At length, towards noon, upon the final dismissal of the ship's riggers, and after the Pequod had been hauled out from the wharf, and after the ever-thoughtful Charity had come off in a whale-boat, with her last gift- a nightcap for Stubb, the second mate, her brother-in-law, and a spare Bible for the steward- after all this, the two Captains, Peleg and Bildad, issued from the cabin, and turning to the chief mate, Peleg said:
"Now, Mr. Starbuck, are you sure everything is right? Captain Ahab is all ready- just spoke to him- nothing more to be got from shore, eh? Well, call all hands, then. Muster 'em aft here- blast 'em!"
"No need of profane words, however great the hurry, Peleg," said Bildad, "but away with thee, friend Starbuck, and do our bidding."
How now! Here upon the very point of starting for the voyage, Captain Peleg and Captain Bildad were going it with a high hand on the quarter-deck, just as if they were to be joint-commanders at sea, as well as to all appearances in port. And, as for Captain Ahab, no sign of him was yet to be seen; only, they said he was in the cabin. But then, the idea was, that his presence was by no means necessary in getting the ship under weigh, and steering her well out to sea. Indeed, as that was not at all his proper business, but the pilot's; and as he was not yet completely recovered- so they said- therefore, Captain Ahab stayed below. And all this seemed natural enough; especially as in the merchant service many captains never show themselves on deck for a considerable time after heaving up the anchor, but remain over the cabin table, having a farewell merry-making with their shore friends, before they quit the ship for good with the pilot.
But there was not much chance to think over the matter, for Captain Peleg was now all alive. He seemed to do most of the talking and commanding, and not Bildad.
"Aft here, ye sons of bachelors," he cried, as the sailors lingered at the main-mast. "Mr. Starbuck, drive aft."
"Strike the tent there!"- was the next order. As I hinted before, this whalebone marquee was never pitched except in port; and on board the Pequod, for thirty years, the order to strike the tent was well known to be the next thing to heaving up the anchor.
"Man the capstan! Blood and thunder!- jump!"- was the next command, and the crew sprang for the handspikes.
Now in getting under weigh, the station generally occupied by the pilot is the forward part of the ship. And here Bildad, who, with Peleg, be it known, in addition to his other officers, was one of the licensed pilots of the port- he being suspected to have got himself made a pilot in order to save the Nantucket pilot-fee to all the ships he was concerned in, for he never piloted any other craft- Bildad, I say, might now be seen actively engaged in looking over the bows for the approaching anchor, and at intervals singing what seemed a dismal stave of psalmody, to cheer the hands at the windlass, who roared forth some sort of chorus about the girls in Booble Alley, with hearty good will. Nevertheless, not three days previous, Bildad had told them that no profane songs would be allowed on board the Pequod, particularly in getting under weigh; and Charity, his sister, had placed a small choice copy of Watts in each seaman's berth.
Meantime, overseeing the other part of the ship, Captain Peleg ripped and swore astern in the most frightful manner. I almost thought he would sink the ship before the anchor could be got up; involuntarily I paused on my handspike, and told Queequeg to do the same, thinking of the perils we both ran, in starting on the voyage with such a devil for a pilot. I was comforting myself, however, with the thought that in pious Bildad might be found some salvation, spite of his seven hundred and seventy-seventh lay; when I felt a sudden sharp poke in my rear, and turning round, was horrified at the apparition of Captain Peleg in the art of withdrawing his leg from my immediate vicinity. That was my first kick.
"Is that the way they heave in the marchant service?" he roared. "Spring, thou sheep-head; spring, and break thy backbone! Why don't ye spring, I say, all of ye- spring! Quohog! spring, thou chap with the red whiskers; spring there, Scotch-cap; spring, thou green pants. Spring, I say, all of ye, and spring your eyes out!" And so saying, he moved along the windlass, here and there using his leg very freely, while imperturbable Bildad kept leading off with his psalmody. Thinks I, Captain Peleg must have been drinking something to-day.
Welcome to my office at the university during Spring Break. The building is fairly deserted. I think that I'm the only one here in the English Department. I'm Ahab, below decks on the Pequod while the crew weighs anchor and makes final preparations. Outside my door, there isn't much going on. A lot of silence and darkness. I feel like I'm in the belly of a ship.
I have some projects I need to see to completion this afternoon. First, there's an art project. In April, the local library here in Marquette is displaying poetry broadsides in its gallery. I finished one of my broadsides last night. I plan on finishing the other today. Second, I'm performing again in Calumet this weekend, so I have to pick out a poem or two to read. Plus, I'm writing a script for a comedy skit that might be used in the show. Third, I have an idea for a new Bigfoot poem that I want to try to flesh out a little. And, finally, I want to start piecing together my Christmas essays into a book manuscript.
Now, I know that I'm not going to be able to accomplish all of those things in the four hours that I will be in my office. That's more like a wish list of what I HOPE to get done this afternoon and evening. Like the crew of the Pequod, I have much to get done before I weigh anchor for Calumet. Unlike Peleg, however, I have not been drinking. Yet. That may come later, after I get home.
I frequently do this--undertake a lot of different projects at one time. Sometimes it works out for me. Other times, I simply have to let some things go. Cut them adrift, so to speak. Realistically, I think that I will be able to accomplish quite a few of the tasks I've just enumerated. Certainly, the poetry broadside. Probably the script for the comedy skit. Maybe the Bigfoot poem. The Christmas essay book may be the one that doesn't make it to shore tonight.
And, of course, I have to finish my blog posts for the day. That comes before all else. It's my warm-up for the rest of the afternoon.
So, I'm going to check my food supplies, sharpen my pencils, read a little Maggie Nelson, and set out to sea.
Saint Marty is thankful this afternoon for these quiet, productive hours.
Sail on captain, sail on....
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