Moby-Dick

by Herman Melville, 1851

Ishmael joins Captain Ahab's doomed hunt for the white whale — Melville's epic retold scene by scene in 196 illustrated cards.

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The whole story

Every scene of the book with its illustration — the same text the narrator reads aloud in the player.

Chapter 1

A damp, drizzly November settles in my soul. When the gloom grows this heavy, I always turn to the sea. It is the only cure I know. So I am bound for a whaling voyage.
A damp, drizzly November settles in my soul. When the gloom grows this heavy, I always turn to the sea. It is the only cure I know. So I am bound for a whaling voyage.
I cannot fully say why I go. Something pulls me: the thought of the great whale. A vast hooded phantom, rising in my mind like a snow hill in the air.
I cannot fully say why I go. Something pulls me: the thought of the great whale. A vast hooded phantom, rising in my mind like a snow hill in the air.
A weathered signpost points the way up from the wharves. The Fates have written my part, and I only follow it. I leave Manhattan behind, bound for New Bedford and a berth aboard a whaler.
A weathered signpost points the way up from the wharves. The Fates have written my part, and I only follow it. I leave Manhattan behind, bound for New Bedford and a berth aboard a whaler.

Chapter 2

I trudge alone through black New Bedford streets, cold as the grave. The packet for Nantucket sailed without me. Now I must find a bed for the night, and a cheap one - my purse is nearly empty.
I trudge alone through black New Bedford streets, cold as the grave. The packet for Nantucket sailed without me. Now I must find a bed for the night, and a cheap one - my purse is nearly empty.
At last, near the docks, a creaking sign sways in the wind. The Spouter-Inn. Peter Coffin, proprietor. Coffin? A grim name for a lodging.
At last, near the docks, a creaking sign sways in the wind. The Spouter-Inn. Peter Coffin, proprietor. Coffin? A grim name for a lodging.
Warm light spills from the low door across the snow. The price looks low, and a weary wanderer cannot be too particular. I tuck my carpet-bag tighter and step inside.
Warm light spills from the low door across the snow. The price looks low, and a weary wanderer cannot be too particular. I tuck my carpet-bag tighter and step inside.

Chapter 3

On a bitter winter night, Ishmael ducks into the Spouter-Inn. Low beams loom overhead. Smoke and old planks hang in the air. Strange clubs and rusty harpoons crowd one shadowed wall.
On a bitter winter night, Ishmael ducks into the Spouter-Inn. Low beams loom overhead. Smoke and old planks hang in the air. Strange clubs and rusty harpoons crowd one shadowed wall.
A huge painting hangs on the wall, blackened by smoke and age. Ishmael stares until shapes emerge from the murk. A great whale, hurling itself onto the masts of a sinking ship.
A huge painting hangs on the wall, blackened by smoke and age. Ishmael stares until shapes emerge from the murk. A great whale, hurling itself onto the masts of a sinking ship.
Behind a bar made from a whale's jawbone, landlord Peter Coffin grins. The house is full. One bed remains, shared with a harpooneer. A dark-complexioned stranger, not yet home for the night. Too cold to wander on, Ishmael agrees and waits.
Behind a bar made from a whale's jawbone, landlord Peter Coffin grins. The house is full. One bed remains, shared with a harpooneer. A dark-complexioned stranger, not yet home for the night. Too cold to wander on, Ishmael agrees and waits.

Chapter 4

A single candle flickers. Ishmael stands alone in a freezing little room upstairs at the inn. At the head of the great bed leans a tall whaling harpoon, its iron barb gleaming. Whose room is this? He must share it tonight with a stranger he has never met.
A single candle flickers. Ishmael stands alone in a freezing little room upstairs at the inn. At the head of the great bed leans a tall whaling harpoon, its iron barb gleaming. Whose room is this? He must share it tonight with a stranger he has never met.
The stranger's things are everywhere: a great battered seaman's bag, swollen and travel-worn. A heavy shaggy mat lies on the chest, slit through the middle like a poncho. Ishmael slips it on, then yanks it off: damp, absurd, far too strange to keep.
The stranger's things are everywhere: a great battered seaman's bag, swollen and travel-worn. A heavy shaggy mat lies on the chest, slit through the middle like a poncho. Ishmael slips it on, then yanks it off: damp, absurd, far too strange to keep.
He blows out the flame and climbs into the great cold bed, broad and lonely. The landlord swore the harpooneer would not come tonight. Yet Ishmael cannot sleep, listening for a footfall on the stair.
He blows out the flame and climbs into the great cold bed, broad and lonely. The landlord swore the harpooneer would not come tonight. Yet Ishmael cannot sleep, listening for a footfall on the stair.

Chapter 5

At midnight the harpooneer comes home. Queequeg, tall and covered in dark tattoos, looms in the candlelight. A tomahawk-pipe in one hand, a shrunken head in the other. Ishmael lies frozen in the great bed, holding his breath.
At midnight the harpooneer comes home. Queequeg, tall and covered in dark tattoos, looms in the candlelight. A tomahawk-pipe in one hand, a shrunken head in the other. Ishmael lies frozen in the great bed, holding his breath.
"Who-e devil you? Speak, or I kill-e!" Queequeg roars. "Landlord! Peter Coffin! Angels, save me!" Ishmael shouts. Peter Coffin rushes in with a candle to calm them both.
"Who-e devil you? Speak, or I kill-e!" Queequeg roars. "Landlord! Peter Coffin! Angels, save me!" Ishmael shouts. Peter Coffin rushes in with a candle to calm them both.
A few soft words, and the quarrel is past. "Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian." Beneath the patchwork quilt, the two strangers settle in for the night.
A few soft words, and the quarrel is past. "Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian." Beneath the patchwork quilt, the two strangers settle in for the night.

Chapter 6

I wake to find Queequeg's tattooed arm flung over me, fond as a husband's. His arm and the patchwork quilt are so alike I can scarce tell them apart. A strange bedfellow, and yet I never slept better in my life.
I wake to find Queequeg's tattooed arm flung over me, fond as a husband's. His arm and the patchwork quilt are so alike I can scarce tell them apart. A strange bedfellow, and yet I never slept better in my life.
Now Queequeg rises and dresses by his own queer order. Hat first, then under the bed to pull on his boots. And he shaves his very cheeks with the sharpened edge of his harpoon.
Now Queequeg rises and dresses by his own queer order. Hat first, then under the bed to pull on his boots. And he shaves his very cheeks with the sharpened edge of his harpoon.
The plain plank door opens at last on New Bedford by daylight. Last night we were strangers; now we are friends. Together we step out into the waking streets.
The plain plank door opens at last on New Bedford by daylight. Last night we were strangers; now we are friends. Together we step out into the waking streets.

Chapter 7

By daylight, New Bedford astonishes me. A whole town of fine houses and flowery gardens. And every brick of it, they say, hauled up from the bottom of the sea.
By daylight, New Bedford astonishes me. A whole town of fine houses and flowery gardens. And every brick of it, they say, hauled up from the bottom of the sea.
Actual cannibals stand chatting at the corner, harpoons and tattoos and all. No soul in town so much as turns a head. A green country lad swaggers past in his brand-new sea-rig. The first howling gale will surely burst the lot.
Actual cannibals stand chatting at the corner, harpoons and tattoos and all. No soul in town so much as turns a head. A green country lad swaggers past in his brand-new sea-rig. The first howling gale will surely burst the lot.
Up the street stands the Whaleman's Chapel. Here every fisherman bows his head before daring the open sea. Shall we follow him inside?
Up the street stands the Whaleman's Chapel. Here every fisherman bows his head before daring the open sea. Shall we follow him inside?

Chapter 8

Rain lashes the windows as Ishmael steps into the Whaleman's Chapel. Few sailors bound for the sea skip this place. He is no exception. Inside, the cold grey light falls on bowed heads and silent grief.
Rain lashes the windows as Ishmael steps into the Whaleman's Chapel. Few sailors bound for the sea skip this place. He is no exception. Inside, the cold grey light falls on bowed heads and silent grief.
Cold marble tablets line the walls, each black-bordered, each a name. They honor whalemen the sea never gave back. He reads them, and reads his own fate: the same may yet be thine, Ishmael.
Cold marble tablets line the walls, each black-bordered, each a name. They honor whalemen the sea never gave back. He reads them, and reads his own fate: the same may yet be thine, Ishmael.
Queequeg sits beside Ishmael, the only soul not reading the walls. He cannot read the marks, yet he feels their sorrow well enough. The high pulpit stands empty. They settle in to wait for Father Mapple.
Queequeg sits beside Ishmael, the only soul not reading the walls. He cannot read the marks, yet he feels their sorrow well enough. The high pulpit stands empty. They settle in to wait for Father Mapple.

Chapter 9

Father Mapple was a sailor long before he was a priest. He climbs his ship-shaped pulpit and draws the rope ladder up after him. Shut in alone with God, he begins: a tale of Jonah, and a storm.
Father Mapple was a sailor long before he was a priest. He climbs his ship-shaped pulpit and draws the rope ladder up after him. Shut in alone with God, he begins: a tale of Jonah, and a storm.
Jonah fled God's command, hiding below deck on a ship bound far away. So God sent a great storm, and the terrified sailors cast lots. The lot fell on Jonah. Overboard he went, and a great fish swallowed him whole.
Jonah fled God's command, hiding below deck on a ship bound far away. So God sent a great storm, and the terrified sailors cast lots. The lot fell on Jonah. Overboard he went, and a great fish swallowed him whole.
Ishmael listens, the old dread stirring in his chest. Woe, says Mapple, to the man who flees the hard truths he is charged to speak. But delight to him who stands true to his God against all the world.
Ishmael listens, the old dread stirring in his chest. Woe, says Mapple, to the man who flees the hard truths he is charged to speak. But delight to him who stands true to his God against all the world.

