Chapter 6

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