Chapter 12

The dream is always the same. 

Sometime in the ninth month at sea the dream came to him. The idea--the hope--of Taggart's being dead had been with him for a while, like a mole you have forgotten until you discover it again. To see a tackle and imagine it swinging loose into the unsuspecting head of Taggart, to think of a wave surging over the bow where Taggart is standing imperiously, to envision a whale crushing Taggart's boat during a hunt: these are normal thoughts. Toby has them too, no doubt others as well. But in the dream Melvill is the instrument of Taggart's destruction. First a harpoon through the abdomen to pin Taggart to the main mast. He writhes like an insect to be free. It is futile however and Melvill has no thought of mercy. Then Melvill has the knife, the big whale-knife, the one used for carving up the giant fish. Melvill begins by cutting the clothes from Taggart's thrashing body. His gaudy silver beltbuckle hits the deck like the report of a pistol. Melvill looks for fear in the bastard's eyes but sees none and is disappointed. Then he starts to peel the pink flesh from Taggart's bones. It comes off like old wallpaper. The foul stench of whale blubber fills the air. Is the air. A wave comes over the gunwale and washes the deck clean of Taggart's skin and clothes, even the heavy ornate buckle. The blade comes to Taggart's pecker, which squirms like an independent beast. Finally there is fear in the chiefmate's eyes. Satisfied now, Melvill puts the bloody knife point to Taggart's throat. . . . 

The dream is always the same. It is his own murderous thoughts that frighten Melvill. The violence that lurks inside him.