Chapter 10

The sermon done, we walk back through the dark to the Spouter-Inn. Late at night, only the dying fire still glows in the Spouter-Inn. Queequeg passes me his tomahawk-pipe, and I take a puff. With every shared breath of smoke, the ice in my heart melts. No more is my splintered heart turned against the cold world.
The sermon done, we walk back through the dark to the Spouter-Inn. Late at night, only the dying fire still glows in the Spouter-Inn. Queequeg passes me his tomahawk-pipe, and I take a puff. With every shared breath of smoke, the ice in my heart melts. No more is my splintered heart turned against the cold world.
He presses his forehead to mine and clasps my waist. "Henceforth we are married. Bosom friends," says Queequeg. "Queequeg gladly die for you, if need be." "Then married it is," I answer. "A cosy, loving pair."
He presses his forehead to mine and clasps my waist. "Henceforth we are married. Bosom friends," says Queequeg. "Queequeg gladly die for you, if need be." "Then married it is," I answer. "A cosy, loving pair."
To seal our bond I kneel beside Queequeg before Yojo, his idol. For once, for friendship's sake, I turn idolator too. The stairway rises into the dark, and we turn in together. A cosy, loving pair, against the cold of the world.
To seal our bond I kneel beside Queequeg before Yojo, his idol. For once, for friendship's sake, I turn idolator too. The stairway rises into the dark, and we turn in together. A cosy, loving pair, against the cold of the world.

Chapter 11

Deep in the night, two friends sit up in the big inn bed. A patchwork quilt is drawn to their knees, the dark cold all around. Ishmael and Queequeg talk low and easy, a cosy, loving pair.
Deep in the night, two friends sit up in the big inn bed. A patchwork quilt is drawn to their knees, the dark cold all around. Ishmael and Queequeg talk low and easy, a cosy, loving pair.
The last candle is burned nearly to its socket. Its small warm spark holds out against the cold dark. To truly feel the warmth, Ishmael thinks, some part of you must stay cold.
The last candle is burned nearly to its socket. Its small warm spark holds out against the cold dark. To truly feel the warmth, Ishmael thinks, some part of you must stay cold.
Queequeg sees that his pale friend listens, and does not laugh. Warm in the dark and glad to be heard, he starts to speak of home. Far across the sea, his island waits, and he tells the whole of it.
Queequeg sees that his pale friend listens, and does not laugh. Warm in the dark and glad to be heard, he starts to speak of home. Far across the sea, his island waits, and he tells the whole of it.

Chapter 12

Queequeg sits on the edge of the bed and tells his story. He is the son of a High Chief, a king of the island of Kokovoko. You will not find it on any map. True places never are.
Queequeg sits on the edge of the bed and tells his story. He is the son of a High Chief, a king of the island of Kokovoko. You will not find it on any map. True places never are.
Young Queequeg clings fast to the side of a passing whaler, fierce and unshakeable. As a boy he longed to see the Christian world, sure its people were happier. A whaler refused to take him, so he hid by a strait and sprang aboard. He swore he'd be cut to pieces before he'd let go.
Young Queequeg clings fast to the side of a passing whaler, fierce and unshakeable. As a boy he longed to see the Christian world, sure its people were happier. A whaler refused to take him, so he hid by a strait and sprang aboard. He swore he'd be cut to pieces before he'd let go.
He found the Christian world no better, only richer and more wicked. Now a harpooneer and wanderer, he feels too defiled to go home and be king. Till then the sea is his country, and Ishmael his friend.
He found the Christian world no better, only richer and more wicked. Now a harpooneer and wanderer, he feels too defiled to go home and be king. Till then the sea is his country, and Ishmael his friend.

Chapter 13

Morning. We settle with Peter Coffin and carry our bags down to the wharf, bound at last for Nantucket. The little schooner Moss runs for Nantucket, spray bursting off her bow. A green bumpkin smirks and mimics Queequeg behind his back. The tattooed harpooneer keeps his calm, paying the fool no mind.
Morning. We settle with Peter Coffin and carry our bags down to the wharf, bound at last for Nantucket. The little schooner Moss runs for Nantucket, spray bursting off her bow. A green bumpkin smirks and mimics Queequeg behind his back. The tattooed harpooneer keeps his calm, paying the fool no mind.
The boom swings loose and pitches the fool clean overboard. Cool as ice, Queequeg dives into the freezing sea. He hauls the drowning bumpkin out and asks no word of thanks.
The boom swings loose and pitches the fool clean overboard. Cool as ice, Queequeg dives into the freezing sea. He hauls the drowning bumpkin out and asks no word of thanks.
Dripping and dignified, Queequeg returns to the rail. From that hour Ishmael thinks better still of his friend. The low grey shore of Nantucket rises faint out of the sea ahead.
Dripping and dignified, Queequeg returns to the rail. From that hour Ishmael thinks better still of his friend. The low grey shore of Nantucket rises faint out of the sea ahead.

Chapter 14

At last, Nantucket: a mere elbow of sand, all beach and no background. Ishmael steps ashore with his carpet-bag, gazing in wonder at the famous little island. Queequeg follows, harpoon on his shoulder, at home in any port of the world. Here, our true voyage begins.
At last, Nantucket: a mere elbow of sand, all beach and no background. Ishmael steps ashore with his carpet-bag, gazing in wonder at the famous little island. Queequeg follows, harpoon on his shoulder, at home in any port of the world. Here, our true voyage begins.
A forest of bare masts crowds the little harbor. From this poor knoll of sand sail the boldest whalemen on earth. Men who own the watery two-thirds of the globe.
A forest of bare masts crowds the little harbor. From this poor knoll of sand sail the boldest whalemen on earth. Men who own the watery two-thirds of the globe.
Hungry from the crossing, they turn toward the Try Pots. A famous chowder-house kept by one Mrs. Hussey. A bowl of something hot awaits within.
Hungry from the crossing, they turn toward the Try Pots. A famous chowder-house kept by one Mrs. Hussey. A bowl of something hot awaits within.

Chapter 15

Out of the cold night, Ishmael and Queequeg duck into the Try Pots, a tiny Nantucket chowder-house. Mrs. Hussey plants her hands on her hips, ladle ready, and barks: "Clam or Cod?" "A cold clam? Is THAT supper?" Ishmael wonders aloud, baffled. "Clam, then! Clam for two, and quick about it."
Out of the cold night, Ishmael and Queequeg duck into the Try Pots, a tiny Nantucket chowder-house. Mrs. Hussey plants her hands on her hips, ladle ready, and barks: "Clam or Cod?" "A cold clam? Is THAT supper?" Ishmael wonders aloud, baffled. "Clam, then! Clam for two, and quick about it."
Then it comes: a steaming pot of chowder, the best either man has ever tasted. Tiny clams, pounded biscuit and salt pork, rich with butter and pepper. After the cold crossing, it warms them clean through to the marrow. They eat without a word, and vow to have chowder again at breakfast.
Then it comes: a steaming pot of chowder, the best either man has ever tasted. Tiny clams, pounded biscuit and salt pork, rich with butter and pepper. After the cold crossing, it warms them clean through to the marrow. They eat without a word, and vow to have chowder again at breakfast.
Morning. Bellies full and the chowder still warm in them, the two step into the street. Above the door hang the two great iron try-pots that give the house its name. Now a new task calls: find a whaling ship and sign their names aboard.
Morning. Bellies full and the chowder still warm in them, the two step into the street. Above the door hang the two great iron try-pots that give the house its name. Now a new task calls: find a whaling ship and sign their names aboard.

Chapter 16

I wander the wharves and find her: the Pequod, a rare old craft of the old school. Queequeg's little god Yojo decreed that I alone must choose our ship. Darkened and noble, her rails set with the white teeth of sperm whales. A cannibal of a ship, dressed in the bones of her enemies. This is the one.
I wander the wharves and find her: the Pequod, a rare old craft of the old school. Queequeg's little god Yojo decreed that I alone must choose our ship. Darkened and noble, her rails set with the white teeth of sperm whales. A cannibal of a ship, dressed in the bones of her enemies. This is the one.
From a strange cone of black whalebone, old Peleg scowls out at me. "So thou wast thinking of shipping? Dost know aught at all about whaling?" "Nothing yet, sir; but I've sailed four merchant voyages, and I'll soon learn." "Marchant service be damned! Talk not that lingo to me."
From a strange cone of black whalebone, old Peleg scowls out at me. "So thou wast thinking of shipping? Dost know aught at all about whaling?" "Nothing yet, sir; but I've sailed four merchant voyages, and I'll soon learn." "Marchant service be damned! Talk not that lingo to me."
"Hast clapped eye on Captain Ahab? Thou'lt find he has only one leg." "Was the other lost by a whale, sir?" "Devoured! Chewed up by the monstrousest parmacetty that ever stove a boat!" He bids me gaze at the endless water: is this the world I truly long to see?
"Hast clapped eye on Captain Ahab? Thou'lt find he has only one leg." "Was the other lost by a whale, sir?" "Devoured! Chewed up by the monstrousest parmacetty that ever stove a boat!" He bids me gaze at the endless water: is this the world I truly long to see?

Chapter 17

Below deck in the Pequod's dim cabin, Ishmael waits, hat in hand. Two old Quaker captains, Peleg and Bildad, will set his pay. No wages here. A whaleman earns only a 'lay': a share of the voyage.
Below deck in the Pequod's dim cabin, Ishmael waits, hat in hand. Two old Quaker captains, Peleg and Bildad, will set his pay. No wages here. A whaleman earns only a 'lay': a share of the voyage.
Bildad murmurs psalms, then offers the 777th lay, almost nothing. Lay up treasure where moth and rust cannot reach, he says. Peleg explodes: 'Blast your eyes! You shan't swindle the lad!'Peleg sets him down for the 300th lay. 'Sign here, Ishmael.' One stroke of the pen binds him to the Pequod and the long voyage. Done. Now back to the inn, where Queequeg sits locked away in a strange fast.
Bildad murmurs psalms, then offers the 777th lay, almost nothing. Lay up treasure where moth and rust cannot reach, he says. Peleg explodes: 'Blast your eyes! You shan't swindle the lad!' Peleg sets him down for the 300th lay. 'Sign here, Ishmael.' One stroke of the pen binds him to the Pequod and the long voyage. Done. Now back to the inn, where Queequeg sits locked away in a strange fast.

