When the crew cuts up and works on a dead whale, everyone is rushing all over the place.
One minute people are needed over here. The next minute, they’re needed over there.
No one can stay put. All kinds of work has to happen at the same time, everywhere.
Writing about this scene feels exactly the same way. I need to back up a little in my story.
Earlier, I mentioned that once they sliced open the whale’s back, they hooked the blubber‑hook into that cut.
But how did that big, heavy, clumsy hook get into the hole in the first place?
My good friend Queequeg did it. As a harpooner, his job was to climb down onto the whale’s back and set that hook.
Lots of the time, the harpooner has to stay out on the whale until they finish stripping all its blubber off.
Nearly the whole whale sits under water. Only the parts they’re working on stick out above the waves.
So there Queequeg would be, about ten feet below the ship’s deck level. Half his body rested on the whale. Half hung in the ocean. The huge whale body rolled under him like a treadmill.
On this particular day, Queequeg wore nothing but a shirt and socks‑‑his rough working outfit. He looked pretty impressive like that, and I had a front‑row view of everything he did.
I was the oarsman for his boat. I pulled the front oar, second seat from the bow. My job was to keep an eye on him while he scrambled around on the dead whale.
You’ve seen those street performers in Italy, holding a dancing ape with a long rope? That’s exactly what I was doing.
From the steep side of the ship, I held Queequeg out over the sea. Sailors call this rope a monkey‑rope. It fastened tight to a heavy canvas belt wrapped around his waist.
This setup was funny, but deadly dangerous for both of us.
Here’s the catch: the monkey‑rope tied down on both ends. One end locked to Queequeg’s wide canvas belt. The other end fastened to my own thin leather belt.
For better or worse, we were bound together.
If Queequeg sank and never came back up, ship rules and honor said I could not cut the rope. I would get dragged down right along with him.
We were like Siamese twins connected by rope. Queequeg was my stuck‑together twin. There was no way for me to escape the risk that came with that hemp line.
I thought hard about what this really meant. While I watched every move he made, it felt like I wasn’t fully my own person anymore. Our fates were shared. My own free will got dealt a terrible blow.
His mistakes or bad luck could drag me‑‑completely innocent‑‑into disaster and death.
It felt like some gap in fate had opened up. Fair fate would never hand out such unfair risk.
I kept thinking more as I pulled the rope. Every so often I had to yank Queequeg away, to stop him getting crushed between the whale hull and our ship.
And I realized this was how every single human lives. Most people just don’t have a physical rope showing the bond. Your life is tied to loads of other people.
If your bank goes broke, you lose everything. If your pharmacist mixes up medicine and gives you poison, you die.
Sure, you can say you’ll be extra careful and dodge all these terrible random things in life.
But no matter how carefully I handled Queequeg’s monkey‑rope, sometimes he’d jerk hard. I nearly slid over the ship’s edge into the ocean. And I only controlled one end of that rope.
(Note: Every whaling ship used monkey‑ropes. Only on the Pequod did they tie the rope‑holder to the harpooner too. Stubb came up with this trick. It forced the man holding the rope to stay alert and loyal, for the harpooner’s safety.)
I kept hauling Queequeg away whenever he slipped into the narrow gap between whale and ship. The whale and ship rolled and swayed non‑stop, so he kept getting stuck there.
Crushing between wood and whale was not his only danger.
All night long men had hacked at the whale. Now fresh blood poured out of its body. Sharks went crazy for it. They swarmed all around the dead whale, just like bees buzzing around a hive.
Queequeg was right in the middle of all those sharks. He kicked them away with his feet as best he could.
It sounds impossible, but sharks will go crazy over whale meat and usually leave people alone.
Still, with so many hungry sharks circling, no one dared relax.
The monkey‑rope let me pull Queequeg back when a particularly vicious shark swam too close. But he had another layer of protection too.
Up on one of the hanging work platforms over the ship’s side, Tashtego and Daggoo stood ready. They swung sharp whale spades above Queequeg’s head, stabbing every shark they could reach.
They meant well. They wanted to keep Queequeg alive. But the water turned cloudy red with blood. Sometimes Queequeg and the sharks were half hidden underneath. In their rush to help, their sharp blades came far too close to cutting off Queequeg’s legs instead of shark tails.
Down there, weighed down by that huge iron hook, gasping and straining, Queequeg could only pray to his idol Yojo and put his life in his gods’ hands.
I pulled and slackened the rope with every ocean swell. My poor comrade, my tied‑together twin, I thought to myself.
What is all this really?
Aren’t you just like every one of us living out here in this rough whaling world?
That deep dark water you struggle in‑‑that’s life itself.
The sharks are your enemies.
Those swinging spades are your friends.
Caught between enemies and clumsy friends, you’re stuck in terrible danger, poor guy.
But hold on, better things are coming for you, Queequeg.
At last, exhausted, Queequeg climbed up the ship’s chains. His lips were blue, his eyes bloodshot. He stood dripping wet, shaking uncontrollably right beside the rail.
The ship’s steward walked over. He gave him something with a kind, pitying look.
What was it? Hot brandy?
No! Good heavens. He handed Queequeg a cup of lukewarm ginger‑water.
“Ginger? Do I smell ginger?”
Stubb wandered over, suspicious. He peered into the untouched cup.
“Yeah. This is ginger alright.”
He stood there for a second, looking like he could not believe his eyes. Then he walked slowly toward the shocked steward.
“Ginger? Ginger? Mr. Dough‑Boy, would you kindly explain to me what wonderful power ginger has? Ginger? You think this will warm up this shivering man? Ginger‑‑what even is ginger? Is it coal? Firewood? Matches? Tinder? Gunpowder? Why on earth are you giving our poor Queequeg this?”
“Some secret temperance society nonsense is going on here,” Stubb said suddenly. He turned toward Starbuck, who had just come forward.
“Sir, look at this drink. Smell it if you will.”
He watched Starbuck’s face.
“Mr. Starbuck, the steward actually gave Queequeg‑‑fresh off the whale‑‑this garbage. Is our steward working as a pharmacist? Do you think this bitter slop brings half‑drowned men back to life?”
“I hope not,” Starbuck answered. “That stuff is worthless.”
“Alright then, steward!” Stubb shouted. “We’ll teach you to medicate our harpooners! We don’t want your pharmacy garbage! Are you trying to poison us? Did you take out life insurance on all of us so you can collect when we die?”
“It wasn’t my idea!” Dough‑Boy yelled. “Aunt Charity brought the ginger aboard. She ordered me never to give the harpooners alcohol‑‑only this ginger‑drink, that’s what she called it.”
“Ginger‑drink! You useless fool!”
Stubb smacked him.
“Go get something proper from the storage lockers. I hope I’m not out of line, Mr. Starbuck. Captain’s orders: harpooners get rum after working on a whale.”
“Enough,” Starbuck replied. “Don’t hit him again, but‑‑”
“When I hit things I don’t hurt them‑‑unless it’s a whale or something like that. This guy’s just a coward. What were you going to say, sir?”
“Go along with him, and fetch the proper drink yourself.”
Stubb soon came back. In one hand he carried a dark bottle full of strong rum for Queequeg. In his other hand was the cup of Aunt Charity’s ginger‑water. He dumped that worthless ginger mixture straight into the sea.