Moby Dick; Or, The Whale

Ahab’s Secretive Slouched-Hat Vigil

Ahab now appears on deck at all times—standing in his pivot-hole, pacing between the main-mast and mizen, or standing in the cabin scuttle with his living foot advanced upon the deck. His hat is “slouched heavily over his eyes,” hiding whether his eyes are closed or “still intently scanning.” For entire hours he stands motionless while night-damp gathers in dew upon his “stone-carved coat and hat.” Day after day, night after night, he goes no more beneath the planks; whatever he wants from the cabin, he sends for.

Ahab and Fedallah’s Silent Yoked Watch

Though Ahab’s life has become “one watch on deck” and Fedallah’s “mystic watch” continues “without intermission,” these two never speak except at long intervals for passing unmomentous matters. Secretly a potent spell seems to join them, yet openly they stand “pole-like asunder.” By day they may chance one word; by night both are dumb regarding the slightest verbal interchange. For longest hours without a single hail, they stand far parted—Ahab in his scuttle, the Parsee by the mainmast—yet “fixedly gazing upon each other,” as if in the Parsee Ahab sees his “forethrown shadow,” in Ahab the Parsee sees his “abandoned substance.”

Ahab’s Distrust of Most of His Crew

After several days pass without spout following the Rachel’s sighting of Moby Dick, the monomaniacal old man grows distrustful of his crew’s fidelity—except nearly for the Pagan harpooneers. He seems to doubt whether Stubb and Flask might willingly overlook the whale. Though he refrains from voicing these suspicions, his actions hint at them. He tells Starbuck to take the rope and gives it into the chief mate’s hands, freely entrusting his life to “an otherwise distrusted person.”