Chapter 18

His fast broken, Queequeg comes down to the Pequod to sign on. Peleg doubts a cannibal can throw straight. Queequeg crouches in the swinging whaleboat, harpoon drawn back. Far out on the grey water floats one tiny bead of tar. "Spose him one whale eye," he says, taking aim. "Well, den!"
His fast broken, Queequeg comes down to the Pequod to sign on. Peleg doubts a cannibal can throw straight. Queequeg crouches in the swinging whaleboat, harpoon drawn back. Far out on the grey water floats one tiny bead of tar. "Spose him one whale eye," he says, taking aim. "Well, den!"
The iron flies clean across the deck and splits the drop of tar. "Dad whale dead!" Queequeg calls. Peleg roars: "Quick, the papers! We'll give ye the ninetieth lay!"
The iron flies clean across the deck and splits the drop of tar. "Dad whale dead!" Queequeg calls. Peleg roars: "Quick, the papers! We'll give ye the ninetieth lay!"
Queequeg signs the papers with the round mark from his arm. Old Bildad presses a little tract into his hand, to save his soul. Both shipmates are bound to the Pequod now.
Queequeg signs the papers with the round mark from his arm. Old Bildad presses a little tract into his hand, to save his soul. Both shipmates are bound to the Pequod now.

Chapter 19

A ragged old man bars the foggy Nantucket street. His crooked finger juts out, leveled past us at the ship below. "Shipmates, have ye shipped in that vessel?" "Anything down there about your souls?"
A ragged old man bars the foggy Nantucket street. His crooked finger juts out, leveled past us at the ship below. "Shipmates, have ye shipped in that vessel?" "Anything down there about your souls?"
Ishmael halts, wary; Queequeg watches from the corner of his eye. "Ye hav'n't seen Old Thunder yet, Captain Ahab?" The old man mutters of a deadly fit, and a leg lost by prophecy. "What's signed is signed; what's to be, will be."
Ishmael halts, wary; Queequeg watches from the corner of his eye. "Ye hav'n't seen Old Thunder yet, Captain Ahab?" The old man mutters of a deadly fit, and a leg lost by prophecy. "What's signed is signed; what's to be, will be."
We shake him off as a humbug and walk on. "Morning to ye, shipmates. God pity ye." Yet round the corner he is dogging us still, never gaining, never gone. His shrouded words breed a hundred shadowy fears about the voyage ahead.
We shake him off as a humbug and walk on. "Morning to ye, shipmates. God pity ye." Yet round the corner he is dogging us still, never gaining, never gone. His shrouded words breed a hundred shadowy fears about the voyage ahead.

Chapter 20

At grey dawn we climb aboard the Pequod. The ship lies wrapped in a deep, waiting hush. On the wharf, mad Elijah hails us one last time with his cracked warnings. Ahead of us, four or five shadowy men slip quietly aboard and vanish below.
At grey dawn we climb aboard the Pequod. The ship lies wrapped in a deep, waiting hush. On the wharf, mad Elijah hails us one last time with his cracked warnings. Ahead of us, four or five shadowy men slip quietly aboard and vanish below.
Below decks, an old rigger sleeps face-down across two sea-chests, dead to the world. Queequeg sits calmly on the man's back as on a couch, puffing his tomahawk-pipe. "Gracious! Queequeg, get off, the poor man can hardly breathe!" "Oh! perry dood seat," he says. "My country way; won't hurt him face."
Below decks, an old rigger sleeps face-down across two sea-chests, dead to the world. Queequeg sits calmly on the man's back as on a couch, puffing his tomahawk-pipe. "Gracious! Queequeg, get off, the poor man can hardly breathe!" "Oh! perry dood seat," he says. "My country way; won't hurt him face."
The rigger wakes and tells us the news: the Pequod sails today. And the Captain himself came aboard in the dead of night. Ahab is here at last, somewhere below. Yet still no man has seen him.
The rigger wakes and tells us the news: the Pequod sails today. And the Captain himself came aboard in the dead of night. Ahab is here at last, somewhere below. Yet still no man has seen him.

Chapter 21

A short, cold Christmas. The crew tramps round and round the capstan. Ishmael heaves at the icy bars, breath steaming, half-frozen and half-thrilled. Beside him Queequeg leans his whole weight and laughs inside: this is the work his arm was made for.
A short, cold Christmas. The crew tramps round and round the capstan. Ishmael heaves at the icy bars, breath steaming, half-frozen and half-thrilled. Beside him Queequeg leans his whole weight and laughs inside: this is the work his arm was made for.
Peleg roars and kicks the men like a very devil of a pilot: "Spring, thou sheep-head!" At the bows, pious Bildad sings a dismal psalm, calm as ice. The anchor rises, the sails fill, and the Pequod swings her bows toward the open sea.
Peleg roars and kicks the men like a very devil of a pilot: "Spring, thou sheep-head!" At the bows, pious Bildad sings a dismal psalm, calm as ice. The anchor rises, the sails fill, and the Pequod swings her bows toward the open sea.
Loath to leave, the two old captains climb down into the pilot-boat. "God bless ye, and keep ye, men," calls Bildad as they pull for shore. Three heavy-hearted cheers, and the icy old ship plunges like fate into the lone Atlantic.
Loath to leave, the two old captains climb down into the pilot-boat. "God bless ye, and keep ye, men," calls Bildad as they pull for shore. Three heavy-hearted cheers, and the icy old ship plunges like fate into the lone Atlantic.

Chapter 22

Among the crew Ishmael had marked one quiet, deep-eyed man the others plainly looked up to. On a shivering winter's night, one sailor stands alone at the Pequod's wheel. It is Bulkington, the tall mariner just home from four years at sea. Yet here he is, driving out into the dark again. The land seems to scorch his feet.
Among the crew Ishmael had marked one quiet, deep-eyed man the others plainly looked up to. On a shivering winter's night, one sailor stands alone at the Pequod's wheel. It is Bulkington, the tall mariner just home from four years at sea. Yet here he is, driving out into the dark again. The land seems to scorch his feet.
Ahead heaves the black, landless sea, terrible and cold. But in a gale, a ship's deadliest danger is the welcoming shore. Better to perish in the howling deep than be dashed upon the land.
Ahead heaves the black, landless sea, terrible and cold. But in a gale, a ship's deadliest danger is the welcoming shore. Better to perish in the howling deep than be dashed upon the land.
From the waist, Ishmael watches the lone helmsman with quiet awe. Take heart, Bulkington. Up leaps your apotheosis. The Pequod stands on into the open deep, and the long hunt is truly begun.
From the waist, Ishmael watches the lone helmsman with quiet awe. Take heart, Bulkington. Up leaps your apotheosis. The Pequod stands on into the open deep, and the long hunt is truly begun.

Chapter 23

A few days out, the Pequod settles into her voyage. From his work at the rail, Ishmael takes the measure of three men. The mates. Each one will command a boat when the whales rise.
A few days out, the Pequod settles into her voyage. From his work at the rail, Ishmael takes the measure of three men. The mates. Each one will command a boat when the whales rise.
Starbuck is the chief mate, lean and earnest, his eyes steady and sober. "I will have no man in my boat who is not afraid of a whale." Brave, but never reckless. The most careful man in the fishery.
Starbuck is the chief mate, lean and earnest, his eyes steady and sober. "I will have no man in my boat who is not afraid of a whale." Brave, but never reckless. The most careful man in the fishery.
Stubb, the second mate, meets every danger with a grin and his little black pipe. Flask, the third, is short, stout, and spoiling for a fight. Three knights, three boats. Now to meet the squires who hurl the iron.
Stubb, the second mate, meets every danger with a grin and his little black pipe. Flask, the third, is short, stout, and spoiling for a fight. Three knights, three boats. Now to meet the squires who hurl the iron.

Chapter 24

On the Pequod's deck, three islanders stand together, harpoons in hand. Queequeg, Tashtego, and towering Daggoo: the hunters of the ship. Off to the side, Ishmael watches them, struck with wonder.
On the Pequod's deck, three islanders stand together, harpoons in hand. Queequeg, Tashtego, and towering Daggoo: the hunters of the ship. Off to the side, Ishmael watches them, struck with wonder.
Queequeg is Starbuck's squire; Tashtego, Stubb's; Daggoo, Flask's. Tashtego's fathers hunted whales from canoes off the Vineyard. Daggoo, tall as a mast, his gold hoops swinging, bows to no man. Kings in their own lands, now hunters along one keel.
Queequeg is Starbuck's squire; Tashtego, Stubb's; Daggoo, Flask's. Tashtego's fathers hunted whales from canoes off the Vineyard. Daggoo, tall as a mast, his gold hoops swinging, bows to no man. Kings in their own lands, now hunters along one keel.
Three bright irons stand racked and waiting for the hunt. Nearby, a battered tambourine: little Pip, the gentle cabin-boy. All these men serve one master, still unseen below. Climb at last to the quarter-deck, where the captain awaits.
Three bright irons stand racked and waiting for the hunt. Nearby, a battered tambourine: little Pip, the gentle cabin-boy. All these men serve one master, still unseen below. Climb at last to the quarter-deck, where the captain awaits.

Chapter 25

The first morning the sky clears, Captain Ahab is standing on his quarter-deck. He is gaunt and bronzed, cut like a man pulled half-burned from a fire. One hand grips a shroud. He gazes straight out past the pitching prow.
The first morning the sky clears, Captain Ahab is standing on his quarter-deck. He is gaunt and bronzed, cut like a man pulled half-burned from a fire. One hand grips a shroud. He gazes straight out past the pitching prow.
A pale scar threads from his grey hair down the whole length of his face. Where one leg should be stands polished bone, carved at sea from a whale's jaw. He sets it in a hole bored in the plank and stands for hours, unmoving.
A pale scar threads from his grey hair down the whole length of his face. Where one leg should be stands polished bone, carved at sea from a whale's jaw. He sets it in a hole bored in the plank and stands for hours, unmoving.
Below in the waist, the sailor Ishmael halts, a cold foreboding running over him. The crew think their captain paces only for the voyage's profit. But Ahab hunts something white beneath the grey water, and the reckoning is his.
Below in the waist, the sailor Ishmael halts, a cold foreboding running over him. The crew think their captain paces only for the voyage's profit. But Ahab hunts something white beneath the grey water, and the reckoning is his.

