Ishmael closes with ancient testimony. Procopius, the sixth-century historian of Justinian’s reign, recorded a sea monster that haunted the Propontis for more than fifty years, destroying Roman vessels at intervals. Ishmael reasons that this creature must have been a sperm whale. The waters of the Propontis lack the food that sustains right whales, but they harbor the squid on which sperm whales feed. A sperm whale could enter those seas through the same passage that carries warships through the Dardanelles. The White Whale’s malice, then, is no invention or allegory but a pattern stretching back through centuries—proof that the deepest terrors of the ocean are older than any sailor’s memory.
Ahab understands that his obsession with Moby Dick threatens to fracture his command. Though Starbuck’s will bends to him, the mate’s soul recoils from the hunt, and a long interval without the White Whale might breed open rebellion. The crew cannot sustain their initial fervor indefinitely; they need nearer concerns to occupy their watches, lest prolonged meditation on the quest unnerve them.
Beyond psychology, practical necessity demands attention. Sailors may embrace knight-errantry for a season, but their common appetites require feeding. Without prospect of oil and wages, the same men who cheered Ahab’s purpose would turn against him. And having declared his private vendetta before the ship’s proper business, Ahab has laid himself open to charges of usurpation—his crew could lawfully strip him of command.
These calculations drive him to a necessary performance. He must play the whaling captain still, hailing the mast-heads, demanding sharp lookouts for any spout, even a porpoise. The hunt for Moby Dick proceeds, but masked by the ordinary commerce of the sea. His vigilance, however calculated, soon brings reward.
On a cloudy, sultry afternoon, the rhythmic weaving of a sword-mat by Ishmael and Queequeg induces a metaphysical trance. As the marline passes between the warp, Ishmael perceives the loom as Time, the fixed threads as Necessity, and his own hand as the shuttle of Free Will. He observes that Queequeg’s heavy sword strikes the woof with varying intensity, symbolizing Chance, which interacts with necessity and will to shape the final fabric of destiny. This philosophical reverie is violently shattered by Tashtego’s unearthly cry from the cross-trees, announcing a school of sperm whales on the lee-beam. The ship erupts into commotion; Ahab demands the exact time, and the crew prepares to lower the boats, anticipating the whales will surface directly ahead. However, just as the eager crews stand poised over the gunwales, ready to launch, a sudden exclamation draws every eye from the sea. Ahab is now surrounded by five dusky phantoms that seem to have materialized out of the air.
The lowering begins in thunder and revelation. As the crew springs to the boats, figures materialize from the shadows—strangers who had lain hidden in the hold since before the Pequod sailed. At their head stands Fedallah, a tall Parsee whose dark face bears a single protruding white tooth, his head wrapped in a white turban that crowns his funereal black garments. Behind him wait five men of tiger-yellow complexion, sailors from the Manillas whose reputation for cunning has earned them dark whispers among white mariners. These are Ahab’s secret crew, stowed away and now revealed at the critical instant. The ship’s company stares in superstitious amazement, but Ahab’s command cuts through their wonder. The boats drop into the sea, and the sailors leap down the rolling sides with the dexterity of their calling.
Stubb meets the strangeness with humor, drawling to his unsettled crew that devils make fine enough companions and the more hands the merrier. His peculiar genius lies in speaking terrible things with such a mixture of fun and fury that his men pull for their lives while laughing at the joke. Starbuck offers no such comfort. When Stubb hails him across the water, the mate keeps his face forward and whispers back that the business is sad but cannot be helped. He has deduced the truth: Ahab smuggled these men aboard, and the White Whale lies at the bottom of it all. Duty and profit must proceed regardless.
Ahab’s boat pulls ahead of the others with terrible speed. His tiger-yellow crew rises and falls like trip-hammers, their strength driving the craft through the water as though shot from a boiler. The old captain stands erect in the stern, steering with the practiced ease of a thousand lowerings, when suddenly his arm fixes in a peculiar gesture. The oars peak; the boat sits motionless. The whales have sounded, vanishing bodily into the blue without leaving so much as a ripple to mark their descent.
The chase becomes a vigil. Starbuck orders Queequeg to stand in the bow, the harpooneer’s eager eyes scanning the empty expanse. Flask, frustrated by his short stature, climbs atop Daggoo’s massive shoulders to gain height, the little mate stamping and raving while the noble black man rolls with every sea, bearing his rider with unconscious majesty. Stubb fills the interval by loading his pipe, betraying no anxiety.
Then Tashtego drops from his stance with a cry. The whales have surfaced. All four boats tear through the water in pursuit, the white water of their wakes mingling with the spouts of their prey. The scene becomes a chaos of motion—vast swells lifting the light craft, the boats tipping on wave-edges before plunging into troughs, the Pequod bearing down behind them with full sails. Flask roars himself hoarse, promising his crew his plantation if they will only beach him on a whale’s back. Stubb follows at a measured distance, drawling philosophy to his men. Starbuck whispers commands with fierce concentration, his eyes fixed ahead like compass needles.
The whales separate. Starbuck’s boat pursues three running to leeward, sail set, rushing through gathering mist. The mate sees white water close ahead and whispers the order to rise. Queequeg stands, harpoon drawn. The iron flies—but glances harmlessly off the whale’s hump. In the same instant, disaster strikes from behind and below. An invisible force shoves the boat forward while something solid arrests it; the sail explodes; scalding vapor erupts; the squall descends with the fury of a prairie fire. Whale and storm merge into a single overwhelming assault. The craft swamps, tossing its crew into churning whiteness.
They recover the oars and lash them across the gunwales, sitting submerged to their knees in a boat that seems to have grown up from the ocean floor. The wind howls; waves crash together; the storm roars and crackles around them. Hailing the other boats proves useless. Bail they cannot. Starbuck manages to light a lantern and hands it to Queequeg, who holds the small flame aloft in the vast darkness—a fragile standard for men beyond hope, clutching at hope itself.
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