The long‑awaited day finally came. We met up with the Jungfrau, out of Bremen. Her captain was Derick De Deer.
Dutch and German sailors had once dominated the whaling trade all over the world. Now they barely figured in it at all. Even so, you might still spot their flags flying out across the Pacific, far apart from one another.
The Jungfrau seemed eager to come over and speak to us. Still some distance away from the Pequod, she turned. She lowered a small boat. Her captain headed straight for us. He stood impatiently up in the bow, not sitting back in the stern like most boat captains.
“What’s he holding in his hand?” Starbuck called out. He pointed toward whatever the German officer waved around. “No way — is that an oil feeder lamp?”
“Nope,” Stubb said. “Not that at all. That’s a coffee pot, Mr. Starbuck. That German’s rowing over to make us coffee. See that big tin can sitting next to him? That’s his boiling water. Oh yeah, this German fellow’s got it all planned out.”
“Come on, don’t kid yourselves,” Flask cut in. “It’s a lamp feeder and an oil can. He’s run out of oil. He’s here begging for some.”
It sounds strange. A whaling ship, out on the whaling grounds, begging for oil. It’s like hauling coal all the way to Newcastle, the old saying goes. But weird things really do happen out here. And sure enough, Derick De Deer was indeed carrying a lamp feeder, just as Flask had said.
He climbed onto our deck. Ahab spoke to him sharply right away. He paid no mind to what the German held in his hands.
The captain spoke broken English. He quickly made it clear he knew nothing about the White Whale. He immediately changed the subject back to his lamp feeder and oil can.
He complained that every night he had to lie in his hammock in total darkness. Every drop of oil from Bremen was gone. He hadn’t caught even one flying‑fish to make up for it. His ship was what whalers call a “clean ship” — meaning empty. A fitting name for the Jungfrau, the Virgin.
We gave him what oil he needed. Derick climbed back down into his boat and headed for his own vessel.
Before he got back alongside his ship, lookouts on both boats spotted whales at almost exactly the same time.
Derick was wild to give chase. He didn’t even stop to hand his oil can and lamp feeder back onto his own ship. He spun his small boat around and raced after the huge sea creatures.
The whales were moving downwind. Derick’s boat, plus three other German boats that hurried after him, got a big head start ahead of the Pequod’s craft.
Eight whales in total, a normal‑sized group. They sensed danger. They surged forward side‑by‑side, running hard before the wind. Their flanks rubbed together like horses pulling in harness. Behind them stretched a huge, broad wake, as if they unrolled a massive sheet of parchment across the ocean surface.
Far back in that churning wake swam one enormous old bull sperm whale with a large hump on his back. He moved slower than the rest. Yellow crusty growths covered his skin. He looked sick, maybe jaundiced or suffering from some other ailment.
No one was sure if he belonged with the group ahead. Old giant whales rarely traveled with others. Still, he stayed in their wake. The turbulence kicked up by the other whales slowed him down. The broad swell in front of his snout was choppy, like where two opposing currents crashed together.
His spout was short, labored, slow. It burst out in choking, torn‑looking puffs. Strange rumblings stirred deep inside his body. Bubbles kept rising up behind him.
“Anyone got medicine for an upset stomach?” Stubb said. “I’m afraid this old boy’s got a bad bellyache. Good Lord, imagine having half an acre of stomach pain! Bad winds are tearing him up inside, boys. That’s the first foul wind I’ve ever seen blow out of a whale’s rear end. Look at him veer all over the place. Must’ve lost his steering.”
A heavily loaded merchant ship, carrying terrified horses on deck off the Indian coast, lurches and wallows through the waves. That was exactly how this old whale moved his heavy body. Every so often he rolled partway onto his ribs. Everyone saw why he steered so poorly: his right‑side fin was nothing but a mangled stump. No one knew whether he’d lost it in a fight or been born without it.
“Hang on there, old fellow,” Flask shouted cruelly. He tapped the harpoon rope coiled near him. “I’ll tie up that hurt arm for you.”
“Watch out he doesn’t snag you with it,” Starbuck warned. “Pull hard. Or that German will get him first.”
All the chasing boats fixated on this single whale. He was the biggest, so he would bring the most value. He was also closest. The rest of the pod swam so fast catching them seemed impossible for now.