Chapter 26

Past midnight, old Ahab paces the deck and cannot rest. His ivory heel cracks hard on the planks, again and again. Below, the sleeping crew dream of sharks' teeth.
Past midnight, old Ahab paces the deck and cannot rest. His ivory heel cracks hard on the planks, again and again. Below, the sleeping crew dream of sharks' teeth.
Easygoing Stubb dares a word: might the captain muffle that awful step? Ahab turns on him like a powder-flash. "Down to thy grave, dog, and kennel!" he roars. Stubb recoils, stung, half wanting to strike, half to pray.
Easygoing Stubb dares a word: might the captain muffle that awful step? Ahab turns on him like a powder-flash. "Down to thy grave, dog, and kennel!" he roars. Stubb recoils, stung, half wanting to strike, half to pray.
Stubb creeps down the narrow scuttle, silent and shamed. From the shadows, Ishmael watches the strange quarrel end. The deck is left to the old man alone. He calls for his pipe and smokes beneath the indifferent stars.
Stubb creeps down the narrow scuttle, silent and shamed. From the shadows, Ishmael watches the strange quarrel end. The deck is left to the old man alone. He calls for his pipe and smokes beneath the indifferent stars.

Chapter 27

Late at night, Ahab sits alone on the dark deck. His stool is a tripod of pale whalebone: the throne of an old sea-king. He lights his pipe at the binnacle lamp and draws a slow, troubled puff.
Late at night, Ahab sits alone on the dark deck. His stool is a tripod of pale whalebone: the throne of an old sea-king. He lights his pipe at the binnacle lamp and draws a slow, troubled puff.
But the pipe's charm is gone. He has been toiling, not resting, puffing nervously into the wind. This calm thing is not made for a man torn by trouble, he thinks.
But the pipe's charm is gone. He has been toiling, not resting, puffing nervously into the wind. This calm thing is not made for a man torn by trouble, he thinks.
"I'll smoke no more." He flings the pipe into the sea. It hisses out in a single bubble. With slouched hat, Ahab paces the planks alone in the dark.
"I'll smoke no more." He flings the pipe into the sea. It hisses out in a single bubble. With slouched hat, Ahab paces the planks alone in the dark.

Chapter 28

On the bright tropic deck, Stubb grins around his pipe and spins a queer dream. Old Ahab kicked him with the ivory leg, and when he kicked back, his own leg flew off! A badger-haired merman told him: count a great man's kicks an honor, and never kick back. Flask folds his arms. "Seems a sort of foolish to me," he says.
On the bright tropic deck, Stubb grins around his pipe and spins a queer dream. Old Ahab kicked him with the ivory leg, and when he kicked back, his own leg flew off! A badger-haired merman told him: count a great man's kicks an honor, and never kick back. Flask folds his arms. "Seems a sort of foolish to me," he says.
Far aft, Ahab stands alone at the taffrail, brooding over the rolling sea. Let the fool dream his riddles, he thinks. The men are only levers to one fixed purpose. The white thing waits out there, and every man aboard shall row him to it.
Far aft, Ahab stands alone at the taffrail, brooding over the rolling sea. Let the fool dream his riddles, he thinks. The men are only levers to one fixed purpose. The white thing waits out there, and every man aboard shall row him to it.
Suddenly Ahab roars up to the mast-head: look sharp for a whale above all others! "If ye see a white one, split your lungs for him!" A white whale. Ishmael freezes at his work. Something bloody is on the old man's mind. Something special rides the wind this bright, charmed morning.
Suddenly Ahab roars up to the mast-head: look sharp for a whale above all others! "If ye see a white one, split your lungs for him!" A white whale. Ishmael freezes at his work. Something bloody is on the old man's mind. Something special rides the wind this bright, charmed morning.

Chapter 29

At the head of the long ivory table sits Captain Ahab, grim and silent. He carves the dinner like a maned sea-lion among his hushed officers. No one dares to speak. The cabin holds its breath.
At the head of the long ivory table sits Captain Ahab, grim and silent. He carves the dinner like a maned sea-lion among his hushed officers. No one dares to speak. The cabin holds its breath.
Starbuck takes his meat like a beggar taking alms, chewing without a sound. Stubb stifles in the silence, longing for any small noise. And little Flask, smallest and hungriest, never dares touch the butter.
Starbuck takes his meat like a beggar taking alms, chewing without a sound. Stubb stifles in the silence, longing for any small noise. And little Flask, smallest and hungriest, never dares touch the butter.
When the mates withdraw, the three harpooneers fall on the same table. They feast with wild, jingling, lordly ease, terrifying poor Dough-Boy. Then dinner is done, and your own lonely turn at the mast-head comes round.
When the mates withdraw, the three harpooneers fall on the same table. They feast with wild, jingling, lordly ease, terrifying poor Dough-Boy. Then dinner is done, and your own lonely turn at the mast-head comes round.

Chapter 30

My turn comes to stand the mast-head, high in the balmy air. A hundred feet up, the ship is a tiny thing rolling far below. Two thin iron hoops are my only perch and railing.
My turn comes to stand the mast-head, high in the balmy air. A hundred feet up, the ship is a tiny thing rolling far below. Two thin iron hoops are my only perch and railing.
Lulled by waves and thoughts, I lose my own identity. The blue ocean below seems the soul of all things. But slip your hold an inch, and you drop forever into the sea.
Lulled by waves and thoughts, I lose my own identity. The blue ocean below seems the soul of all things. But slip your hold an inch, and you drop forever into the sea.
Far below, a great voice breaks my reverie. Ahab has called the whole ship's company aft. I climb down to the quarterdeck to learn what he wants.
Far below, a great voice breaks my reverie. Ahab has called the whole ship's company aft. I climb down to the quarterdeck to learn what he wants.

Chapter 31

Late golden light on the Pequod's deck. Old Ahab lifts a bright Spanish gold coin to the sun. He hammers it fast to the mainmast. "Whoever first raises a white-headed whale, wrinkled brow, crooked jaw, wins this gold!"
Late golden light on the Pequod's deck. Old Ahab lifts a bright Spanish gold coin to the sun. He hammers it fast to the mainmast. "Whoever first raises a white-headed whale, wrinkled brow, crooked jaw, wins this gold!"
Tashtego jolts forward. He has seen that whale far off in the gray seas. "Captain, that must be the one some call Moby Dick." "Death and devils! It was Moby Dick that took my leg!" Queequeg mimes the old harpoons tangled in the white hide.
Tashtego jolts forward. He has seen that whale far off in the gray seas. "Captain, that must be the one some call Moby Dick." "Death and devils! It was Moby Dick that took my leg!" Queequeg mimes the old harpoons tangled in the white hide.
Starbuck, the one troubled face, dares to speak. "Vengeance on a dumb brute? That seems blasphemous." "All things are masks. I'd strike the sun if it insulted me!" Ahab thunders. And Ishmael's shout goes up with the rest. The feud feels like his own.
Starbuck, the one troubled face, dares to speak. "Vengeance on a dumb brute? That seems blasphemous." "All things are masks. I'd strike the sun if it insulted me!" Ahab thunders. And Ishmael's shout goes up with the rest. The feud feels like his own.

Chapter 32

At blood-red sunset, Captain Ahab rings the whole crew around the capstan. He stands at the center, wild-eyed, on his one white ivory leg. "Ring me in," he cries, "and I will revive a custom of my fathers."
At blood-red sunset, Captain Ahab rings the whole crew around the capstan. He stands at the center, wild-eyed, on his one white ivory leg. "Ring me in," he cries, "and I will revive a custom of my fathers."
The three harpooneers wrench the barbed irons from their poles. Turned point-up, the sockets become goblets, brimmed with grog hot as Satan's hoof. Queequeg, Daggoo, and Tashtego lift their steel cups, ready to swear.
The three harpooneers wrench the barbed irons from their poles. Turned point-up, the sockets become goblets, brimmed with grog hot as Satan's hoof. Queequeg, Daggoo, and Tashtego lift their steel cups, ready to swear.
They drink, and shout death to Moby Dick the white whale. Against his will, the fiery oath spirals through Ishmael. The crew is one with Ahab's hate. Only Starbuck pales and turns away: this is one man's vengeance, not a hunt.
They drink, and shout death to Moby Dick the white whale. Against his will, the fiery oath spirals through Ishmael. The crew is one with Ahab's hate. Only Starbuck pales and turns away: this is one man's vengeance, not a hunt.

Chapter 33

Ahab sits alone at the stern windows as the sun bleeds red into the sea. Behind the ship his wake unrolls, pale and turbid across the darkening water. "Pale waters, paler cheeks, wherever I sail," he murmurs.
Ahab sits alone at the stern windows as the sun bleeds red into the sea. Behind the ship his wake unrolls, pale and turbid across the darkening water. "Pale waters, paler cheeks, wherever I sail," he murmurs.
Once the sunset soothed him. No more. "This lovely light, it lights not me. All loveliness is anguish." Gifted to see beauty, cursed never to enjoy it - damned in the midst of Paradise.
Once the sunset soothed him. No more. "This lovely light, it lights not me. All loveliness is anguish." Gifted to see beauty, cursed never to enjoy it - damned in the midst of Paradise.
They call him mad. He calls himself madness maddened. The whale took his leg. Now he vows to dismember his dismemberer. "What I've willed, I'll do! My soul runs on iron rails." His soliloquy falls silent, and dusk gathers over the deck.
They call him mad. He calls himself madness maddened. The whale took his leg. Now he vows to dismember his dismemberer. "What I've willed, I'll do! My soul runs on iron rails." His soliloquy falls silent, and dusk gathers over the deck.

Chapter 34

Dusk falls on the Pequod. Starbuck stands alone at the mainmast. Above him gleams the gold doubloon: the cursed wage for whoever first spots the White Whale. His honest face is shadowed with dread.
Dusk falls on the Pequod. Starbuck stands alone at the mainmast. Above him gleams the gold doubloon: the cursed wage for whoever first spots the White Whale. His honest face is shadowed with dread.
"My soul is overmanned, and by a madman," he thinks. Ahab has tied him fast with a cable he has no knife to cut. He must obey, even rebelling. Yet hope remains: the sea is wide, and God may yet turn that mad purpose aside.
"My soul is overmanned, and by a madman," he thinks. Ahab has tied him fast with a cable he has no knife to cut. He must obey, even rebelling. Yet hope remains: the sea is wide, and God may yet turn that mad purpose aside.
Weary Starbuck stands at the dark mainmast, listening. Wild song and laughter burst from the crew forward, while aft, only silence. Stand by me, hold me, bind me, he pleads, then sets the night-watch.
Weary Starbuck stands at the dark mainmast, listening. Wild song and laughter burst from the crew forward, while aft, only silence. Stand by me, hold me, bind me, he pleads, then sets the night-watch.

