After chase, slaughter, beheading, cassock prize, and Shadrach passage through try-pots, warm oil like hot punch fills six-barrel casks while the ship rolls and casks scoot like landslides until every sailor cooper hammers hoops, cool pints strike down through hatchways into the hold's profundities where leviathan returns beneath the surface never to blow again.
One day the deck streams blood, heads pile profane on the sacred quarter-deck, try-soot blacks bulwarks, and the whole ship roars like leviathan incarnate; a day later sperm's cleansing virtue and lye from burned scraps restore merchant-neatness, tackles coiled, hatch hiding pots, crew ablutioned bridegroom-bright, joking parlors and forecastle tea while three mast-head men still spy the next stain.
Ishmael cries man-killing when clean frocks button to There she blows, ninety-six-hour lines of rowing, windlass, cut, sun and equatorial try-works repeating young life's old routine, metempsychosis echoing Pythagoras on the Peruvian coast where Ishmael once taught a green boy to splice rope.
Hermetic hatches seal the hold like a walled closet, yet the cycle admits no rest: labour extracts a small valuable sperm from the world's bulk, cleans tabernacles of the soul, and instantly the ghost spouts again, Pythagoras invoked as proof that souls and ships repeat the same weary transmigration.
Coming Up in Chapter 99
Ahab's walk on the quarter-deck runs from the binnacle to the mainmast. At the compass his look is a javelin. At the mainmast the same look fastens on the gold coin nailed there, firm, with a wild longing in it. One morning he turns to pass the doubloon and seems to be seeing it new.