The Pequod’s boats pulled past the last three German boats that had been lowered. Derick still held the lead from his early start. But our boats closed the gap on him every second.
Our biggest worry: he was already so near the whale he might throw his harpoon before we could overtake him completely.
Derick acted confident he would strike first. From time to time he shook his lamp feeder toward our boats, mocking us.
“The ungrateful rascal!” Starbuck growled. “He taunts me with that very oil container I filled for him only minutes ago!” Then he whispered sharply to his oarsmen. “Pull hard, you greyhounds! Give it everything!”
“Listen up, men,” Stubb called to his crew. “I try not to get mad, it goes against my nature. But I’d love to get my hands on that rotten German. Pull! What’s wrong with you lot? Are you gonna let that scoundrel beat us? You like brandy? A full barrel of brandy to whoever rows hardest. Come on! Why isn’t somebody popping a blood vessel out there? Feels like we dropped an anchor. We’re not moving an inch. We’re stuck dead still. Grass is growing on the bottom of this boat. Moss is starting to sprout on the mast. This won’t do, boys. Look at that German! Plain and simple: are you gonna give it all you’ve got, or not?”
“Look at all that foam he’s kicking up!” Flask yelled, bouncing around in his boat. “What a huge hump! Put your backs into it! He wallows like a log! Come on lads, push! Supper will be hot cakes and clams, baked shellfish and muffins! Pull harder! That whale makes a hundred barrels of oil! Don’t lose him now! Look at that German! Row for your supper, boys! What a beast! Think of all that sperm oil! Three thousand dollars right there! A whole bank! The Bank of England! Pull, pull, pull! What’s that German fool doing now?”
At that moment Derick hurled his lamp‑feeder toward our advancing boats. He threw his oil can too. Maybe he hoped to slow us down. Or maybe throwing them backward would push his own boat forward a little faster.
“Rude German fool!” Stubb shouted. “Row now, men! Row like fifty thousand red‑haired devils on warships! What about you, Tashtego? Would you snap your spine in twenty‑two pieces for the honor of Gay Head?”
“I say row like hell!” the native Tashtego roared.
Provoked by the German’s taunts, the three Pequod boats drew almost side‑by‑side. We steadily closed in.
The three mates stood tall in the bows, just like hunters closing on prey. They shouted encouragement to their oarsmen.
“There he goes! Hurrah for hard rowing! Beat that German! Sail right past him!”
Derick had gotten such a strong head‑start. If bad luck hadn’t hit him, he would’ve won this race.
A crab got caught in one of his oar blades. His oarsman struggled frantically to free it. Derick’s boat nearly tipped over. He screamed and raged at his crew.
That was Starbuck’s, Stubb’s, and Flask’s chance.
Our boats surged forward with a great burst. We angled up beside the German boat.
In another instant all four boats sat inside the whale’s churning wake. Foam billowed out on both sides.
It was a terrible, heartbreaking, maddening sight.
The whale swam with his head above water. Painful, constant spouts burst from his blowhole. His one remaining fin beat wildly against his side in terror.
He swerved left and right as he tried to flee. Every time he crashed through a wave he sank down spasmodically, or rolled sideways lifting his beating fin toward the sky.
I’ve seen birds with clipped wings fly frightened, lopsided circles trying to escape hawks. This whale was just like that.
Birds can cry out in fear. This great dumb sea beast could not. All he had was that choking gasp through his blowhole. It made watching him almost unbearable. Even so, his massive frame, his huge jaws, and his powerful tail would terrify any man who felt pity for him.
Derick could see we were about to overtake him any second. He didn’t want to lose his prize. He decided to risk a long, desperate harpoon throw before his chance vanished forever.
His harpooner stood up ready to strike.
At exactly that moment Queequeg, Tashtego, and Daggoo all jumped to their feet instinctively. They lined up diagonally. They raised their sharp harpoons.
They threw right over top of the German harpooner. All three Nantucket irons sank deep into the whale’s flesh.
Foam and white spray exploded everywhere.
The whale bolted forward. Our three boats crashed hard against Derick’s boat. Derick and his harpooner got tossed straight into the ocean. Our speeding boats swept right past them.
