The Hat — Moby-Dick

Hard by the latitude where Moby Dick first maimed him, Ahab has chased his foe into an ocean fold. Ships he has met show the white whale's demoniac indifference to hunters whether sinning or sinned against. Something lurks in the old man's eyes that feeble souls can hardly bear. His purpose gleams like an unsetting polar star on the crew's constant midnight. All humor vanishes. Stubb stops trying to raise smiles. Starbuck stops trying to check them. Joy and sorrow grind to dust in the mortar of Ahab's iron soul.

Fedallah's gliding strangeness awes even Ahab. The Parsee never slumbers or goes below, a shadow always on deck. Ahab lives above the planks, eating open-air meals, beard gnarled like unearthed roots. He and Fedallah speak rarely but seem yoked by an unseen tyrant. At dawn his iron voice orders man the mast-heads. After the Rachel he distrusts lookouts and rigs a basket to claim first sight and the doubloon himself.

He gives the deck rope to Starbuck, the mate he once doubted. Aloft ten minutes, a red-billed hawk wheels and steals his slouched hat. A Sicilian cries your hat from the mizen-mast. Unlike Tarquin's eagle omen, the cap is never restored. A minute black spot falls from the hawk's disappearance into the sea.