Work Text:
It is not I, as an author of some conscientious awareness, to be ignorant as to the considerable size of the volume of which makes up my novel Moby-Dick. Thus one may reconcile themselves to this girth with the comfort – nay, belief, that the entirety of that novel is the entirety of my adventure upon the ill-fated ship Pequod. This text which by whatever foul means you have recovered it will irreconcile you to that held fact – pry that comfort from your chest with Life’s crowbar and a Satanic relish of the duty.
Contained before you is addendums to the published artefact; which have been written not to live on as consumable to thine eyes but for the purge of my soul, the lone survivor of that ship (and presumptively I may even say Moby Dick Himself) to exorcise the horrors which I witnessed upon that fateful voyage after I enacted my wish to try my hand at whaling.
Should the reader of this be thus so engaged as to have by means unbeknownst to me have sought out this manuscript, please do attempt to contact me in one fashion or another, to tell me how it came into your hands. Call me Ishmael.
***
Upon us as happens upon all whales came a calm period – the Pacific Ocean mellowed into a turquoise looking glass. Complacency overtakes all; even Ahab, ghastly old man, could from time to time be caught gazing over the rails and looking all the way to the bottom of the Ocean with those pure waters and never spying his white whale.
And with all Calm, the storm followed. First was the literal storm – a trifle, to venerable sea folk as ourselves, though still a thing which required graft and strain. Then mild worry arose when one sunrise the morning watch rose to find one of the sails sporting a rip from one side all the way to the other. Despite all Ahab’s fiery demands, no one could explain just quite what or how it happened.
Such worry is common on the sea – sail is a true chancer’s career, which is half the appeal, and no wives or sweethearts the other half of the appeal – and the discomfort and darting eyes were in many ways a boon to the crew for it allowed Ahab a certain demonstration of magnetism to pull us all into a good humour again, rather than beginning to question their small pinprick out on the huge waters. Following this we chased another whale, which was almost as big as Moby Dick and we lost him in another storm, but found a type of ague; it befell us one by one as we exited the blustery waters. Young Pip beset first and the rest as quick to follow as they were fearful. The ailment was random selection of beast: Flask first, which may have been divine interaction for his goading of Pip’s ailment, then Perth and then by proximity the blacksmith, until there was no reason after that to keep track.
Ahab was thought immune until the sunrise appeared without his Satanic tread upon the deck. Those below who listened out for that rhythm more regular than the crow’s caw thought in its absence they had gone death. By that point many a ship would have crossed a thought of mutiny – our scant crew of thirty was mostly in their hammocks, too plagued to think of anything except sleep.
The sole survivor of this Earthly Plague was Starbuck, who stood firm in his whip-like body amongst all ill-winds of the Earthly persuasion and whose staid blood remained chiefly humorous throughout. With his steady face he progressed the way of all life: one day after another, taking on all tasks that needed to be done with no complaint whatsoever. Always the kindest of the three Mates, without any tempering authority in his proximity he grew only kinder – chivvying each well man into doing his part while maintaining a schedule of sufficient rest, picking up all slack the same way he tightened the rope lines and when inevitably the next man and the next man was beset and began to look rouged over the cheeks it was Starbuck’s persuasion and Starbuck’s touch to the elbow that led them gently to their hammock. The whole ordeal lasted for nigh on two weeks – just when the first victims seemed to rally and recover were they pale and wan again, good for nothing except recumbency, and the men who had followed in their footsteps grey dour to see the fate that awaited them.
Queequeg and I were amongst the first wave, which despite the symptoms we passed actually a merry time; swinging in our hammocks next to one another and keeping one another company if either of us were well enough to talk. Most other men accepted the ague with resignation – it was inevitable, so the happening of it did not inspire any such unmasculine weakness, as illness is so oft want to do on other sailing vessels like the navy. Even Ahab, the indomitable life force of the Seven Seas was allegedly pliant in his cabin and submitted care of the Pequod over to Starbuck with only the mildest of grumbling which became a captain’s prerogative. Do not mistake me when I say all fell foul of this illness – when I write all I do mean all. No man aboard escaped. None except for Starbuck who remained standing as all others around him succumbed.
The worst of it occurred when Queequeg and I were both deep in the hottest climes of fever, thus I cannot guarantee accuracy when I say that at times Starbuck ran the ship entirely alone – even though, theoretically, a skeleton crew can be entrusted with the Pequod’s care every time the boats chase a whale, still the prospect of all such requirements being the load of one man’s shoulders does still seem a little impossible.
Moot is the point: Whether solitary or aided by whichever spectre was flagging the least, all hard labour and tasks were done in their majority and oft entirely by Starbuck. When I stirred out of a dream or sleep or fugue state, it was not an uncommon sight for him to be flitting amongst the hammocks engaged upon this or that and always sparing a moment for whatever poor soul cried out within his earshot.
