Eight Bells
The moon must be monstrous 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 “boatscrew-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 harpooner. 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 star board-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 sea-dog 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.