91 lines
5.3 KiB
Plaintext
91 lines
5.3 KiB
Plaintext
3
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CHAPTER 2. The Carpet-Bag.
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I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my
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arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city
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of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was a Saturday night
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in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little
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packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching
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that place would offer, till the following Monday.
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As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at
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this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well
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be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was
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made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a
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fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous
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old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has
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of late been gradually monopolising the business of whaling, and though
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in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket
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was her great original—the Tyre of this Carthage;—the place where the
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first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket
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did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes
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to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did
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that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with
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imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in
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order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the
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bowsprit?
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Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me
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in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a
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matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a
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very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold
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and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had
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sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver,—So,
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wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of
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a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the
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north with the darkness towards the south—wherever in your wisdom you
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may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to
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inquire the price, and don’t be too particular.
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With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of “The
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Crossed Harpoons”—but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further
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on, from the bright red windows of the “Sword-Fish Inn,” there came
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such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and
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ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay
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ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement,—rather weary for me,
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when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from
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hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most
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miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one
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moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of
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the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don’t
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you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are
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stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets
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that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not
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the cheeriest inns.
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Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand,
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and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At
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this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of
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the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light
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proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood
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invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the
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uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble
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over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying
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particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city,
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Gomorrah? But “The Crossed Harpoons,” and “The Sword-Fish?”—this, then
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must needs be the sign of “The Trap.” However, I picked myself up and
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hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior
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door.
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It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black
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faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of
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Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the
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preacher’s text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping
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and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing
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out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of ‘The Trap!’
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Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the
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docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a
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swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly
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representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words
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underneath—“The Spouter Inn:—Peter Coffin.”
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Coffin?—Spouter?—Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought
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I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this
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Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and
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the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated
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little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here
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from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a
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poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very
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spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee.
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