Call me Ishmael. Years ago, finding myself poor and aimless on land, I decided to sail and view the watery world. This is my method for curing melancholy and regulating my blood. Whenever my mouth grows grim, or my soul feels like a damp, drizzly November, I know it is time to leave. The urge becomes undeniable when I pause before coffin before warehouses, trail behind funerals, or feel a manic impulse to knock hats off in the street. Going to sea is my alternative to suicide. While Cato died on his sword with a flourish, I quietly board a ship. This impulse is not unique; almost all men feel a magnetic pull toward the ocean.
Ishmael introduces Starbuck, the chief mate of the Pequod, as a lean, earnest Quaker seemingly built of “twice-baked biscuit,” possessing an internal vitality that functions like a chronometer in any climate. Unlike reckless dare-devils, Starbuck’s courage stems from a conscientious estimation of peril; he believes a fearless man is a dangerous comrade and refuses to lower boats after sundown or fight suicidal battles, prioritizing survival over glory. His caution is fueled by the traumatic loss of his father and brother to the sea, memories that restrain his daring. Ishmael predicts that a man organized like Starbuck, possessing both deep reverence and traumatic memory, has a latent vulnerability that could cause his courage to burn up under spiritual terrors. While Starbuck can withstand natural horrors, he may crumble before the “concentrating brow” of an enraged and mighty man. The narrator digresses to defend the inherent nobility of man, arguing that true dignity is democratic and god-like, found even in the lowliest workers, and demands reverence for the fall of valor. He appeals to this democratic spirit to justify the tragic graces he will ascribe to common sailors.
Stubb, the second mate, hails from Cape Cod—a happy-go-lucky soul who treats the deadliest whale chase as casually as a dinner party. He presides over his boat with the ease of an old stage-driver, humming old tunes even when locked in combat with the most exasperated monster. His impious good humor and fearlessness, Ishmael suggests, stem from his perpetual pipe-smoking; tobacco serves as his spiritual disinfectant against the nameless miseries that infect the world’s air.
Flask, the third mate, cuts a different figure. Short, stout, and ruddy, nicknamed “King-Post” for his resemblance to Arctic ship timber, he bears a pugnacious grudge against whales. To him, the majestic leviathan is merely a magnified water-rat to be destroyed. He hunts for sport, utterly lacking reverence for the mystic nature of his quarry.
These three mates—Starbuck, Stubb, and Flask—command the Pequod’s boats like captains of companies, each paired with a harpooneer in the manner of a Gothic knight and his squire. Tashtego, an unmixed Indian from Gay Head, serves Stubb. He carries the unvitiated blood of warrior hunters who once stalked New England forests with bows; now his harpoon replaces their arrows. Daggoo, a gigantic African with a lion-like tread and golden hoops in his ears, serves as Flask’s squire. The contrast is striking: this imperial negro towers over his “little” knight like a fortress before a white flag.
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