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

the sake of vindicating myself in advance in the weak and helpless rôle I was destined to play.  But I thought, also, of my mother and sisters, and pictured their grief.  I was among the missing dead of the Martinez disaster, an unrecovered body.  I could see the head-lines in the papers; the fellows at the University Club and the Bibelot shaking their heads and saying, “Poor chap!”  And I could see Charley Furuseth, as I had said good-bye to him that morning, lounging in a dressing-gown on the be-pillowed window couch and delivering himself of oracular and pessimistic epigrams.

And all the while, rolling, plunging, climbing the moving mountains and falling and wallowing in the foaming valleys, the schooner Ghost was fighting her way farther and farther into the heart of the Pacific—and I was on her.  I could hear the wind above.  It came to my ears as a muffled roar.  Now and again feet stamped overhead.  An endless creaking was going on all about me, the woodwork and the fittings groaning and squeaking and complaining in a thousand keys.  The hunters were still arguing and roaring like some semi-human amphibious breed.  The air was filled with oaths and indecent expressions.  I could see their faces, flushed and angry, the brutality distorted and emphasized by the sickly yellow of the sea-lamps which rocked back and forth with the ship.  Through the dim smoke-haze the bunks looked like the sleeping dens of animals in a menagerie.  Oilskins and sea-boots were hanging from the walls, and here and there rifles and shotguns rested securely in the racks.  It was a sea-fitting for the buccaneers and pirates of by-gone years.  My imagination ran riot, and still I could not sleep.  And it was a long, long night, weary and dreary and long.

CHAPTER V

But my first night in the hunters’ steerage was also my last.  Next day Johansen, the new mate, was routed from the cabin by Wolf Larsen, and sent into the steerage to sleep thereafter, while I took possession of the tiny cabin state-room, which, on the first day of the voyage, had already had two occupants.  The reason for this change was quickly learned by the hunters, and became the cause of a deal of grumbling on their part.  It seemed that Johansen, in his sleep, lived over each night the events of the day.  His incessant talking and shouting and bellowing of orders had been too much for Wolf Larsen, who had accordingly foisted the nuisance upon his hunters.

After a sleepless night, I arose weak and in agony, to hobble through my second day on the Ghost.  Thomas Mugridge routed me out at half-past five, much in the fashion that Bill Sykes must have routed out his dog; but Mr. Mugridge’s brutality to me was paid back in kind and with interest.  The unnecessary noise he made (I had lain wide-eyed the whole night) must have awakened one of the hunters; for a heavy shoe whizzed through the semi-darkness, and Mr. Mugridge, with a sharp howl of pain, humbly begged everybody’s pardon.  Later on, in the galley, I noticed that his ear was bruised and swollen.  It never went entirely back to its normal shape, and was called a “cauliflower ear” by the sailors.

The day was filled with miserable variety.  I had taken my dried clothes down from the galley the night before, and the first thing I did was to exchange the cook’s garments for them.  I looked for my purse.  In addition to some small change (and I have a good memory for such things), it had contained one hundred and eighty-five dollars in gold and paper.  The purse I found, but its contents, with the exception of the small silver, had been abstracted.  I spoke to the cook about it, when I went on deck to take up my duties in the galley, and though I had looked forward to a surly answer, I had not expected the belligerent harangue that I received.

“Look ’ere, ’Ump,” he began, a malicious light in his eyes and a snarl in his throat; “d’ye want yer nose punched?  If you think I’m a thief, just keep it to yerself, or you’ll find ’ow bloody well mistyken you are.  Strike me blind if this ayn’t gratitude for yer!  ’Ere you come, a pore mis’rable specimen of ’uman scum, an’ I tykes yer into my galley an’ treats yer ’ansom, an’ this is wot I get for it.  Nex’ time you can go to ’ell, say I, an’ I’ve a good mind to give you what-for anyw’y.”

So saying, he put up his fists and started for me.  To my shame be it, I cowered away from the blow and ran out the galley door.  What else was I to do?  Force, nothing but force, obtained on this brute-ship.  Moral suasion was a thing unknown.  Picture it to yourself: a man of ordinary stature, slender of build, and with weak, undeveloped muscles, who has lived a peaceful, placid life, and is unused to violence of any sort—what could such a man possibly do?  There was no more reason that I should stand and face these human beasts than that I should stand and face an infuriated bull.

So I thought it out at the time, feeling the need for vindication and desiring to be at peace with my conscience.  But this vindication did not satisfy.  Nor, to this day can I permit my manhood to look back upon those events and feel entirely exonerated.  The situation was something that really exceeded rational formulas for conduct and demanded more than the cold conclusions of reason.  When viewed in the light of formal logic, there is not one thing of which to be ashamed; but nevertheless a shame rises within me at the recollection, and in the pride of my manhood I feel that my manhood has in unaccountable ways been smirched and sullied.

