks. He raised his rough voice.
“Damned creatures! Make all the noise you want. Stuff yourselves until you burst — and then die!”
“Alright cook,” Stubb said, returning to his meal at the capstan. “Stand right there across from me, and pay close attention.”
“Paying full attention,” Fleece answered, leaning on his tongs.
“Good,” Stubb said, helping himself to more food. “Let’s get back to this steak. First question: how old are you, cook?”
“What does my age have to do with whale steak?” the old black man replied irritably.
“Quiet. How old are you?”
“Ninety, so folks tell me,” he mumbled gloomily.
“You have lived almost a hundred years in this world, and you still cannot cook a proper whale‑steak?” Stubb crammed another bite in as he spoke. “Where were you born?”
“On a ferry‑boat crossing the Roanoke river, right behind the hatch.”
“Born on a ferry‑boat! That is strange. But what country were you born in?”
“I told you, the Roanoke country,” he snapped.
“You did not. Let me tell you what I am getting at. You ought to go home and be born all over again. You still do not know how to cook whale‑steak.”
“I will never cook another one, so help me,” Fleece growled and turned to walk away.
“Come back here. Hand me those tongs. Take this piece of steak. Tell me if you think it is cooked right. Take it. Taste it.”
Fleece pressed his dry lips against the meat for a second.
“Best‑cooked whale‑steak I ever tasted. Juicy. Real juicy.”
“Cook,” Stubb sat up straight. “Do you belong to a church?”
“I passed one once down at Cape Town,” Fleece answered sullenly.
“You walked past a holy church in Cape Town. You must have heard the preacher call his congregation his beloved fellow‑creatures. And here you stand lying straight to my face. Where do you think you are going when you die?”
“Going to bed very soon,” Fleece mumbled, half turning away.
“Hold on. I mean when you die. It is a serious question. What is your answer?”
“When this old black man dies,” Fleece said, his whole manner shifting, “I will not go anywhere by myself. Some blessed angel will come and carry me away.”
“Carry you? In a horse‑drawn chariot like Elijah? Carry you where?”
“Up there.” Fleece pointed his tongs stiff and high above his head, holding it there solemnly.
“Oh, I see. You expect to end up in our main topmast when you die? Do you know the higher you climb, the colder it gets? The main top?”
“I never said nothing of the sort,” Fleece grumbled, his mood turning sour again.
“You said up there. Look where your tongs are pointing. Maybe you think you can sneak into heaven through the lazy man’s hatch. No. You have to take the proper route, climbing all the rigging. Tricky work, but you have to do it, or you will never get in. None of us are in heaven yet. Drop those tongs and listen to my orders. One hand on your hat. Put the other hand over your heart. That is an order.”
“What? That lump? That is your stomach! Higher! There you go. Keep it there and listen.”
“All attention,” Fleece said. He held his hands as told and twisted his gray‑haired head trying to get both ears forward.
“Alright. This whale‑steak you made was terrible. I ate it fast just to get it over with. From now on, when you cook whale‑steak for me at this capstan table, do not over‑cook it. Hold the steak in one hand. Hold a live hot coal up against it with the other. As soon as that is done, serve it. Understand?
Tomorrow when we start cutting up this whale, you be ready. Save the tips of his side fins. Put those in pickling brine. And the ends of the tail flukes — soak those too. Now you can go.”
Fleece had barely taken three steps when Stubb called him back.
“Cook. Fix me whale cutlets for supper tomorrow night, middle of the watch. Got it? Off you go. Wait. Bow before you leave. Hold on, one more. Whale meat balls for breakfast. Do not forget.”
Old Fleece limped away muttering to himself.
“Lord, I wish the whale would eat him instead. That man is more shark than any shark out there.”
He shuffled back toward his hammock.