Chapter 35

At midnight on the Pequod's deck, little Pip beats his battered tambourine. Sailors from every island of the sea dance and roar in one wild chorus. "Make a pagoda of thyself!" they cry, and Pip jingles on.
At midnight on the Pequod's deck, little Pip beats his battered tambourine. Sailors from every island of the sea dance and roar in one wild chorus. "Make a pagoda of thyself!" they cry, and Pip jingles on.
A Spanish sailor sneers at giant Daggoo's black skin. Daggoo rises like a thunderhead, and both bare their knives. "A row! A row!" the crew shouts, ringing the fighters in.
A Spanish sailor sneers at giant Daggoo's black skin. Daggoo rises like a thunderhead, and both bare their knives. "A row! A row!" the crew shouts, ringing the fighters in.
Then the sky goes black. "The squall! The squall!" The sailors scatter to the halyards, and the wild song dies. Pip shakes alone under the windlass, praying for mercy. Now comes the time to learn what monster Moby Dick truly is.
Then the sky goes black. "The squall! The squall!" The sailors scatter to the halyards, and the wild song dies. Pip shakes alone under the windlass, praying for mercy. Now comes the time to learn what monster Moby Dick truly is.

Chapter 36

Out on the black water, a pale shape rises. Behold Moby Dick: a white whale of monstrous size. Old rusted harpoons still hang in his scarred hide. Whalemen whisper he can never die.
Out on the black water, a pale shape rises. Behold Moby Dick: a white whale of monstrous size. Old rusted harpoons still hang in his scarred hide. Whalemen whisper he can never die.
Once, on a former voyage, this whale found Captain Ahab. It sheared away his leg like a scythe through grass. From that wound grew a burning, quenchless madness. Now whale and woe are fused into one hate.
Once, on a former voyage, this whale found Captain Ahab. It sheared away his leg like a scythe through grass. From that wound grew a burning, quenchless madness. Now whale and woe are fused into one hate.
Night after night, Ahab bends over his charts. His finger hunts every sea, sure the white whale waits in one. His will becomes the ship's: the whole crew is sworn to the hunt. Follow the captain to where that hunt begins.
Night after night, Ahab bends over his charts. His finger hunts every sea, sure the white whale waits in one. His will becomes the ship's: the whole crew is sworn to the hunt. Follow the captain to where that hunt begins.

Chapter 37

Deep in the night, Captain Ahab bends alone over his charts. His pencil traces fresh courses across wrinkled, yellowed seas. Men call it madness to hunt one whale in all the oceans.
Deep in the night, Captain Ahab bends alone over his charts. His pencil traces fresh courses across wrinkled, yellowed seas. Men call it madness to hunt one whale in all the oceans.
Old whaling log-books pile high at his elbow. Their pages mark every sea where Moby Dick was seen. Ahab knows the tides, the currents, the season of the hunt.
Old whaling log-books pile high at his elbow. Their pages mark every sea where Moby Dick was seen. Ahab knows the tides, the currents, the season of the hunt.
The long voyage south wears on, day after day. The crew keep busy with small tasks on deck. Then a cry from the masthead changes everything.
The long voyage south wears on, day after day. The crew keep busy with small tasks on deck. Then a cry from the masthead changes everything.

Chapter 38

But the cry has not come yet. First, a long, drowsy afternoon, the sea flat and slow. On a still, dreamy afternoon, Ishmael weaves a sword-mat, his hand the shuttle of fate. Beside him Queequeg drives each yarn tight with his heavy oaken sword. The half-made mat seems the very Loom of Time: necessity, free will, and chance interwoven.
But the cry has not come yet. First, a long, drowsy afternoon, the sea flat and slow. On a still, dreamy afternoon, Ishmael weaves a sword-mat, his hand the shuttle of fate. Beside him Queequeg drives each yarn tight with his heavy oaken sword. The half-made mat seems the very Loom of Time: necessity, free will, and chance interwoven.
Suddenly a wild cry drops from aloft. Tashtego flings out his hand. 'There she blows! A whole school, two miles off the lee-beam!' The dream shatters. The boats swing out, crews poised to drop and chase.
Suddenly a wild cry drops from aloft. Tashtego flings out his hand. 'There she blows! A whole school, two miles off the lee-beam!' The dream shatters. The boats swing out, crews poised to drop and chase.
Ahab surges to the rail, and five dark phantoms stand ringed about him. Foremost is the shadowy Parsee Fedallah: Ahab's own secret crew, smuggled aboard. 'Time! Mark the minute! Down boats! Man the cranes!' The wild first chase has begun.
Ahab surges to the rail, and five dark phantoms stand ringed about him. Foremost is the shadowy Parsee Fedallah: Ahab's own secret crew, smuggled aboard. 'Time! Mark the minute! Down boats! Man the cranes!' The wild first chase has begun.

Chapter 39

The first lowering ends in a wild, soaking scramble, and no whale at all. Dragged last to the deck, Ishmael wrings out his jacket and laughs at the absurdity. 'Queequeg, my friend, does this sort of thing happen often?' 'Oh yes,' says Queequeg, dripping and calm. 'Such things happen very often.'Stubb only puffs his pipe. A man who frets over a wetting frets himself into his grave. Ishmael asks if charging a whale in a squall is a whaleman's discretion. Certain, says Stubb. I have lowered in a gale off Cape Horn.
The first lowering ends in a wild, soaking scramble, and no whale at all. Dragged last to the deck, Ishmael wrings out his jacket and laughs at the absurdity. 'Queequeg, my friend, does this sort of thing happen often?' 'Oh yes,' says Queequeg, dripping and calm. 'Such things happen very often.' Stubb only puffs his pipe. A man who frets over a wetting frets himself into his grave. Ishmael asks if charging a whale in a squall is a whaleman's discretion. Certain, says Stubb. I have lowered in a gale off Cape Horn.
Each lowering, Ishmael sees, might be his last. There are queer times when a man takes the whole universe for one vast practical joke. So that night, calmly, he goes below and writes his will. The Pequod presses on toward the Cape, where soon a strange silvery spout will rise.
Each lowering, Ishmael sees, might be his last. There are queer times when a man takes the whole universe for one vast practical joke. So that night, calmly, he goes below and writes his will. The Pequod presses on toward the Cape, where soon a strange silvery spout will rise.

Chapter 40

On a still moonlit night, the waves roll by like scrolls of silver. From high on the mast, Fedallah's unearthly cry rings down: There she blows! Far on the bow a lone silvery spout glitters, like a god risen from the sea.
On a still moonlit night, the waves roll by like scrolls of silver. From high on the mast, Fedallah's unearthly cry rings down: There she blows! Far on the bow a lone silvery spout glitters, like a god risen from the sea.
Ahab strides the deck. Set every sail! he roars. After it! But the instant they give chase, the ghostly jet slips into the dark. Black sea-birds cling to the rigging, silent, as the Cape's storms rise.
Ahab strides the deck. Set every sail! he roars. After it! But the instant they give chase, the ghostly jet slips into the dark. Black sea-birds cling to the rigging, silent, as the Cape's storms rise.
Ishmael watches from the rail, wonder and dread within him. Some swear the spout is Moby Dick himself, luring them to doom. Off the Crozetts, a strange sail looms ahead.
Ishmael watches from the rail, wonder and dread within him. Some swear the spout is Moby Dick himself, luring them to doom. Off the Crozetts, a strange sail looms ahead.

Chapter 41

Off the distant Crozetts, a sail looms out of the grey. She is the Goney, four years from home, bleached bone-white and streaked with rust. Like a stranded skeleton, she glides past the Pequod's stern.
Off the distant Crozetts, a sail looms out of the grey. She is the Goney, four years from home, bleached bone-white and streaked with rust. Like a stranded skeleton, she glides past the Pequod's stern.
Ahab grips the rail and hurls his one question across the water. "Have ye seen the White Whale?" The strange captain lifts his trumpet to answer, but it slips into the sea. The bearded lookouts only stare, and not one of them speaks.
Ahab grips the rail and hurls his one question across the water. "Have ye seen the White Whale?" The strange captain lifts his trumpet to answer, but it slips into the sea. The bearded lookouts only stare, and not one of them speaks.
From his mast-head, Ishmael watches the Goney fall away into the grey. The ships part, and Ahab's question hangs forever unanswered. But days later the cry goes up again, and this time the boats give chase.
From his mast-head, Ishmael watches the Goney fall away into the grey. The ships part, and Ahab's question hangs forever unanswered. But days later the cry goes up again, and this time the boats give chase.

Chapter 42

Tashtego rises in the bow and hurls his harpoon home. The iron bites deep, and the line smokes round the loggerhead. "Start her, start her, my men!" The boat tears off on a wild sleigh-ride.
Tashtego rises in the bow and hurls his harpoon home. The iron bites deep, and the line smokes round the loggerhead. "Start her, start her, my men!" The boat tears off on a wild sleigh-ride.
Stubb, pipe still in his teeth, plants his knee and darts his lance. Coolly, again and again, he ranges up and sterns off, seeking the great heart. "Wet the line, haul me on! I'll have his life-blood yet!"
Stubb, pipe still in his teeth, plants his knee and darts his lance. Coolly, again and again, he ranges up and sterns off, seeking the great heart. "Wet the line, haul me on! I'll have his life-blood yet!"
The red tide pours from the monster and the sea seethes crimson. The whale rolls fin-out and dead in a sea of its own blood. Sail on to the deck: tonight Stubb feasts on a steak cut from its side.
The red tide pours from the monster and the sea seethes crimson. The whale rolls fin-out and dead in a sea of its own blood. Sail on to the deck: tonight Stubb feasts on a steak cut from its side.