“Don’t you worry, you butter‑box fellows,” Stubb called out as he shot past. “Someone will fish you out soon. I saw sharks back there. Think of them as rescue dogs saving travelers! Hurrah! Look how we fly! Every boat glinting! Hurrah! We’re three little tin cans tied to a furious puma’s tail! Reminds me of hitching a carriage to an elephant out on flat land. Wheels spin like crazy. You might get thrown if you hit a hill. Hurrah! This is what it feels like rushing straight down into the ocean depths! Hurrah! This whale carries mail straight to the underworld!”
But the whale’s wild run did not last long. He gasped hard and dove straight down.
Harpoon ropes screamed around the wooden rope posts. They cut deep grooves into the wood. Harpooners feared he would pull all the rope out diving so fast. They gripped the smoking hot lines, braking as hard as they could.
Pulled straight down by the weights, the bows of the boats sank almost level with the water. The sterns tilted high up into the air.
Then the whale stopped diving. We hung in that dangerous position for a while. We dared not let out more rope.
Boats get pulled under and lost this way sometimes. This maneuver whalers call “holding on”. Barbs stuck deep in living whale flesh. Often the agony forces the leviathan back up to the surface, where lances wait for him.
Still, it’s risky. People argue whether it’s always the best tactic. The longer a wounded whale stays underwater, the more exhausted he grows.
A full‑grown sperm whale has almost two thousand square feet of skin. Water pressure far below the waves is crushing. We feel atmospheric pressure standing on land. Imagine what two hundred fathoms of ocean pressing down on a whale’s back must feel like. One whaler figured it equaled the weight of twenty full warships.
Our three small boats floated on gently rolling sea. Beneath us stretched endless blue darkness. No groans, no cries, not even bubbles rose up.
A land‑dweller would never guess that under that calm surface the greatest monster of the sea twisted and writhed in agony.
Less than eight inches of rope showed above water at the boat bows.
Three thin threads suspended that enormous leviathan, like a heavy weight hanging from an old clock. Hanging from what? Three little wooden boats.
Scripture once boasted: “Canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons? or his head with fish‑spears? The sword of him that layeth at him cannot hold, the spear, the dart, nor the habergeon: he esteemeth iron as straw; the arrow cannot make him flee; darts are counted as stubble; he laugheth at the shaking of a spear!”
This was that very creature. And yet here he hung, trapped.
With the power of a thousand legs in his tail, he tried to drive his head under the sea floor to escape our spears.
Slanting afternoon sunlight filtered down. Shadows cast by our three boats stretched far under water. Big enough to cover half of Xerxes’ ancient army. One can only imagine how terrifying those giant drifting shapes looked to the wounded whale below.
“Stand ready, men! He’s moving!” Starbuck shouted.
All three ropes vibrated in the water. Like magnetic wires they sent up the whale’s death throes. Every oarsman could feel it through the seats.
Suddenly the downward pull on the bows eased. The boats bounced upward sharply, just like ice floes when bears jump off into the sea.
“Haul in! Haul in!” Starbuck yelled. “He’s coming up!”
Moments before we could gain hardly an inch of rope. Now wet lines came flying back into the boats in fast coils.
The whale broke the surface, only two boat‑lengths away from us.
Every movement showed total exhaustion.
Most land animals have valves in their veins. When wounded those valves cut blood flow. Whales have no such valves. Even a tiny harpoon puncture opens their whole arterial system. Deep‑water pressure makes them bleed even faster.
Yet their total blood volume is enormous. They can keep bleeding for a very long time. Like a river still flowing even through drought, fed by distant hidden springs.
Our boats pulled close. We steered carefully over his thrashing tail flukes. Lances stabbed into him. Steady streams of blood spurted from fresh wounds. His blowhole still spouted water at quick intervals, but no blood came from there. His vital inner parts had not yet been pierced.
We drew nearer still. Much of him that normally stays underwater lay exposed.
We saw where his eyes had once been. Like knobby growths on broken oak trees, blind bulbous masses bulged out. A piteous sight. But nobody felt mercy.
Old, crippled, blind, he still had to die. His oil would light wedding celebrations and churches that preached kindness to all living things.
He rolled in his own blood. Down low on his flank a large, discolored swollen lump appeared, about the size of a bushel basket.
