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.
At that moment, Radney emerged from below. The mate had survived his wound, though his jaw was bound and his speech a mumble. He snatched the fallen rope and advanced on Steelkilt, declaring he would do what the captain dared not. He called the Lakeman a coward and brought the lash down across his back, ignoring another warning hiss. The flogging done, the three men were cut down and the crew ordered to work. But the rebellion had only changed form. Steelkilt, nursing his humiliation, quietly urged the crew to outward obedience while plotting private vengeance. They agreed to serve until the ship reached port, then desert in a body. They also swore a pact: no one would cry out if whales were sighted.
Steelkilt’s revenge focused on Radney alone. The mate had a habit of dozing at the bulwarks, his arm resting on the gunwale of a hoisted boat. The Lakeman calculated the hour of his next helm-watch and spent his off-duty hours braiding twine around a heavy iron ball, a weapon he would use to crush his tormentor’s skull. He even asked Radney for the twine, a dark joke the mate never understood.
But fate intervened before Steelkilt could act. At dawn on the second day, a sailor at the chains shouted that a whale rolled in the water nearby. The lookout had forgotten the pact—perhaps instinctively, perhaps seized by the sight—and cried out the name that struck terror into whaling men: Moby Dick. The white whale lay within fifty yards, his flanks gleaming like polished opal in the early light. The captain, the mates, the harpooneers—all forgot caution and lowered the boats in pursuit. Radney, his jaw still bandaged, commanded the mate’s boat, with Steelkilt at the oars.
They pulled hard. The harpooneer struck fast, and Radney sprang to the bow, lance in hand, shouting to be hauled onto the whale’s back. The boat rose through blinding foam, struck the whale’s flank, and overturned. Radney tumbled into the sea on the far side. He struck out through the spray, desperate to escape. But Moby Dick wheeled in a sudden vortex, opened his jaws, and seized the swimming man. The whale reared high, then plunged, dragging Radney into the depths.
Steelkilt, thrown clear when the boat struck, had slackened the line to drift away from the whirlpool. He watched the white whale destroy his enemy, then drew his knife and severed the line. The boat was free, but Radney was gone. Moby Dick surfaced once more, shreds of red fabric caught in his teeth, then vanished beneath the waves.
The original text of this work is in the public domain. This page focuses on a guided summary article, reading notes, selected quotes, and visual learning materials for educational purposes.