The Dark Canoe by Scott O’Dell Page B

me again, “Hast given the order?”
    â€œBlanton wants to know about the life buoy,” I said. “Do you wish it hoisted aboard or left tethered at the stern?”
    Caleb straightened up and glanced at me as if I as well as Blanton had lost our wits. “Aboard! Aboard! ’Tis not a kedge to tow or yet a sea anchor in a storm. ’Tis a life buoy, the dark canoe which is tethered there. Have Mr. Blanton bring it aboard and seest thou that it’s lashed down securely. Who knows when we shalt need it, in what great storm or dire confrontation?”
    I stumbled out of the cabin and up the ladder to the quarterdeck, where I gave my brother’s orders to the waiting Blanton. On my return, finding Caleb again bent over the chart table, I quietly approached and glanced over his shoulder. He had drawn a line from Magdalena Bay to the southernmost of the Hawaiian Islands and was about to draw a second line from this point southeastward to the Marquesas. It was not the course that would take the ship homeward to Nantucket.
    I decided to wait no longer. I could already hear the winches at work, hoisting the life buoy on board. In less than a half an hour the anchor would be raised and the sails unfurled.
    â€œWhat,” I blurted out, “what’s the reason for plotting a course to the South Seas?”
    Caleb slowly finished the line he was drawing and laid the protractor aside. “Dost think we shall not find him there?” he said.
    â€œFind who?” I asked.
    â€œThou know him well from thy reading,” Caleb said. “The monstrous Moby Dick. Dost think him there or doth the devious-cruising Whale push his pleated brow through colder latitudes? Off Nippon’s shores, mayhap? Where thinkest thou he now spends his crafty hours?”
    Caleb’s eyes were calm. And his question was spoken in a calm brotherly way, as if he meant to consider my answer whatever it might be.
    â€œI think that Moby Dick is dead,” I answered. “Dead many years ago.”
    â€œThou knowest, Nathan, that ordinary whales have longer lives than mortal men. Twice as long, I’ve heard. And Moby Dick lives not by ordinary rules, either of beasts or man. We shall find him, I think, still in life’s prime, though he may now prefer warmer, equatorial seas to those of northern climes.”
    â€œHe’s dead,” I repeated. “If not from old age, then from a ship’s harpoon.”
    Caleb’s eyes clouded for a moment at the thought of the White Whale’s death, but he said, “No, ’tis our harpoons alone he waits for.”
    On the deck I could hear the scurrying of feet, the preparations for departure. “Let’s say that the White Whale is alive,” I said, taking another tack, “and we decide to hunt him down, who will go with us? Not the crew aboard this ship. There’s not a man, except Judd, who wouldn’t rise up against us. Everyone is anxious to get home. Don’t forget their unspent wages—the casks of ambergris—that they talk about day and night. What will be their pay for hunting Moby Dick?”
    It was a strong argument I gave him in this warning, since I spoke the hard truth, yet he passed it over with a shrug.
    â€œThey’ll do what I command,” he said. “Did not Ahab’s men follow him?”
    â€œYes, to their death, but you are not Ahab and this is not his crew,” I said. “Listen, Caleb. You’ve found the Amy Foster , after a search which few men would have the courage to make. You’ve brought up a fortune in ambergris. And most important of all, you now have the logbook. It lies there in front of you. We are taking it to Nantucket. The board of inquiry will see that you were right and Jeremy was wrong.”
    Caleb was listening to what I said, yet deep behind his gaze I saw the lurking image of Moby Dick. It was there; it had been there for all the years I remembered, this