Moby-Dick

I

Loomins

 

Ca me Ishmael. A puckle o year syne – nivver heed foo lang – bein damn near skint, an deaved wi life ashore, Ah thocht tae tour oot an see the weet bittie o the warld. It's jist a ploy o mine tae droon ma spleen, aye an cool ma bleed for that. Fanivver Ah gang grumpy; fanivver haar an mochiness lie aboot me; fanivver Ah canna haud fae gowkin ben the undertakir's winda or faain in wi fruneals; an maistlie fanivver Ah get sae scunnert wi masel as gars me gang clink ower the cassies tae clour the hats fae fowk – syne div Ah nae ken fine it's time tae gang hyne awa oot tae sea wioot muckle adee. It fairly saves me shottin masel. Cato can fire himsel on ees sword till his hert's content: a bittie mair slee, Ah tak tae the sea. Sma wonder. Maist chiels in their ain wey hairbour the same oot-hairbourin, the same lust tae lowse aff an let the ocean gie them laldy. Ye ken yirsel.

Owerby, aa its lane, lies the Manhattoes, haudin ticht wi quays, like yonder inches oot Indies-wey wi their corally skares – commerce grups it wi her ding o waves. Fae aa the airts the streets rin wattirward. Awa doontoon lies the battery, far thon braw pierrikie's catslickit wi lappin waves as the day grows airishtie. An fit a bourach o wattir-gowkers!

Tak in the hale toon some dwaumie Sabbath eftirneen. Step oot fae Corlears Hook tae Coenties Slip, an thence haud north bi Whitehall. Fit div ye spy? – A hale dose o gypit, hauf-hung-tae sentry mannies gowkin at the sea. Some anes taakin it aisy up agin the piles; ithers sittin cushy on the pierheids; antrin gommerils aa for China clippers; an ithers rugglit in some riggin ettlin for a furthest keek. But damn the ane that's nae a lubber; aa week inby the biggins o the toon – lashed tae their coonters, thirled tae benches, clenched tae desks. Foo does aa this come? Is there nae a park handy? Fit's their ploy?

But, hey, here's mair stramash, fowk leggin it doon tae the wattir, rarin for a dook! Queer or fit? Nithin suits them but the veriest boonds o solid grund; hingin aboot in the schadda o warehooses is jist nae eese. Na, na, they maun get as nigh the wattir as they may – wioot faain in. An there they tak their staun, hunners an hunners o them. Toonsers an countra billies, fae their airts an alleyweys, come aathegither here. The virr o the vessels' compasses, I jalouse, haals the jing-bang thonder.

But that's nae aa. Plunk yersel in the Hielans an tak ony path ye please. Ten tae wan ye'll be doon some glen in nae time an stood by a burnie's pool. Magic, eh!. Tak ony bodie in a dwaum an setthem gaain: they'll dander doon tae wattir, if wattir somewey be. If ye're feart o drouth in the desert, here's fit tae dae: get a haud o some professor o metaphysics an tak him in yir tribe. Aye, for aabuddy kens: deep thochts an wattir are nivver far pairtit.

Ower here noo we hae a richt bonny pinter. He ettles tae pint ye the maist dwaumsome bit o schaddowie scapery wis ivver dicht. Sae fit does he go for? Trees, aye: ilkane boss in its intimmers, mair than able tae hide a hermit. A park, uh-huh, sure, proper an flooery. A set o dozent kye, an a shielin wi antrin smowk. A track tae wynd tae the woodies hyne, atween scherp blue taes o the mountain. Glamourie, gramarye: but nae eneuch. Even gin the pine gies a sair souch abeen the shepherd's heid, it's nane o't mowse unless he's gypin at wattir. Awa an luik at the Prairies at June, fan ye canna get muved for Tiger-lilies, but still there's a want, acause there's nae wattir, nae a drappikie. Supposin Niagara wis a rummle o saun, wid ye stir twa steps tae see it? Fit wey did the Tennessee bard, suddenlie hanseled wi haunfaes o siller, debate fither tae seek a new coat, or traik doon tae the sauns at Rockaway? Fit wey's ony hulkin loon wi ony rumgumption aye at some time daft for the sea? Fan ye first sailed as a passenger, foo dae ye accoont for the thrill ye got fan the laun fell fae sicht? Fit wey wis the sea haudin as holy by the auld Persians? Fy did the Greeks pick for the sea their second-best god, Poseidon, wis that jist a fluke? As for Narcissus, far did he land up? Thrawn vratch tae haud his ain reflection an daundle it in his palm: plunk in abeen the lugs an that was him. We're nae muckle wiser oursels. Ettlin tae gresp life's meanin in wattir, as weil hunt the schaddow o an eel.

