Queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning
not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than
customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom,
where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though
diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft's bald keel.
He seemed to be working in obedience to some particular presentiment.
Nor did it remain unwarranted by the event.
Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed
down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy;
a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra's barges from Actium.
Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb's was foremost.
By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting
one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding,
still continued his horizontal flight, with added fleetness.
Such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner
or later inevitably extract it. It became imperative to lance
the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boat
up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious.
What then remained?
Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and
countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced,
none exceed that fine manoeuvre with the lance called pitchpoling.
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