Chapter 43

Midnight on the Pequod. Stubb killed a whale today, and now he must have his supper. He sits astride the capstan like a sideboard, forking up a hot whale-steak by lantern-light. Too tender, he grumbles. A proper whale-steak should be tough.
Midnight on the Pequod. Stubb killed a whale today, and now he must have his supper. He sits astride the capstan like a sideboard, forking up a hot whale-steak by lantern-light. Too tender, he grumbles. A proper whale-steak should be tough.
Below the hull, thousands of sharks swarm the dead whale in the dark water. They tear huge mouthfuls and slap the planks, dining while Stubb dines above. Their smacking racket vexes him. "Cook!" he barks. "Go preach those sharks quiet!"
Below the hull, thousands of sharks swarm the dead whale in the dark water. They tear huge mouthfuls and slap the planks, dining while Stubb dines above. Their smacking racket vexes him. "Cook!" he barks. "Go preach those sharks quiet!"
Old Fleece shuffles up, lowers his lantern over the water, and brandishes his tongs like a preacher. "Fellow-critters! Massa Stubb says feast all you want, but stop dat dam racket!" "You is all sharks, voracious by nature. Govern that, and you be angels." Ishmael, listening in the dark, eyes the steak and the sharks, and the only difference: a fork.
Old Fleece shuffles up, lowers his lantern over the water, and brandishes his tongs like a preacher. "Fellow-critters! Massa Stubb says feast all you want, but stop dat dam racket!" "You is all sharks, voracious by nature. Govern that, and you be angels." Ishmael, listening in the dark, eyes the steak and the sharks, and the only difference: a fork.

Chapter 44

By morning the crew cut into the carcass and sever the huge head, swinging it up against the ship's side. At noon a copper calm spreads over the sea, glassy and gold like a vast lotus. Against the Pequod's side hangs the great black whale head, blood still dripping. It is silent as a Sphynx in the desert, and the deck stands deserted.
By morning the crew cut into the carcass and sever the huge head, swinging it up against the ship's side. At noon a copper calm spreads over the sea, glassy and gold like a vast lotus. Against the Pequod's side hangs the great black whale head, blood still dripping. It is silent as a Sphynx in the desert, and the deck stands deserted.
Alone, Ahab leans crutch-wise on the cutting-spade still buried in the flesh. "Speak, thou vast and venerable head, and tell us the secret in thee." "Of all divers, thou hast dived the deepest, amid this world's foundations." He begs the oracle for one word, but not a syllable is its own.
Alone, Ahab leans crutch-wise on the cutting-spade still buried in the flesh. "Speak, thou vast and venerable head, and tell us the secret in thee." "Of all divers, thou hast dived the deepest, amid this world's foundations." He begs the oracle for one word, but not a syllable is its own.
A cry from aloft breaks the spell, and Queequeg swings down onto the floating carcass. The whale's bloody work resumes; he must hook it fast to the ship. Ishmael stays bound to him by a single rope, two lives tied as one.
A cry from aloft breaks the spell, and Queequeg swings down onto the floating carcass. The whale's bloody work resumes; he must hook it fast to the ship. Ishmael stays bound to him by a single rope, two lives tied as one.

Chapter 45

Queequeg drops onto the dead whale's slippery back, bobbing half-sunk beside the ship. He plants the heavy hook deep into the glistening flesh. Below his bare feet the sea boils red, thick with snapping sharks.
Queequeg drops onto the dead whale's slippery back, bobbing half-sunk beside the ship. He plants the heavy hook deep into the glistening flesh. Below his bare feet the sea boils red, thick with snapping sharks.
High on the ship's tilting side, Ishmael grips the other end of the rope. One line ties his belt to Queequeg's. They are bound, fast at both ends. If Queequeg sinks, the rope drags Ishmael down with him. Their two lives are wedded into one.
High on the ship's tilting side, Ishmael grips the other end of the rope. One line ties his belt to Queequeg's. They are bound, fast at both ends. If Queequeg sinks, the rope drags Ishmael down with him. Their two lives are wedded into one.
From a stage above, Tashtego and Daggoo lean out with long whale-spades. Their keen blades flash down among the fins, hacking the sharks back. They guard Queequeg's bare legs from the snapping jaws below. Three pagans do the bloody work, and the red sea churns on.
From a stage above, Tashtego and Daggoo lean out with long whale-spades. Their keen blades flash down among the fins, hacking the sharks back. They guard Queequeg's bare legs from the snapping jaws below. Three pagans do the bloody work, and the red sea churns on.

Chapter 46

The carcass cut free, the great head now swings hoisted high aloft, its hollow brimming with precious sperm oil. High atop the hoisted whale-head, Tashtego bales the fragrant sperm bucket by bucket. Then his foot slips and he plunges head-first into the deep cistern. A hook tears loose. The whole vast head drops thundering into the sea. Down it sinks, with Tashtego buried alive inside.
The carcass cut free, the great head now swings hoisted high aloft, its hollow brimming with precious sperm oil. High atop the hoisted whale-head, Tashtego bales the fragrant sperm bucket by bucket. Then his foot slips and he plunges head-first into the deep cistern. A hook tears loose. The whole vast head drops thundering into the sea. Down it sinks, with Tashtego buried alive inside.
In an instant Queequeg seizes his boarding-sword and dives. No time to think. He slashes a low gash in the sinking head and reaches inside. By the hair he drags Tashtego back up into the light. Daggoo, swinging on the loose tackles, shouts: 'Both! Both! They rise together!'Both men break the surface alive, born twice from the deep. Tashtego owes the tattooed man his life. The Pequod presses on into the narrow straits. Ahead waits a vast armada of whales upon the sea. Down the boats go, and we pull hard for the herd, irons ready in the bow.
In an instant Queequeg seizes his boarding-sword and dives. No time to think. He slashes a low gash in the sinking head and reaches inside. By the hair he drags Tashtego back up into the light. Daggoo, swinging on the loose tackles, shouts: 'Both! Both! They rise together!' Both men break the surface alive, born twice from the deep. Tashtego owes the tattooed man his life. The Pequod presses on into the narrow straits. Ahead waits a vast armada of whales upon the sea. Down the boats go, and we pull hard for the herd, irons ready in the bow.

Chapter 47

Queequeg's iron strikes deep, and the great whale bolts. It drags our little boat straight into the herd. Faster and faster, until at last its strength gives out.
Queequeg's iron strikes deep, and the great whale bolts. It drags our little boat straight into the herd. Faster and faster, until at last its strength gives out.
Yet at the very center, all is still: a glassy lake amid the tumult. Far below drift the mother whales and their nursing calves. They gaze up with mild eyes, as if we were the wonder. 'Hush,' Starbuck whispers. 'We have found the calm at the heart of it all.'Out beyond the calm, thousands of whales mill in panicked rings. A vast stampede, driven witless with dread, turning upon itself. Soon the herd will scatter and the hunt break apart. And on another calm blue sea, a small frightened boy will be left behind.
Yet at the very center, all is still: a glassy lake amid the tumult. Far below drift the mother whales and their nursing calves. They gaze up with mild eyes, as if we were the wonder. 'Hush,' Starbuck whispers. 'We have found the calm at the heart of it all.' Out beyond the calm, thousands of whales mill in panicked rings. A vast stampede, driven witless with dread, turning upon itself. Soon the herd will scatter and the hunt break apart. And on another calm blue sea, a small frightened boy will be left behind.

Chapter 48

Pip floats alone on a calm, glittering sea. The water stretches flat to every horizon. Such heartless vastness makes one small boy feel like a lost speck in the void.
Pip floats alone on a calm, glittering sea. The water stretches flat to every horizon. Such heartless vastness makes one small boy feel like a lost speck in the void.
Stubb's whaleboat shrinks to a speck and is gone. 'Stick to the boat, Pip,' he had warned. 'Or I won't pick you up. A whale's worth thirty of you.'The sea drags Pip's soul down to wondrous depths. There he glimpses God's foot upon the loom of fate. By chance the ship picks him up. But from that hour they call poor Pip mad.
Stubb's whaleboat shrinks to a speck and is gone. 'Stick to the boat, Pip,' he had warned. 'Or I won't pick you up. A whale's worth thirty of you.' The sea drags Pip's soul down to wondrous depths. There he glimpses God's foot upon the loom of fate. By chance the ship picks him up. But from that hour they call poor Pip mad.

Chapter 49

Back aboard at last, the day's whale cut in, the crew gathers at the tubs of cooling oil. All morning we sit squeezing the cooled sperm soft again. The white lumps break to my fingers like ripe grapes. The smell is of spring violets, and I melt into the work.
Back aboard at last, the day's whale cut in, the crew gathers at the tubs of cooling oil. All morning we sit squeezing the cooled sperm soft again. The white lumps break to my fingers like ripe grapes. The smell is of spring violets, and I melt into the work.
I wash my heart of every grudge and bitter oath. I squeeze and squeeze, till I am holding my shipmates' hands. 'Come,' I cry, 'let us squeeze into the very milk of kindness!' 'All friends now,' laughs Queequeg. 'All one hand, all one heart.'At last the sweet white labor is done. Now the sperm must go to the try-works. There, by night, the blubber boils over a hellish fire.
I wash my heart of every grudge and bitter oath. I squeeze and squeeze, till I am holding my shipmates' hands. 'Come,' I cry, 'let us squeeze into the very milk of kindness!' 'All friends now,' laughs Queequeg. 'All one hand, all one heart.' At last the sweet white labor is done. Now the sperm must go to the try-works. There, by night, the blubber boils over a hellish fire.

Chapter 50

At midnight the Pequod becomes a floating furnace. Two great iron pots boil the whale's blubber down to oil. Snaky flames leap and roll black smoke into the night. The ship rushes on, a red hell upon a black sea.
At midnight the Pequod becomes a floating furnace. Two great iron pots boil the whale's blubber down to oil. Snaky flames leap and roll black smoke into the night. The ship rushes on, a red hell upon a black sea.
Daggoo towers over the hearth, raking the roaring flames. Queequeg feeds the fire and tells tales of terror in mirth. Tashtego pitches hissing blubber into the scalding pots. Their grimed faces flash white teeth like the grins of fiends.
Daggoo towers over the hearth, raking the roaring flames. Queequeg feeds the fire and tells tales of terror in mirth. Tashtego pitches hissing blubber into the scalding pots. Their grimed faces flash white teeth like the grins of fiends.
Ishmael steers by the whale's own jawbone, lit lurid red. Lulled by the fire, he slips into a standing sleep. He wakes turned around, seeing only jet gloom, and nearly capsizes her. Look not too long in the fire, lest it invert you.
Ishmael steers by the whale's own jawbone, lit lurid red. Lulled by the fire, he slips into a standing sleep. He wakes turned around, seeing only jet gloom, and nearly capsizes her. Look not too long in the fire, lest it invert you.