Noo fan I vow that faain bleary or chesty-kind, I'll aye haud seaward, that's nae tae say I'll book a berth an pey good siller for it. Fa says ye can pey fit ye dinna hae? Forbye, passengers at the sea have aye got something – their dennirs winna bide doon – they canna thole each ither –there's neither sleep nor cheer aboot them. An ye winna catch me Captain neither: the name's soond wid surely deafen me, tak it fa wints it. For I can hardlie steer masel, nivver mind a schooner. As for cook, weil, fine as I like ma maet, speciallie a suppie broiled pullet wi nae ower muckle butter an jist a spraichle o saut an pepper, I dinna like makkin it. Affa fine if somebuddy else does, though, and that's fit the auld Egyptians must hae thocht an aa, or they widna hae caad for their favourites, sacred whaup and holy potamus, tae be wappit up and left tae reist in a slow, canny Pyramid. Na, fan I ging tae the sea, I ging plain sailor, nithin fancie, holit doon in the focsle and hingin on tae the tall topmast. I have tae tak ma orders, of course, an lowp fae spar tae spar like a flech atween a coo's tail and a coo's backside. That's got a tendency tae scunner a body. It's hardly fit ye were brocht up for, and you ane o the rare Van Rensselaers, or auld Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. Or again, if ye've jist come fae lairdin it as a dominie giein muckle loons laldy, it's a bit o a stammygaster tae ging thwack doon on yir knap-banes caulkin seams wi bleck tar. Ach, ye'll get eesed till't, though.

Fit ails gin a fuskery auld skipper shouts me tae git thirled tae a besom till the deck's aa deen? Is that sae ill tae thole, fan ye think fit's aheid o us in Revelation? Gabriel's surely nae a lad tae haud it against me, if aa that I did wis jist fit the skipper bawled? Fa's nae a slave, eh, fa? Greetin-phissed skippers can yelloch an blatter me, but it aa comes roon: aabody's on the vrang end o somethin, the warld shaks us aa by the lug betimes, skippers an aa, sae they've got ma peety, and I'll bide content.

I aye ging as a sailor an aa, acause there's siller in't to be had, but nae a brass meck yet for travellers that I ivver heard o. Jist the reverse: the travellers have tae shell oot. There's a clinker! If it hadna been for Adam an Eve chowin the vrang aipple, I dinna think peyin wid have got inventit. O, but it's grand fan it comes roond peyday. For, as Scripture saith, a wealthy man needna birze at the Yett: but we are chancers and we'll chance it yet!

Tae vrap aa up, I aye ging tae sea as a sailor acause ye'll nae get finer wark nor brisker air nor on the focsle deck. For jist as the warld's fuller o heid than tail winds (if ye hae a rugg at Pythagoras),

sae ony puir Commodore gets his air secondhand fae his ain sailors. He thinks he's gettin it first draa, but na. Aye, plain ordinary folk are mair in the lead than their leaders ivver jalouse. I's a good step mair fae antrin sailin tae ages awhalin, I grant ye, but canna explain. Spier at some bigger craitur, Fate's sergeant, fa has me under his scherp een, fa dogs me in saft boots, fa jogs ma elbuck fan ma heid's the ither wey. He'll likely ken, nae me. It'll aa be a titchy wee pairt o a plan, drawn up dizzens o years syne, as pairt of a grand Providential performance tae please somebuddy, as sure as no. Somethin alang the lines o:

PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES IN TITANIC TUSSLE

ISHMAEL AWA TAE THE WHALES THE MORN

BLOODY BATTLE IN AFGHANISTAN

Foo it got settlit that I was the billy tae haik eftir whales, fan Fate had giein ithers the reenge o life's mair civilised favours, tragic magnificence, genteel comedy and ither sic capers, weil, fa can tell? Half the battle for Fate and her theatrical managers was plantin in ma noddle the notion that I had sat doon backstage and weighed aa scripts tae the last scruple afore choosin the whale-road and the whale ploy for masel.

Ma main inspring was doubtless the vera idea o the monstrous whale himlane. Sic an eerie-steerie beast! Aa the unkent dangers o a muckle whale amin great hillocks o wattir wi nae remeid, and aa the soonds an sichts o Patagonia, that's fit must hae sweyed me. There's billies, nae doot, that could have held themsels in leash fae that; but me, I'm aye rarin for the horizon's ither side. Give me a sea far I shouldna be, and a laun that's fu o savages! It's nae that I dinna ken fit's guid, I div, but I cann blink a horror neither. Horror's aa aboot us, and winna quit the warld the morn, sae me and it best shak hauns fae time tae time.

Sae there was aa ma reasons, near aboot, for blithely gaain tae the whales, an the dwaum cam on an owerwhelmed me; as whales cam merchin tae ma mind baith mair an ma, in twa an twa,. But ane. But ane alane, the maister in the middle, a ghaist wi a ghaist's white hood, wallt an swallt like a ben bowed in a blizzard. I saa him.

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