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1To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers
2perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure
3can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is
4a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing
5his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that
6occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though diligently
7seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft's bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to some particular
8presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the event. Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship
9sailed down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra's barges from
10Actium. Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb's was foremost. By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in
11planting one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal flight, with added
12fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became
13imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he
14swam so fast and furious. What then remained? Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and
15countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced, none exceed that fine manœuvre with the lance
16called pitchpoling. Small sword, or broad sword, in all its exercises boasts nothing like it. It is only indispensable
17with an inveterate running whale; its grand fact and feature is the wonderful distance to which the long lance is
18accurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat, under extreme headway. Steel and wood included, the entire
19spear is some ten or twelve feet in length; the staff is much slighter than that of the harpoon, and also of a lighter
20material--pine. It is furnished with a small rope called a warp, of considerable length, by which it can be hauled back
21to the hand after darting. But before going further, it is important to mention here, that though the harpoon may be
22pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet it is seldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful, on
23account of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoon as compared with the lance, which in effect become
24serious drawbacks. As a general thing, therefore, you must first get fast to a whale, before any pitchpoling comes into
25play. Look now at Stubb; a man who from his humorous, deliberate coolness and equanimity in the direst emergencies, was
26specially qualified to excel in pitchpoling. Look at him; he stands upright in the tossed bow of the flying boat; wrapt
27in fleecy foam, the towing whale is forty feet ahead. Handling the long lance lightly, glancing twice or thrice along
28its length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlingly gathers up the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to
29secure its free end in his grasp, leaving the rest unobstructed. Then holding the lance full before his waistband's
30middle, he levels it at the whale; when, covering him with it, he steadily depresses the butt-end in his hand, thereby
31elevating the point till the weapon stands fairly balanced upon his palm, fifteen feet in the air. He minds you somewhat
32of a juggler, balancing a long staff on his chin. Next moment with a rapid, nameless impulse, in a superb lofty arch the
33bright steel spans the foaming distance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale. Instead of sparkling water, he now
34spouts red blood. "That drove the spigot out of him!" cried Stubb. "'Tis July's immortal Fourth; all fountains must run
35wine today! Would now, it were old Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakable old Monongahela! Then, Tashtego, lad,
36I'd have ye hold a canakin to the jet, and we'd drink round it! Yea, verily, hearts alive, we'd brew choice punch in the
37spread of his spout-hole there, and from that live punch-bowl quaff the living stuff." Again and again to such gamesome
38talk, the dexterous dart is repeated, the spear returning to its master like a greyhound held in skilful leash. The
39agonized whale goes into his flurry; the tow-line is slackened, and the pitchpoler dropping astern, folds his hands, and
40mutely watches the monster die.
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