Chapter 51

A bright gold coin is nailed dead-center to the Pequod's mast. It belongs to whoever first sights the White Whale. Ahab stares at its three proud peaks. "The tower, the volcano, the cock: all are Ahab."
A bright gold coin is nailed dead-center to the Pequod's mast. It belongs to whoever first sights the White Whale. Ahab stares at its three proud peaks. "The tower, the volcano, the cock: all are Ahab."
Grave Starbuck reads it like scripture, a beacon over a vale of death, then turns away, shaken. Jolly Stubb sees the whole comic round of a man's life spinning through the zodiac. Flask just shrugs: sixteen dollars of gold. "That's nine hundred sixty cigars."
Grave Starbuck reads it like scripture, a beacon over a vale of death, then turns away, shaken. Jolly Stubb sees the whole comic round of a man's life spinning through the zodiac. Flask just shrugs: sixteen dollars of gold. "That's nine hundred sixty cigars."
Last of all, poor mad Pip lingers before the coin with a far-off, ghostly stare. "Round this gold," he murmurs, "we all turn into ghosts, all of us the White Whale's." The long voyage wears on. Soon a fever takes brave Queequeg. Quietly, he calls the carpenter and asks the man to build him a coffin.
Last of all, poor mad Pip lingers before the coin with a far-off, ghostly stare. "Round this gold," he murmurs, "we all turn into ghosts, all of us the White Whale's." The long voyage wears on. Soon a fever takes brave Queequeg. Quietly, he calls the carpenter and asks the man to build him a coffin.

Chapter 52

In the damp hold, Queequeg catches a chill that sinks into fever. He wastes to bone and tattooing in his swaying hammock. Yet his eyes grow strangely soft, like rings of eternity. The crew gives him up for lost.
In the damp hold, Queequeg catches a chill that sinks into fever. He wastes to bone and tattooing in his swaying hammock. Yet his eyes grow strangely soft, like rings of eternity. The crew gives him up for lost.
Queequeg asks for one thing: a canoe-coffin, like the whalemen of his island. "Float me to the stars," he says, "not flung to the sharks." The old carpenter measures him while he still breathes, and shapes the dark wood.
Queequeg asks for one thing: a canoe-coffin, like the whalemen of his island. "Float me to the stars," he says, "not flung to the sharks." The old carpenter measures him while he still breathes, and shapes the dark wood.
Then, at death's very door, Queequeg remembers a small duty ashore, still undone. "A man dies only when he wills it," he tells Ishmael. "Queequeg no die yet." He rallies, rises well, and keeps the coffin for a sea-chest. One day, in a darker hour, it will save a life.
Then, at death's very door, Queequeg remembers a small duty ashore, still undone. "A man dies only when he wills it," he tells Ishmael. "Queequeg no die yet." He rallies, rises well, and keeps the coffin for a sea-chest. One day, in a darker hour, it will save a life.

Chapter 53

Deep in the Pequod's bowels stands old Perth the blacksmith, bent over his glowing forge. By the roaring forge, Ahab leans in and blows the fire himself. "Weld me a harpoon, Perth: one a thousand fiends could not part." He feeds it the toughest steel: nail-stubbs from racing horses' shoes. Old Perth obeys, but his hammer-hand trembles with dread.
Deep in the Pequod's bowels stands old Perth the blacksmith, bent over his glowing forge. By the roaring forge, Ahab leans in and blows the fire himself. "Weld me a harpoon, Perth: one a thousand fiends could not part." He feeds it the toughest steel: nail-stubbs from racing horses' shoes. Old Perth obeys, but his hammer-hand trembles with dread.
For the barbs, Ahab wants no water. Queequeg bares his tattooed arm. Three harpooneers give their blood to quench the glowing iron. As the blood scorches the steel, Ahab howls his dark baptism. "I baptize thee not in the Father's name, but the devil's!"
For the barbs, Ahab wants no water. Queequeg bares his tattooed arm. Three harpooneers give their blood to quench the glowing iron. As the blood scorches the steel, Ahab howls his dark baptism. "I baptize thee not in the Father's name, but the devil's!"
The weapon is finished. Ahab stalks away, cradling it like a child. Pole, iron, and rope are welded into one inseparable thing. It is forged to kill one whale, and one whale only: Moby Dick. And in the shadows, the silent Parsee waits to whisper his prophecies.
The weapon is finished. Ahab stalks away, cradling it like a child. Pole, iron, and rope are welded into one inseparable thing. It is forged to kill one whale, and one whale only: Moby Dick. And in the shadows, the silent Parsee waits to whisper his prophecies.

Chapter 54

The forge cools, and the long days roll on. A whale is taken at last, and Ahab's boat lingers far out on the night water. Far out on the black midnight sea, Ahab's boat rests beside a dead whale. A lone lantern sways on a pole, its flame trembling over the dark. Ahab jolts awake. He has dreamed of the hearses again.
The forge cools, and the long days roll on. A whale is taken at last, and Ahab's boat lingers far out on the night water. Far out on the black midnight sea, Ahab's boat rests beside a dead whale. A lone lantern sways on a pole, its flame trembling over the dark. Ahab jolts awake. He has dreamed of the hearses again.
From the bow, the Parsee Fedallah speaks his cold oracle. "No hearse nor coffin can be thine, yet two hearses must be seen on the sea." "And take another pledge: hemp only can kill thee."
From the bow, the Parsee Fedallah speaks his cold oracle. "No hearse nor coffin can be thine, yet two hearses must be seen on the sea." "And take another pledge: hemp only can kill thee."
Ahab throws back his head and laughs at the dark prophecy. "The gallows? Ha! Then I am immortal, on land and on sea!" Below them, sharks coil round the carcass, tails knocking on the planks. He hears only what comforts him, and come morning, lifts his quadrant high.
Ahab throws back his head and laughs at the dark prophecy. "The gallows? Ha! Then I am immortal, on land and on sea!" Below them, sharks coil round the carcass, tails knocking on the planks. He hears only what comforts him, and come morning, lifts his quadrant high.

Chapter 55

High noon near the Line. The equatorial sun blazes, turning the glassy sea into one great burning glass. Captain Ahab lifts his brass quadrant and takes the height of the sun. It tells him where he stands. It will not tell him where the white whale swims.
High noon near the Line. The equatorial sun blazes, turning the glassy sea into one great burning glass. Captain Ahab lifts his brass quadrant and takes the height of the sun. It tells him where he stands. It will not tell him where the white whale swims.
"Foolish toy!" Ahab cries, and dashes the quadrant to the deck. He grinds the brass to pieces beneath his living and his ivory foot. Behind him Fedallah kneels, lifting his face to the same sun, silent and knowing.
"Foolish toy!" Ahab cries, and dashes the quadrant to the deck. He grinds the brass to pieces beneath his living and his ivory foot. Behind him Fedallah kneels, lifting his face to the same sun, silent and knowing.
From the knight-heads, Starbuck watches, grave and full of foreboding. Of all this fiery life, he wonders, what will remain but a little heap of ashes? The Pequod squares away for the Line. By evening, a typhoon will burst from the cloudless sky.
From the knight-heads, Starbuck watches, grave and full of foreboding. Of all this fiery life, he wonders, what will remain but a little heap of ashes? The Pequod squares away for the Line. By evening, a typhoon will burst from the cloudless sky.

Chapter 56

Out of a clear Japanese sky bursts the direst of all storms. The bare-poled Pequod fights for her life on a roaring black sea. Then, silently, pale flames crown all three mast-tips, like candles before an altar.
Out of a clear Japanese sky bursts the direst of all storms. The bare-poled Pequod fights for her life on a roaring black sea. Then, silently, pale flames crown all three mast-tips, like candles before an altar.
"The corpusants!" Starbuck cries. "St. Elmo's fire on every mast!" "Shall we not drop the lightning-rods over, old man, for safety?" "Let them be," says Ahab. "Fair play here, though we be the weaker side."
"The corpusants!" Starbuck cries. "St. Elmo's fire on every mast!" "Shall we not drop the lightning-rods over, old man, for safety?" "Let them be," says Ahab. "Fair play here, though we be the weaker side."
Ahab seizes the humming lightning-links in his bare hand, his foot on the kneeling Fedallah. "Oh clear spirit of fire, I know thee now, and thy right worship is defiance!" "I burn with thee; defyingly I worship thee!" The flames wane, and the ship is wrapped in dark once more.
Ahab seizes the humming lightning-links in his bare hand, his foot on the kneeling Fedallah. "Oh clear spirit of fire, I know thee now, and thy right worship is defiance!" "I burn with thee; defyingly I worship thee!" The flames wane, and the ship is wrapped in dark once more.

Chapter 57

After Ahab's mad defiance in the storm, Starbuck resolves that the captain must be stopped before he dooms them all. Deep in the night, Starbuck lifts a loaded musket outside the captain's door. It is the very gun Ahab once pointed at his own chest. His hands shake. He has handled a hundred lances, yet now he trembles.
After Ahab's mad defiance in the storm, Starbuck resolves that the captain must be stopped before he dooms them all. Deep in the night, Starbuck lifts a loaded musket outside the captain's door. It is the very gun Ahab once pointed at his own chest. His hands shake. He has handled a hundred lances, yet now he trembles.
Shall this crazed old man drag thirty men down to doom with him? If he were put aside now, the crew might live. But is there no lawful way? One might as well cage a tiger at sea.
Shall this crazed old man drag thirty men down to doom with him? If he were put aside now, the crew might live. But is there no lawful way? One might as well cage a tiger at sea.
From his dream Ahab cries out: 'Oh Moby Dick, I clutch thy heart at last!' The musket shakes against the panel like a drunkard's arm. No. God help him, he cannot. Starbuck racks the gun and climbs to the deck.
From his dream Ahab cries out: 'Oh Moby Dick, I clutch thy heart at last!' The musket shakes against the panel like a drunkard's arm. No. God help him, he cannot. Starbuck racks the gun and climbs to the deck.

