Queequeg

Queequeg believed in the strength of his lance. He say mute on the gently rolling deck, the sun touching softly on his hard and broken features, measuring the considerable heft of the tool in his hand. The wood was good and old, worn smooth by strong throws and the firm grips of his mighty ancestors. It was taken from a tree with its' own ancient record, gathering the resilience of ages focused in into this single bolt. The terrible shaft of iron, colored like the blood of the Earth, ran truer than North. A fearsome barbed tooth stood on the end, which Queequeg ministered to with a whet stone, bent over as if at prayer to the lord of carnage, until he was sure no hide was too thick. The harpoon was an undeniable truth, and would perform unquestionably. He rolled it between his hands in silent certainty, waiting to be realized by destiny.

The men toiled at their work, mending and tarring barrels for the bounty of ambergris they hunted all the pondering sea. "Look at Queequeg," they said to each other. "He doesn't even know enough to be afraid, the poor hapless bastard," and they took up their mops and dumb hammers.