The Sea Wolf, Jack London [best memoirs of all time TXT] 📗

The boat drew closer and closer, hurling along through the seething green like a thing alive, lifting and sending and uptossing across the huge-backed breakers, or disappearing behind them only to rush into sight again and shoot skyward.  It seemed impossible that it could continue to live, yet with each dizzying sweep it did achieve the impossible.  A rain-squall drove past, and out of the flying wet the boat emerged, almost upon us.

“Hard up, there!” Wolf Larsen shouted, himself springing to the wheel and whirling it over.

Again the Ghost sprang away and raced before the wind, and for two hours Johnson and Leach pursued us.  We hove to and ran away, hove to and ran away, and ever astern the struggling patch of sail tossed skyward and fell into the rushing valleys.  It was a quarter of a mile away when a thick squall of rain veiled it from view.  It never emerged.  The wind blew the air clear again, but no patch of sail broke the troubled surface.  I thought I saw, for an instant, the boat’s bottom show black in a breaking crest.  At the best, that was all.  For Johnson and Leach the travail of existence had ceased.

The men remained grouped amidships.  No one had gone below, and no one was speaking.  Nor were any looks being exchanged.  Each man seemed stunned—deeply contemplative, as it were, and, not quite sure, trying to realize just what had taken place.  Wolf Larsen gave them little time for thought.  He at once put the Ghost upon her course—a course which meant the seal herd and not Yokohama harbour.  But the men were no longer eager as they pulled and hauled, and I heard curses amongst them, which left their lips smothered and as heavy and lifeless as were they.  Not so was it with the hunters.  Smoke the irrepressible related a story, and they descended into the steerage, bellowing with laughter.

As I passed to leeward of the galley on my way aft I was approached by the engineer we had rescued.  His face was white, his lips were trembling.

“Good God! sir, what kind of a craft is this?” he cried.

“You have eyes, you have seen,” I answered, almost brutally, what of the pain and fear at my own heart.

“Your promise?” I said to Wolf Larsen.

“I was not thinking of taking them aboard when I made that promise,” he answered.  “And anyway, you’ll agree I’ve not laid my hands upon them.”

“Far from it, far from it,” he laughed a moment later.

I made no reply.  I was incapable of speaking, my mind was too confused.  I must have time to think, I knew.  This woman, sleeping even now in the spare cabin, was a responsibility, which I must consider, and the only rational thought that flickered through my mind was that I must do nothing hastily if I were to be any help to her at all.

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully.  The young slip of a gale, having wetted our gills, proceeded to moderate.  The fourth engineer and the three oilers, after a warm interview with Wolf Larsen, were furnished with outfits from the slop-chests, assigned places under the hunters in the various boats and watches on the vessel, and bundled forward into the forecastle.  They went protestingly, but their voices were not loud.  They were awed by what they had already seen of Wolf Larsen’s character, while the tale of woe they speedily heard in the forecastle took the last bit of rebellion out of them.

Miss Brewster—we had learned her name from the engineer—slept on and on.  At supper I requested the hunters to lower their voices, so she was not disturbed; and it was not till next morning that she made her appearance.  It had been my intention to have her meals served apart, but Wolf Larsen put down his foot.  Who was she that she should be too good for cabin table and cabin society? had been his demand.

But her coming to the table had something amusing in it.  The hunters fell silent as clams.  Jock Horner and Smoke alone were unabashed, stealing stealthy glances at her now and again, and even taking part in the conversation.  The other four men glued their eyes on their plates and chewed steadily and with thoughtful precision, their ears moving and wobbling, in time with their jaws, like the ears of so many animals.

Wolf Larsen had little to say at first, doing no more than reply when he was addressed.  Not that he was abashed.  Far from it.  This woman was a new type to him, a different breed from any he had ever known, and he was curious.  He studied her, his eyes rarely leaving her face unless to follow the movements of her hands or shoulders.  I studied her myself, and though it was I who maintained the conversation, I know that I was a bit shy, not quite self-possessed.  His was the perfect poise, the supreme confidence in self, which nothing could shake; and he was no more timid of a woman than he was of storm and battle.

“And when shall we arrive at Yokohama?” she asked, turning to him and looking him squarely in the eyes.

There it was, the question flat.  The jaws stopped working, the ears ceased wobbling, and though eyes remained glued on plates, each man listened greedily for the answer.

“In four months, possibly three if the season closes early,” Wolf Larsen said.

She caught her breath and stammered, “I—I thought—I was given to understand that Yokohama was only a day’s sail away.  It—”  Here she paused and looked about the table at the circle of unsympathetic faces staring hard at the plates.  “It is not right,” she concluded.

“That is a question you must settle with Mr. Van Weyden there,” he replied, nodding to me with a mischievous twinkle.  “Mr. Van Weyden is what you may call an authority on such things as rights.  Now I, who am only a sailor, would look upon the situation somewhat differently.  It may possibly be your misfortune that you have to remain with us, but it is certainly our good fortune.”