“Perfect target,” Flask cried. “Let me jab him right there once.”
“Hold on!” Starbuck called. “There is no need for that!”
Compassionate Starbuck spoke too late.
Flask threw his lance. Ulcerated blood burst from that sore spot. Driven wild by fresh agony, the whale spouted thick blood. He charged blindly at the boats. Blood splattered all over our craft and our cheering crews. Flask’s boat capsized. Other boats got damaged at the bow.
That blow finished him.
Weakened by massive blood loss, he drifted away from the wreckage he’d made. He lay gashing on one side. His stump fin flopped feebly. Slowly he turned over and over. His pale belly rolled upward. He lay motionless like a log. He was dead.
His final spout was heartbreaking. Like a great fountain whose water source slowly gets shut off. Spray sank lower and lower with sad gurgles.
Our crews waited for the main ship to reach us. Already the whale’s carcass showed signs it was going to sink, all its oil still inside.
Starbuck ordered ropes tied to several spots on the body. Each boat acted as a float. The dead whale hung just a few inches under the water held by our lines.
When the Pequod drew near, we carefully maneuvered the whale alongside. Heavy chains fastened his tail flukes tight to the ship. Without chains he would sink straight to the bottom.
We started cutting into his body. Buried inside that swollen lump we found a corroded old harpoon, embedded deep in his flesh.
Old broken harpoon tips are common inside captured whales. Flesh heals completely around them. So that old harpoon could not explain the open sore.
Even stranger: close to that iron tip lay a stone lance head. The flesh all around it was solid and healed.
Who threw that stone lance? When? Maybe some native hunter long before Europeans reached America.
Who knows what other odd relics rested inside that giant body.
We never found out. The whale grew heavier and heavier, pulling the whole ship sideways toward the water.
Starbuck stayed determined to hold onto him. We kept holding on until the ship nearly tipped over. We finally had to cut loose.
But the chains were pulled so tight we could not unhook them from the ship’s posts.
The whole deck slanted steeply. Walking across it felt like climbing a steep roof. Timbers groaned. Ivory decorations on railings and cabins popped loose.
We pried at the chains with crowbars and hand‑spikes. No luck. The chains went down underwater where we could not reach them. Every moment the sunken mass gained more weight. The ship threatened to flip over.
“Hang on there, hang on!” Stubb shouted toward the whale’s body. “Don’t be in such a hell‑bent rush down to the bottom! Men, we’ve got to do something or we go with him. Prying won’t work. Drop those bars! Somebody grab a hatchet and knife. Cut those big chains!”
“Aye, knife!” Queequeg answered. He grabbed the carpenter’s heavy axe. He leaned out through a gun port. Metal struck metal, sparks flew. A few hard blows. The enormous strain did the rest.
All the chains snapped with a deafening crack. The ship rolled back level. The whale carcass sank out of sight.
Sometimes freshly killed sperm whales sink. Whalers still do not fully understand why. Most dead sperm whales float high on the water. You might think only old, thin, unhealthy whales sink, lacking fat to keep them buoyant. But that’s not true. Young, strong, healthy whales sink sometimes too.
Still, sperm whales sink far less often than other whale kinds. For every sperm whale that goes down, twenty right whales sink. Right whales carry tons of heavy baleen bone in their mouths. Sperm whales have none of that extra weight.
Occasionally, hours or days later, sunken whales float back up. Rotting gas builds inside them. They blow up huge, like living balloons. Even warships could hardly hold them under then.
New Zealand shore whalers tie buoys to sinking right whales. They leave long ropes trailing. They can find the bodies again once gas brings them back up.
Not long after our whale sank, lookouts high on the Pequod’s masts called out. The Jungfrau was lowering boats once more.
Only spout in sight belonged to a fin‑back whale. Fin‑backs swim unbelievably fast. Practically impossible to catch. Their spouts look a lot like sperm‑whale spouts. Inexperienced whalers mix them up all the time.
Derick and his whole crew raced bravely after that uncatchable fin‑back. The Jungfrau unfurled every bit of sail, chasing after her four small boats. Far downwind they all vanished, still chasing hopefully.
So many fin‑backs swim the seas. And so many Dericks chase them.