Captain Ahab recovered first – I think his virile personality and force of his monomania had a hand in it. Pip and Queequeg and Daggoo soon followed and then Stubb and Flask, and I was able to at least sit up without vertigo and contribute here and there too. Ten days after the day five men took to their hammocks in the course of an afternoon a subdued company manned its stage again, missing only a handful of players and with no flashing eye from Ahab commanding a watch up in the mast to keep out an impossible vigil for his Leviathan. Dinner was served to all, cross-legged on the wooden planks of the ship – rank all alike, dotted between those still confined to hammocks and all chowing down upon the heartiest stew ever to be served to a sea-faring crew. Mindful of morale and the inner workings of men’s minds that keep a voyage free of mutiny even Ahab joined the meal, sat upon a crate in deference to his whalebone limb and bandying talk with any man nearby who was well enough.
To have seen us that night! Any independent observer who happened to would have not failed to see the biblical joy upon us, that our course was back on track and the what that had haunted so many feverish dreams was surely within our grasp.
Absent from all this was Starbuck, the lone man who insisted upon his requirement to be on Deck. His absence was not noted, not with all the merriment abound below. After such an ordeal he can not have been anything except truly, utterly exhausted, and I am sure there were times that he must have fallen asleep at his post and on waking confused the moonlight on the water with the white terror of Moby Dick.
***
After having been the sole bastion of productivity amongst an entire crew for such an extended period of time, one may have expected for any man amongst said crew to recognise the need for a respite. Yet Starbuck was a man who so solidly worked without visible complaint or effort that this recognition, if it ever was present, did not manifest into anything bar a passing thought, slipping away much the same as a whisp of cloud or water cascading from a creature’s back. He remained steady – the mast of the crew. One task after the next and one day after another, as always was the Chief Mate’s way. Four days after our hearty banquet, every man aboard was back to his usual gumption and the constitution of the voyage was restored and the ship back to its working order and Captain Ahab back to his fanatical plod upon the deck. His eyes had slid away from the workings of the deck and back out to the sea and his prey. Perhaps this is the reason for what happened next. Or perhaps by this time the tiredness in Starbuck’s eyes had been there for so long no one could remember a time it had not been there before.
The first indication of anything amiss was the squint of the Chief Mate’s eyes whence he was relieved from his midnight watch. No one took any notice; a man having born two hours in the sea salt wind has every reason to squint, and even to shiver a little as he pulls on his jacket.
I feel I must clarify for any voyage-unfamiliar readers: though the Pacific Ocean was for the most part a pleasant and verdant sail, by night the clime was still cold, and when one is located several tens of feet above deck travelling unprotected through the wind at the same rate of knots as the ship, one finds it is a great deal colder than it is during the day.
Which is how I, thus, account for the fact that no one batted an eyelid at the sight of Starbuck the next day: emerging up onto deck still in his heavy jacket, looking as staid as the lightening grey sky over our heads.
“And a good morrow to you, Mister Starbuck,” greeted Flask and his pipe.
“And to thee, Mister Flask,” he replied hoarsely.
This, too, went unnoticed upon, for in his wake and on his heels was Ahab, his grand coat catching the wind beneath it to billow dramatically behind him the moment he emerged from the top stair. Both his Mates greeted him the cordial greeting afforded to all gods and hurried away to gain themselves employment in tasks that prevented further conversation. All morning that terrible old man’s gaze hung in the air – rare to be swivelled northwards and observing his crew, and yet how we felt its weight! That and the golden doubloon nailed to the mast weighed enough to sink the whole ship and brush its topsails on Moby Dick’s underbelly. Terrible Ahab stood still, and around him wasped the busy crew of thirty. And once again who more productive than Starbuck? Who in spite of having relinquished the auxiliary duties he had undertaken during the illness seemed still as unceasing as ever – more so for his thin body lacked any stillness whatsoever.
The grey leeching away from the sky in favour of the sea-blue seemed to dip down into Starbuck’s eyes, yet that was the only single outward difference. Not a man among the crew had any inklings of anything at all amiss – not even wise Fedallah or all-seeing Pip – until just a little before noon did there come a curious noise which no one could place. We all looked around at the man beside us with great curiosity as if to say what’s all this then? until one man turned and raised the cry and so we all turned and saw Starbuck himself, half collapsed on the deck.
By virtue of being those closest to him – indeed, he had collapsed mere feet from Ahab’s turned back – Ahab and Stubb hurried to his side whilst the rest stayed frozen and watching, separated by some invisible sort of looking-glass.
“Starbuck?” asked Stubb first, for his gait was no impeded by any artificial limb. Kneeling beside the prone form, he realised the man was not unconscious but completely cognizant, his smooth face drawn into tense lines of pain and his eyes shut. “By hell’s teeth, Mister Starbuck, art thou alright?”
By this time Ahab had drawn level and knelt also in a mirror image on his other side, blocking out both the gusts of wind and gazes of the crew except for those up in the rigging, to whom the heads gathered like far away birds.
