{"id":"01KG8AP7TSBXJWSAVETHRRS06W","cid":"bafkreidnlewmq4ewcr4epgts7uwkmoa6lrypistr7wmghjorox37xc4lqq","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":4630,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:49:30.765Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 66","source_file":"01KG89J198KE6FY8WPVJQQRCZ6","start_line":4559,"text":"the main-mast. “Mr. Starbuck, drive ’em aft.”\r\n\r\n“Strike the tent there!”—was the next order. As I hinted before, this\r\nwhalebone marquee was never pitched except in port; and on board the\r\nPequod, for thirty years, the order to strike the tent was well known\r\nto be the next thing to heaving up the anchor.\r\n\r\n“Man the capstan! Blood and thunder!—jump!”—was the next command, and\r\nthe crew sprang for the handspikes.\r\n\r\nNow in getting under weigh, the station generally occupied by the pilot\r\nis the forward part of the ship. And here Bildad, who, with Peleg, be\r\nit known, in addition to his other officers, was one of the licensed\r\npilots of the port—he being suspected to have got himself made a pilot\r\nin order to save the Nantucket pilot-fee to all the ships he was\r\nconcerned in, for he never piloted any other craft—Bildad, I say, might\r\nnow be seen actively engaged in looking over the bows for the\r\napproaching anchor, and at intervals singing what seemed a dismal stave\r\nof psalmody, to cheer the hands at the windlass, who roared forth some\r\nsort of a chorus about the girls in Booble Alley, with hearty good\r\nwill. Nevertheless, not three days previous, Bildad had told them that\r\nno profane songs would be allowed on board the Pequod, particularly in\r\ngetting under weigh; and Charity, his sister, had placed a small choice\r\ncopy of Watts in each seaman’s berth.\r\n\r\nMeantime, overseeing the other part of the ship, Captain Peleg ripped\r\nand swore astern in the most frightful manner. I almost thought he\r\nwould sink the ship before the anchor could be got up; involuntarily I\r\npaused on my handspike, and told Queequeg to do the same, thinking of\r\nthe perils we both ran, in starting on the voyage with such a devil for\r\na pilot. I was comforting myself, however, with the thought that in\r\npious Bildad might be found some salvation, spite of his seven hundred\r\nand seventy-seventh lay; when I felt a sudden sharp poke in my rear,\r\nand turning round, was horrified at the apparition of Captain Peleg in\r\nthe act of withdrawing his leg from my immediate vicinity. That was my\r\nfirst kick.\r\n\r\n“Is that the way they heave in the marchant service?” he roared.\r\n“Spring, thou sheep-head; spring, and break thy backbone! Why don’t ye\r\nspring, I say, all of ye—spring! Quohog! spring, thou chap with the red\r\nwhiskers; spring there, Scotch-cap; spring, thou green pants. Spring, I\r\nsay, all of ye, and spring your eyes out!” And so saying, he moved\r\nalong the windlass, here and there using his leg very freely, while\r\nimperturbable Bildad kept leading off with his psalmody. Thinks I,\r\nCaptain Peleg must have been drinking something to-day.\r\n\r\nAt last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It\r\nwas a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into\r\nnight, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose\r\nfreezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of\r\nteeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white\r\nivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from\r\nthe bows.\r\n\r\nLank Bildad, as pilot, headed the first watch, and ever and anon, as\r\nthe old craft deep dived into the green seas, and sent the shivering\r\nfrost all over her, and the winds howled, and the cordage rang, his\r\nsteady notes were heard,—\r\n\r\n\r\n_“Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood, Stand dressed in living\r\ngreen. So to the Jews old Canaan stood, While Jordan rolled between.”_\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nNever did those sweet words sound more sweetly to me than then. They\r\nwere full of hope and fruition. Spite of this frigid winter night in\r\nthe boisterous Atlantic, spite of my wet feet and wetter jacket, there\r\nwas yet, it then seemed to me, many a pleasant haven in store; and\r\nmeads and glades so eternally vernal, that the grass shot up by the\r\nspring, untrodden, unwilted, remains at midsummer.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 66"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AK7FP6P1V67V3ATJHHZ83","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J198KE6FY8WPVJQQRCZ6","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AP7TSRVFTXDV2R982EK6V","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG8AP7TSG8V3GX37VM32Y7JB","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:49:36.089Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:49:42.396Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}