6. CHAPTER VI.
The moon must be monstrons coy, or some things fall
out opportunely, or else almanacs are consulted by nocturnal
adventurers; but so it is, that when Cynthia shows a
round and chubby disk, few daring deeds are done. Though
true it may be, that of moonlight nights, jewelers' caskets
and maidens' hearts have been burglariously broken into—
and rifled, for aught Copernicus can tell.
The gentle planet was in her final quarter, and upon her
slender horn I hung my hopes of withdrawing from the ship
undetected.
Now, making a tranquil passage across the ocean, we
kept at this time what are called among whalemen “boats-crew-watches.”
That is, instead of the sailors being divided
at night into two bands, alternately on deck every
four hours, there were four watches, each composed of a
boat's crew, the “headsman” (always one of the mates) excepted.
To the officers, this plan gives uninterrupted repose—“all-night-in,”
as they call it, and of course greatly
lightens the duties of the crew.
The harpooneers head the boats' crews, and are responsible
for the ship during the continuance of their watches.
Now, my Viking being a stalwart seaman, pulled the
midship oar of the boat of which I was bowsman. Hence,
we were in the same watch; to which, also, three others
belonged, including Mark, the harpooneer. One of these
seamen, however, being an invalid, there were only two
left for us to manage.
Voyaging in these seas, you may glide along for weeks
without starting tack or sheet, hardly moving the helm a
spoke, so mild and constant are the Trades. At night, the
watch seldom trouble themselves with keeping much of a
look-out; especially, as a strange sail is almost a prodigy in
these lonely waters. In some ships, for weeks in and weeks
out, you are puzzled to tell when your nightly turn on deck
really comes round; so little heed is given to the standing
of watches, where in the license of presumed safety, nearly
every one nods without fear.
But remiss as you may be in the boats-crew-watch of a
heedless whaleman, the man who heads it is bound to maintain
his post on the quarter-deck until regularly relieved.
Yet drowsiness being incidental to all natures, even to Napoleon,
beside his own sentry napping in the snowy bivouac;
so, often, in snowy moonlight, or ebon eclipse, dozed Mark,
our harpooneer. Lethe be his portion this blessed night,
thought I, as during the morning which preceded our
enterprise, I eyed the man who might possibly cross my
plans.
But let me come closer to this part of my story. During
what are called at sea the “dog-watches” (between four
o'clock and eight in the evening), sailors are quite lively
and frolicsome; their spirits even flow far into the first of
the long “night-watches;” but upon its expiration at “eight
bells” (midnight), silence begins to reign; if you hear a
voice it is no cherub's: all exclamations are oaths.
At eight bells, the mariners on deck, now relieved from
their cares, crawl out from their sleepy retreats in old
monkey jackets, or coils of rigging, and hie to their hammocks,
almost without interrupting their dreams: while the
sluggards below lazily drag themselves up the ladder to resume
their slumbers in the open air.
For these reasons then, the moonless sea midnight was
just the time to escape. Hence, we suffered a whole day
to pass unemployed; waiting for the night, when the starboard-quarter-boats'-watch,
to which we belonged, would be
summoned on deck at the eventful eight of the bell.
But twenty-four hours soon glide away; and “Starboleens
ahoy! eight bells there below!” at last started me
from a troubled doze.
I sprang from my hammock, and would have lighted my
pipe. But the forecastle lamp had gone out. An old seadog
was talking about sharks in his sleep. Jarl and our
solitary watch-mate were groping their way into their trowsers.
And little was heard but the humming of the still
sails aloft; the dash of the waves against the bow; and
the deep breathing of the dreaming sailors around.