Stubb’s questions had garnered no answer and so Ahab demanded response instead, shaking one shoulder firmly, his large hand struggling to gain a purchase over the bulk of his jacket. His Captain’s presence had its intended effort, for Starbuck opened his eyes and regarded them both in a half-dazed fashion, as if through murky water. “Captain?” he murmured in that same whisper he commanded his whale boat, consciousness ebbing and returning with every second. His cheeks grew pinker and combined most queerly with the rest of his grey skin. “Captain,” he repeated, focusing on Ahab like the North Star. “Apologies…” he made an attempt at rising and standing, but before either of his attendees could speak he was already collapsed again, only succeeding at all thanks to the railings at his back.
Quicker to respond in body than in words, Ahab’s arm caught him before he could meet a second painful encounter with the deck, his strong grip and its easily-pliant load making easy the task of lowering him down to his former position. In doing so his hand happened quite by accident to brush Starbuck’s and whether feeling some residual heat or by other mental machinations realising the extent of layered clothing, he started in concern and at once moved his hand to feel his forehead in a gesture that before then it was thought impossible for Ahab to be so tender.
“Thou art burning up, Starbuck,” he informed him quietly. (Besides him Stubb checked for himself and offered no contradiction.) “What ails ye?”
“Captain.” It was clear that the Chief Mate was little connected with reality – his eyes clouded over, like a night with no moon. “Captain,” he repeated again faintly. His next words were a struggle to be heard, as if his shame made him quiet them. “The pain…. Apologies, sir, the pain…” Both his arms throughout all this were wrapped tightly around his waist, and his legs tangled beneath him as if he had tried to curl in on himself.
“I know all about pain!” the Captain roared unkindly. “Every man hast experience himself, or has thee in thine idiocy forgotten? Stubb!” he bellowed, turning to the other. “Get him to his bunk, before he works himself to death.” The next second he was gone, storming away out of sight until only the thunk of the Grand Cabin’s door could be heard.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Stubb muttered to thin air.
To help a man to his feet can be accomplished by one single other Samaritan, however to transport him any length of journey requires two and it fell to me, being nearest in stature to Starbuck and not otherwise engaged in any task of vital import, to take up on his side opposite Stubb, sling his arm across my shoulders and – keeping tight grip on the wrist – manoeuvre him below deck to his cabin. Vainly though he tried to help Starbuck stayed mostly limp throughout, almost moribund, feet dragging in such a way as to be thankful for the heavy leather toecaps and his head hanging limply several inches lower latitude than mine or Stubb’s.
After circumnavigating all obstacles, we arrived at Starbuck’s cabin, our shoulders screaming in protest the heavy and unusual load. “Damn fool,” muttered Stubb to him, now only half-conscious, though his voice was not unkind, and he bade me to go fetch the ship’s doctor whilst he remained behind and divested him of his shoes and jacket himself.
Not a single crewmember was unsympathetic to Starbuck’s plight, remembering well our own bouts with the same illness, and the doctor roused quicker than ever had done before and swiftly examined him and administered a generous dose of Duffy’s elixir.
“The pain will ease soon,” he assured him, Starbuck’s previous generosity and effort gaining him the benefit of the doctor’s rarely-used bedside manner. To his credit, Starbuck had submitted to all ministrations with a stiff upper lip and his only visible sign of discomfort that he still kept both his hands folded protectively over his belly, never complaining at all. The sharp needle of Ahab’s anger had pierced him and this was his penance.
“The pain will ease,” he reiterated as he pulled the linen sheet back over the bed and its inhabitant. “But you must rest, Mister Starbuck. You must rest.”
The doctor ere proceeded to hurry away all of us who had been summoned and otherwise gathered around and sent us on our way – himself included, for rest is a cure a man must suffer alone.
At sunset the doctor returned, dutifully administered more of the elixir and made sure more than one suitable receptacle was in reach for when the illness progressed to the stage of vomiting, then crept away again to his hammock. An edict had been issued that the Chief Mate was under no circumstances to be disturbed and thus no one saw the tall, ghost-like and haggard shadow that crept into his cabin in the dead of night and took up a seated position by his bunk.
I daresay if ever interrogated Captain Ahab would not have been able to verbalise the reason for his bedside vigil that night. Had he thought he ever would be required to explain himself, I am certain he would have stayed away.
Yet as it was he slid into the small room and watched coolly Starbuck as he curled feverishly in his bunk, remembering his own pain both old and recent as he tossed and turned deeper into the devilish, delirious dreams. His fingers twitched over that flat portion of his whale bone leg he had had planed smooth to double as a writing slate, as if mentally tallying up the worsening of the stomach ache, the lightning-like migraines, the ague and fever and aching joints and sooner or later the terrible cough that would pull and strain the over-taxed abdominal muscles.
Another man would have felt unholy, to sit beside the invalid’s bedside when so recently recovered and in perfect health, yet not old Ahab. Instead he merely leaned as close as could be achieved without waking him and watched him intently, until a soft cry of pain prompted him to speak.
“Thou art forbidden to die, Starbuck. Dost thou hear? There is work to be done. I forbid thee to perish.”