Starbuck

At the height of the maelstrom, at the point of destruction, when the boat had broken and he had watched his men drowned, he took up the spear. At the final moment, when the ship was gone and their doom was sealed, he readied his harpoon. It was not because he believed it was right, for he knew with all his being that it was not, and it was not because any rage of his own boiled up within him, his heart remained steady. In the last few seconds, as the monstrous beast powered towards him, a glint of intelligence in its red eye, he heard his captains call and understood; he was the first mate, he was a sailor, he was an officer aboard the Pequod under his captain, he was Ahab's man, Ahab's lieutenant, Ahab's disciple, bound to Ahab's fate like a helmsman bound to the wheel. He would stab at Moby Dick not for blubber, not for Ambergris, not for glory or revenge or to protect the men who swam for their lives behind him, but for Ahab's hate, Ahab's mad and blasphemous hate. At the end, he chose his captain over his god and damned himself.