Chapter 58

Morning breaks over the Pequod. The sea rolls in long billows of molten gold. But the storm's lightning has turned the compasses. The needles point backward: the ship has been sailing the wrong way. The crew turn pale. So dire an omen.
Morning breaks over the Pequod. The sea rolls in long billows of molten gold. But the storm's lightning has turned the compasses. The needles point backward: the ship has been sailing the wrong way. The crew turn pale. So dire an omen.
Ahab lifts a sail-needle high over the compass, exalted and wild. Starbuck warns him: the sun rises astern, they steer the wrong way. "Lightning has turned them," says Ahab. "But Ahab makes his own." He magnetizes the needle and balances a true compass of his own.
Ahab lifts a sail-needle high over the compass, exalted and wild. Starbuck warns him: the sun rises astern, they steer the wrong way. "Lightning has turned them," says Ahab. "But Ahab makes his own." He magnetizes the needle and balances a true compass of his own.
The Pequod runs true once more, booming before the fair wind toward the Line. Ahab's small magic quiets the crew's dread. The terror passes. But soon a man will be lost overboard... and the crew must seek a life-buoy where none remains.
The Pequod runs true once more, booming before the fair wind toward the Line. Ahab's small magic quiets the crew's dread. The terror passes. But soon a man will be lost overboard... and the crew must seek a life-buoy where none remains.

Chapter 59

At sunrise a man falls from the masthead into the grey sea. He was the first set to watch for the White Whale, the first the deep swallows. The old sun-rotted buoy is thrown, but it sinks after him.
At sunrise a man falls from the masthead into the grey sea. He was the first set to watch for the White Whale, the first the deep swallows. The old sun-rotted buoy is thrown, but it sinks after him.
Grim-faced, Starbuck gives a melancholy order at the stern. There is no cask to replace the lost buoy. "Rig it, carpenter," he says. "Make a life-buoy of the coffin." Queequeg has quietly offered his own coffin for the task.
Grim-faced, Starbuck gives a melancholy order at the stern. There is no cask to replace the lost buoy. "Rig it, carpenter," he says. "Make a life-buoy of the coffin." Queequeg has quietly offered his own coffin for the task.
The carpenter nails the lid, caulks the seams, and pays them over with pitch. Queequeg watches calmly: a box built for death now made to keep men alive. Sealed tight, the coffin hangs at the stern, waiting to save the next life lost.
The carpenter nails the lid, caulks the seams, and pays them over with pitch. Queequeg watches calmly: a box built for death now made to keep men alive. Sealed tight, the coffin hangs at the stern, waiting to save the next life lost.

Chapter 60

A stranger ship bears down on us across the wide grey sea. She is the Rachel, her masts thick with men, searching the water. She tacks at every dark spot on the waves, as if weeping for something lost.
A stranger ship bears down on us across the wide grey sea. She is the Rachel, her masts thick with men, searching the water. She tacks at every dark spot on the waves, as if weeping for something lost.
Her captain, Gardiner, springs aboard with a father's heart in his hands. "I have seen the White Whale. But my own boy is lost adrift!" "For God's sake, join the search just two days. You too have a son, Ahab." Stubb watches, his easy grin dying into pity.
Her captain, Gardiner, springs aboard with a father's heart in his hands. "I have seen the White Whale. But my own boy is lost adrift!" "For God's sake, join the search just two days. You too have a son, Ahab." Stubb watches, his easy grin dying into pity.
But Ahab stands unmoved, his face like stone that gives nothing back. "I will not do it. Even now I lose time. Good-bye, good-bye." He turns away and the Pequod sails on. Behind us the Rachel drifts off, weeping for her children, because they were not.
But Ahab stands unmoved, his face like stone that gives nothing back. "I will not do it. Even now I lose time. Good-bye, good-bye." He turns away and the Pequod sails on. Behind us the Rachel drifts off, weeping for her children, because they were not.

Chapter 61

Since the sea unhinged him, mad little Pip has haunted the captain's own cabin, and grim Ahab strangely suffers the boy near. By lamplight, old Ahab turns to climb on deck. Little Pip catches his hand and will not let go. "Lad, thou must not follow Ahab now."
Since the sea unhinged him, mad little Pip has haunted the captain's own cabin, and grim Ahab strangely suffers the boy near. By lamplight, old Ahab turns to climb on deck. Little Pip catches his hand and will not let go. "Lad, thou must not follow Ahab now."
"Use poor me for your one lost leg," Pip begs. "Only tread upon me, so I stay a part of ye." Their hands hold true as the circle to its centre. Ahab feels his fixed purpose nearly keel over.
"Use poor me for your one lost leg," Pip begs. "Only tread upon me, so I stay a part of ye." Their hands hold true as the circle to its centre. Ahab feels his fixed purpose nearly keel over.
"I tell thee no," says Ahab. "God for ever bless thee." He sets Pip in his own bolted captain's chair. Then he climbs alone toward the deck above. Outside, a strange, beautiful calm breaks over the sea.
"I tell thee no," says Ahab. "God for ever bless thee." He sets Pip in his own bolted captain's chair. Then he climbs alone toward the deck above. Outside, a strange, beautiful calm breaks over the sea.

Chapter 62

The sea lies still and golden. Old Ahab's iron face softens at last. A single tear slips down his cheek and falls into the calm water. "Stand close, Starbuck. Let me look into a human eye." "I see my wife and child in thine."
The sea lies still and golden. Old Ahab's iron face softens at last. A single tear slips down his cheek and falls into the calm water. "Stand close, Starbuck. Let me look into a human eye." "I see my wife and child in thine."
"Why chase that hated whale?" Starbuck begs. "Let us steer home to Nantucket!" For a breath the old man almost yields to the gentle day. "What nameless thing commands me, that I keep crowding on?" Far off, the silent Parsee Fedallah watches, sure of his hour.
"Why chase that hated whale?" Starbuck begs. "Let us steer home to Nantucket!" For a breath the old man almost yields to the gentle day. "What nameless thing commands me, that I keep crowding on?" Far off, the silent Parsee Fedallah watches, sure of his hour.
The tender hour slips away. Ahab will not turn home. That very night he catches the whale's scent upon the wind. At dawn, the long hunt comes at last into sight.
The tender hour slips away. Ahab will not turn home. That very night he catches the whale's scent upon the wind. At dawn, the long hunt comes at last into sight.

Chapter 63

At dawn, high on the mast, Tashtego spots a silent spout far across the sea. A hump like a snow-hill breaks the waves. It is Moby Dick at last. Ahab throws up his arm. 'The doubloon is mine! Fate saved it for me!' 'Lower away! Down boats! Pull for the white fiend himself!'The white whale rises straight beneath them, its long jaw yawning like an open tomb. Ahab seizes the bone jaw with his bare hands, exultant; Fedallah watches, calm as fate. The jaws close like monstrous shears and bite the boat clean in two. The halves droop in the foam, and the old man is spilled into the sea.
At dawn, high on the mast, Tashtego spots a silent spout far across the sea. A hump like a snow-hill breaks the waves. It is Moby Dick at last. Ahab throws up his arm. 'The doubloon is mine! Fate saved it for me!' 'Lower away! Down boats! Pull for the white fiend himself!' The white whale rises straight beneath them, its long jaw yawning like an open tomb. Ahab seizes the bone jaw with his bare hands, exultant; Fedallah watches, calm as fate. The jaws close like monstrous shears and bite the boat clean in two. The halves droop in the foam, and the old man is spilled into the sea.
Ahab is hauled out of the sea alive, crushed and dripping, but unbroken. The Pequod bears down and drives the white whale off into the deep. 'The eternal sap runs up in Ahab's bones again!' he cries. One day gone, the whale undefeated, and the chase runs on.
Ahab is hauled out of the sea alive, crushed and dripping, but unbroken. The Pequod bears down and drives the white whale off into the deep. 'The eternal sap runs up in Ahab's bones again!' he cries. One day gone, the whale undefeated, and the chase runs on.

Chapter 64

On the second day the boats lower again, and again the white whale turns on them. The lines snarl, and the silent Parsee Fedallah is snatched overboard and gone. Two days gone, and still the whale runs free toward the third.
On the second day the boats lower again, and again the white whale turns on them. The lines snarl, and the silent Parsee Fedallah is snatched overboard and gone. Two days gone, and still the whale runs free toward the third.
On the third day the white whale rises in his last fury, the drowned Parsee lashed to his back. "Not too late, even now, to desist!" Starbuck cries. "Moby Dick seeks thee not: it is thou that seekest him!" But Ahab's heart is wrought steel. "Towards the whale I roll!"
On the third day the white whale rises in his last fury, the drowned Parsee lashed to his back. "Not too late, even now, to desist!" Starbuck cries. "Moby Dick seeks thee not: it is thou that seekest him!" But Ahab's heart is wrought steel. "Towards the whale I roll!"
"From hell's heart I stab at thee!" Ahab hurls his last harpoon and his last curse. The line runs foul. The flying loop whips round his neck. Voiceless, he is snatched into the deep. Hemp alone could kill him, as the Parsee swore.
"From hell's heart I stab at thee!" Ahab hurls his last harpoon and his last curse. The line runs foul. The flying loop whips round his neck. Voiceless, he is snatched into the deep. Hemp alone could kill him, as the Parsee swore.
Moby Dick smites the Pequod's bow: the second hearse, of American wood, as foretold. Still Tashtego drives his nails, fastening the red flag to the sinking mast. Ship, boat, and crew spin down into one great vortex. The sea closes over all, save one.
Moby Dick smites the Pequod's bow: the second hearse, of American wood, as foretold. Still Tashtego drives his nails, fastening the red flag to the sinking mast. Ship, boat, and crew spin down into one great vortex. The sea closes over all, save one.

Chapter 65

I alone am escaped to tell you. When the last harpoon flew, the sea flung me astern, sucking me toward the closing whirlpool. Then Queequeg's coffin shot up beside me. Even lost, my friend saves me still.
I alone am escaped to tell you. When the last harpoon flew, the sea flung me astern, sucking me toward the closing whirlpool. Then Queequeg's coffin shot up beside me. Even lost, my friend saves me still.
A day and a night I floated on the gentle coffin. Sharks slid past as if their mouths were padlocked; hawks wheeled with sheathed beaks. The great shroud of the sea rolled on, as it rolled five thousand years ago, indifferent to all.
A day and a night I floated on the gentle coffin. Sharks slid past as if their mouths were padlocked; hawks wheeled with sheathed beaks. The great shroud of the sea rolled on, as it rolled five thousand years ago, indifferent to all.
On the second day, a sail rose on the horizon. It was the Rachel, still cruising in search of her own lost children. In that long, sorrowful search, she found at last another orphan: me. The drama is done. Thank you for sailing through Moby-Dick.
On the second day, a sail rose on the horizon. It was the Rachel, still cruising in search of her own lost children. In that long, sorrowful search, she found at last another orphan: me. The drama is done. Thank you for sailing through Moby-Dick.

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