"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 offices,
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 a 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.
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