He regarded her smilingly.  Her eyes fell before his gaze, but she lifted them again, and defiantly, to mine.  I read the unspoken question there: was it right?  But I had decided that the part I was to play must be a neutral one, so I did not answer.

“What do you think?” she demanded.

“That it is unfortunate, especially if you have any engagements falling due in the course of the next several months.  But, since you say that you were voyaging to Japan for your health, I can assure you that it will improve no better anywhere than aboard the Ghost.”

I saw her eyes flash with indignation, and this time it was I who dropped mine, while I felt my face flushing under her gaze.  It was cowardly, but what else could I do?

“Mr. Van Weyden speaks with the voice of authority,” Wolf Larsen laughed.

I nodded my head, and she, having recovered herself, waited expectantly.

“Not that he is much to speak of now,” Wolf Larsen went on, “but he has improved wonderfully.  You should have seen him when he came on board.  A more scrawny, pitiful specimen of humanity one could hardly conceive.  Isn’t that so, Kerfoot?”

Kerfoot, thus directly addressed, was startled into dropping his knife on the floor, though he managed to grunt affirmation.

“Developed himself by peeling potatoes and washing dishes.  Eh, Kerfoot?”

Again that worthy grunted.

“Look at him now.  True, he is not what you would term muscular, but still he has muscles, which is more than he had when he came aboard.  Also, he has legs to stand on.  You would not think so to look at him, but he was quite unable to stand alone at first.”

The hunters were snickering, but she looked at me with a sympathy in her eyes which more than compensated for Wolf Larsen’s nastiness.  In truth, it had been so long since I had received sympathy that I was softened, and I became then, and gladly, her willing slave.  But I was angry with Wolf Larsen.  He was challenging my manhood with his slurs, challenging the very legs he claimed to be instrumental in getting for me.

“I may have learned to stand on my own legs,” I retorted.  “But I have yet to stamp upon others with them.”

He looked at me insolently.  “Your education is only half completed, then,” he said dryly, and turned to her.

“We are very hospitable upon the Ghost.  Mr. Van Weyden has discovered that.  We do everything to make our guests feel at home, eh, Mr. Van Weyden?”

“Even to the peeling of potatoes and the washing of dishes,” I answered, “to say nothing to wringing their necks out of very fellowship.”

“I beg of you not to receive false impressions of us from Mr. Van Weyden,” he interposed with mock anxiety.  “You will observe, Miss Brewster, that he carries a dirk in his belt, a—ahem—a most unusual thing for a ship’s officer to do.  While really very estimable, Mr. Van Weyden is sometimes—how shall I say?—er—quarrelsome, and harsh measures are necessary.  He is quite reasonable and fair in his calm moments, and as he is calm now he will not deny that only yesterday he threatened my life.”

I was well-nigh choking, and my eyes were certainly fiery.  He drew attention to me.

“Look at him now.  He can scarcely control himself in your presence.  He is not accustomed to the presence of ladies anyway.  I shall have to arm myself before I dare go on deck with him.”

He shook his head sadly, murmuring, “Too bad, too bad,” while the hunters burst into guffaws of laughter.

The deep-sea voices of these men, rumbling and bellowing in the confined space, produced a wild effect.  The whole setting was wild, and for the first time, regarding this strange woman and realizing how incongruous she was in it, I was aware of how much a part of it I was myself.  I knew these men and their mental processes, was one of them myself, living the seal-hunting life, eating the seal-hunting fare, thinking, largely, the seal-hunting thoughts.  There was for me no strangeness to it, to the rough clothes, the coarse faces, the wild laughter, and the lurching cabin walls and swaying sea-lamps.

As I buttered a piece of bread my eyes chanced to rest upon my hand.  The knuckles were skinned and inflamed clear across, the fingers swollen, the nails rimmed with black.  I felt the mattress-like growth of beard on my neck, knew that the sleeve of my coat was ripped, that a button was missing from the throat of the blue shirt I wore.  The dirk mentioned by Wolf Larsen rested in its sheath on my hip.  It was very natural that it should be there,—how natural I had not imagined until now, when I looked upon it with her eyes and knew how strange it and all that went with it must appear to her.

But she divined the mockery in Wolf Larsen’s words, and again favoured me with a sympathetic glance.  But there was a look of bewilderment also in her eyes.  That it was mockery made the situation more puzzling to her.

“I may be taken off by some passing vessel, perhaps,” she suggested.

“There will be no passing vessels, except other sealing-schooners,” Wolf Larsen made answer.

“I have no clothes, nothing,” she objected.  “You hardly realize, sir, that I am not a man, or that I am unaccustomed to the vagrant, careless life which you and your men seem to lead.”

“The sooner you get accustomed to it, the better,” he said.

“I’ll furnish you with cloth, needles, and thread,” he added.  “I hope it will not be too dreadful a hardship for you to make yourself a dress or two.”

She made a wry pucker with her mouth, as though to advertise her ignorance of dressmaking.  That she was frightened and bewildered, and that she was