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.
The ship erupted into chaos. Steelkilt’s allies—two boatmen from the Erie Canal, known as Canallers—descended from the rigging to defend him. A melee engulfed the deck, sailors grappling and shouting, while the captain pranced at the margins waving a whale-pike. Steelkilt and his supporters gained the forecastle and dragged casks across the entrance, building a rough fortification. From behind this barrier, the Lakeman shouted his terms: the men would work, but they would not submit to the lash. The captain brandished pistols and roared commands, but Steelkilt met him blow for blow, warning that any assault would trigger a bloodbath. The standoff held until the captain, feigning negotiation, persuaded the insurgents to descend into the forecastle for parley. The moment they vanished below, he slammed the scuttle and locked them in.
For three days the mutineers languished in darkness, their air fetid, their rations reduced to handfuls of biscuit. The captain lowered water and demanded they return to duty. One by one, their resolve crumbled. First four men surrendered, then three more. Only Steelkilt and the two Canallers remained. In that black hold, the Lakeman conceived a desperate scheme: they would burst out armed with mincing knives and seize the ship by slaughter. But treachery ran deeper than loyalty. The Canallers, each secretly plotting to be first in surrender and thus earn pardon, waited until Steelkilt slept. Then they bound him with cord, gagged his mouth, and screamed for the captain.
The captain and his officers hauled the trussed ringleader onto the deck. The two traitors, expecting clemency, were instead seized and hauled up into the mizzen rigging, left to dangle like slaughtered cattle. The captain turned his whip on them until they hung limp and silent. Then he approached Steelkilt, demanding a confession. The Lakeman, gag removed, hissed a warning: if the captain flogged him, he would kill him. The captain raised his arm to strike—but Steelkilt whispered something more, a threat so specific and terrible that the captain’s courage failed. He dropped the rope and ordered the man cut loose.
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