All of which is neither here nor there.  The speed with which I ran from the galley caused excruciating pain in my knee, and I sank down helplessly at the break of the poop.  But the Cockney had not pursued me.

“Look at ’im run!  Look at ’im run!” I could hear him crying.  “An’ with a gyme leg at that!  Come on back, you pore little mamma’s darling.  I won’t ’it yer; no, I won’t.”

I came back and went on with my work; and here the episode ended for the time, though further developments were yet to take place.  I set the breakfast-table in the cabin, and at seven o’clock waited on the hunters and officers.  The storm had evidently broken during the night, though a huge sea was still running and a stiff wind blowing.  Sail had been made in the early watches, so that the Ghost was racing along under everything except the two topsails and the flying jib.  These three sails, I gathered from the conversation, were to be set immediately after breakfast.  I learned, also, that Wolf Larsen was anxious to make the most of the storm, which was driving him to the south-west into that portion of the sea where he expected to pick up with the north-east trades.  It was before this steady wind that he hoped to make the major portion of the run to Japan, curving south into the tropics and north again as he approached the coast of Asia.

After breakfast I had another unenviable experience.  When I had finished washing the dishes, I cleaned the cabin stove and carried the ashes up on deck to empty them.  Wolf Larsen and Henderson were standing near the wheel, deep in conversation.  The sailor, Johnson, was steering.  As I started toward the weather side I saw him make a sudden motion with his head, which I mistook for a token of recognition and good-morning.  In reality, he was attempting to warn me to throw my ashes over the lee side.  Unconscious of my blunder, I passed by Wolf Larsen and the hunter and flung the ashes over the side to windward.  The wind drove them back, and not only over me, but over Henderson and Wolf Larsen.  The next instant the latter kicked me, violently, as a cur is kicked.  I had not realized there could be so much pain in a kick.  I reeled away from him and leaned against the cabin in a half-fainting condition.  Everything was swimming before my eyes, and I turned sick.  The nausea overpowered me, and I managed to crawl to the side of the vessel.  But Wolf Larsen did not follow me up.  Brushing the ashes from his clothes, he had resumed his conversation with Henderson.  Johansen, who had seen the affair from the break of the poop, sent a couple of sailors aft to clean up the mess.

Later in the morning I received a surprise of a totally different sort.  Following the cook’s instructions, I had gone into Wolf Larsen’s state-room to put it to rights and make the bed.  Against the wall, near the head of the bunk, was a rack filled with books.  I glanced over them, noting with astonishment such names as Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, and De Quincey.  There were scientific works, too, among which were represented men such as Tyndall, Proctor, and Darwin.  Astronomy and physics were represented, and I remarked Bulfinch’s Age of Fable, Shaw’s History of English and American Literature, and Johnson’s Natural History in two large volumes.  Then there were a number of grammars, such as Metcalf’s, and Reed and Kellogg’s; and I smiled as I saw a copy of The Dean’s English.

I could not reconcile these books with the man from what I had seen of him, and I wondered if he could possibly read them.  But when I came to make the bed I found, between the blankets, dropped apparently as he had sunk off to sleep, a complete Browning, the Cambridge Edition.  It was open at “In a Balcony,” and I noticed, here and there, passages underlined in pencil.  Further, letting drop the volume during a lurch of the ship, a sheet of paper fell out.  It was scrawled over with geometrical diagrams and calculations of some sort.

It was patent that this terrible man was no ignorant clod, such as one would inevitably suppose him to be from his exhibitions of brutality.  At once he became an enigma.  One side or the other of his nature was perfectly comprehensible; but both sides together were bewildering.  I had already remarked that his language was excellent, marred with an occasional slight inaccuracy.  Of course, in common speech with the sailors and hunters, it sometimes fairly bristled with errors, which was due to the vernacular itself; but in the few words he had held with me it had been clear and correct.

This glimpse I had caught of his other side must have emboldened me, for I resolved to speak to him about the money I had lost.

“I have been robbed,” I said to him, a little later, when I found him pacing up and down the poop alone.

“Sir,” he corrected, not harshly, but sternly.

“I have been robbed, sir,” I amended.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

Then I told him the whole circumstance, how my clothes had been left to dry in the galley, and how, later, I was nearly beaten by the cook when I mentioned the matter.

He smiled at my recital.  “Pickings,” he concluded; “Cooky’s pickings.  And don’t you think your miserable life worth the price?  Besides, consider it a lesson.  You’ll learn in time how to take care of your money for yourself.  I suppose, up to now, your lawyer has done it for you, or your business agent.”

I could feel the quiet sneer through his words, but demanded, “How can I get it back again?”

“That’s your look-out.  You haven’t any lawyer or business agent now, so you’ll have to depend on yourself.  When you get a dollar, hang on to it.  A man who leaves his money lying around,