Starbuck was the Pequod’s chief mate. He came from Nantucket and was descended from Quakers.
He was tall, thin, and serious. His body looked as if years of hard work and harsh weather had stripped away everything unnecessary.
But his thinness did not mean he was weak or sick. Quite the opposite.
He was lean because he was strong.
His skin was tight and healthy, and there was something remarkably durable about him. Whether he was standing in freezing polar weather or under the burning tropical sun, he seemed built to survive.
When you looked into Starbuck’s eyes, you could almost see the dangers he had faced throughout his life.
He was a quiet, steady man. He did not waste many words. His life was expressed through action rather than talk.
Yet beneath that calm strength was a deeply thoughtful and religious nature.
The lonely life at sea had made him somewhat superstitious. But his superstition did not come from ignorance. It seemed to come from thinking too much about the mysterious things he had witnessed.
He paid attention to signs around him, and he often had strong feelings that something was about to happen.
His memories of home also affected him deeply.
He had a young wife and child waiting for him back on Cape Cod. Those memories softened him and kept him from becoming recklessly bold.
There was a reason for that.
Starbuck understood that courage without judgment could get a man killed.
“I will not have a man in my boat who is not afraid of a whale,” Starbuck once said.
He did not mean that a whaleman should be a coward.
He meant that a man who understood the danger was more dependable than a man who felt no fear at all.
Stubb, the Pequod’s second mate, agreed.
“Aye, aye,” Stubb said. “Starbuck is one of the most careful men in the whole whaling business.”
But Stubb’s idea of being “careful” was something we would soon understand better.
Starbuck was not the kind of man who went looking for danger just to prove how brave he was.
To him, courage was a tool.
When danger appeared, he could use that courage immediately. But he saw no reason to waste it.
He did not like lowering the boats after sunset.
He also saw no sense in continuing to fight a whale that had already shown it was determined to kill the hunters.
His reasoning was simple.
“I am here to kill whales so that I can make a living,” he might have thought.
“I am not here to let a whale kill me.”
He knew very well what could happen.
Many whalemen had already died that way.
His own family had paid the price.
What had happened to his father?
And where, somewhere in the enormous depths of the ocean, were the torn remains of his brother?
With memories like those, Starbuck’s courage was remarkable.
He had every reason to be afraid, yet he still went to sea.
Still, there was another kind of danger that Starbuck might not be able to resist.
He could remain calm against storms, waves, whales, and all the ordinary physical dangers of the sea.
But there are fears more terrible than physical danger.
Sometimes the greatest threat comes not from the ocean, but from another human being.
A furious, powerful man can inspire a kind of fear that even a brave man may struggle to overcome.
If the story ahead ever showed Starbuck completely losing his courage, it would be painful for me to describe.
There is something deeply tragic about watching a brave man break.
People can behave horribly.
They can become fools, criminals, or murderers.
They can have ugly faces and ugly hearts.
Yet there is still something noble in humanity itself.
A human being, at his best, is capable of extraordinary dignity.
That is why seeing courage destroyed is so painful.
It feels like something precious has been wounded inside all of us.
And even faith may struggle to accept such a sight without asking why the heavens allowed it to happen.
But the dignity I am talking about has nothing to do with crowns, royal clothing, or social rank.
It belongs to everyone.
You can see it in the arm of a laborer swinging a hammer.
You can see it in the hands of a sailor, a farmer, a miner, or a poor man working simply to survive.
This is the great dignity shared by all human beings.
It comes from God, who places the same essential worth in every person.
So if, later in this story, I give poor sailors, outcasts, and desperate men qualities that seem greater than their social position suggests, do not think I am exaggerating.
If I find something noble even in the darkest and most broken among them, I will show it.
If I place a little light around the rough arm of a working man, or a little beauty over the tragedy of his life, I will not apologize.
Because every human being carries some measure of that great dignity.
A man may be poor, rejected, disgraced, or forgotten.
He may have nothing to his name.
But greatness can still rise from him.
History has shown this again and again.
John Bunyan was once a prisoner, yet he produced poetry and ideas that have endured.
Cervantes suffered poverty and physical disability, yet created work of lasting brilliance.
Andrew Jackson rose from humble beginnings and eventually became one of America’s most powerful leaders.
Greatness does not always come from kings and nobles.
More often, it rises from ordinary people.
And that is why I believe in the dignity of the common man.