Web
and Book design,
Copyright, Kellscraft Studio 1999-2008 (Return to Web Text-ures) |
(HOME)
|
CHAPTER III
Wolf Larsen
ceased swearing as suddenly as he had begun. He relighted his cigar and
glanced around. His eyes chanced upon the cook. “Well,
Cooky?” he began, with a suaveness that was cold and of the temper of steel. “Yes, sir,”
the cook eagerly interpolated, with appeasing and apologetic servility. “Don’t you
think you’ve stretched that neck of yours just about enough? It’s
unhealthy, you know. The mate’s gone, so I can’t afford to lose you
too. You must be very, very careful of your health, Cooky.
Understand?” His last
word, in striking contrast with the smoothness of his previous utterance,
snapped like the lash of a whip. The cook quailed under it. “Yes, sir,”
was the meek reply, as the offending head disappeared into the galley. At this
sweeping rebuke, which the cook had only pointed, the rest of the crew became
uninterested and fell to work at one task or another. A number of men,
however, who were lounging about a companion-way between the galley and hatch,
and who did not seem to be sailors, continued talking in low tones with one
another. These, I afterward learned, were the hunters, the men who shot
the seals, and a very superior breed to common sailor-folk. “Johansen!”
Wolf Larsen called out. A sailor stepped forward obediently. “Get
your palm and needle and sew the beggar up. You’ll find some old canvas
in the sail-locker. Make it do.” “What’ll I
put on his feet, sir?” the man asked, after the customary “Ay, ay, sir.” “We’ll see
to that,” Wolf Larsen answered, and elevated his voice in a call of “Cooky!” Thomas
Mugridge popped out of his galley like a jack-in-the-box. “Go below
and fill a sack with coal.” “Any of you
fellows got a Bible or Prayer-book?” was the captain’s next demand, this time
of the hunters lounging about the companion-way. They shook
their heads, and some one made a jocular remark which I did not catch, but
which raised a general laugh. Wolf Larsen
made the same demand of the sailors. Bibles and Prayer-books seemed
scarce articles, but one of the men volunteered to pursue the quest amongst the
watch below, returning in a minute with the information that there was none. The captain
shrugged his shoulders. “Then we’ll drop him over without any palavering,
unless our clerical-looking castaway has the burial service at sea by heart.” By this time
he had swung fully around and was facing me. “You’re a preacher, aren’t
you?” he asked. The hunters,
— there were six of them, — to a man, turned and regarded me. I was
painfully aware of my likeness to a scarecrow. A laugh went up at my
appearance, — a laugh that was not lessened or softened by the dead man
stretched and grinning on the deck before us; a laugh that was as rough and
harsh and frank as the sea itself; that arose out of coarse feelings and blunted
sensibilities, from natures that knew neither courtesy nor gentleness. Wolf Larsen
did not laugh, though his grey eyes lighted with a slight glint of amusement;
and in that moment, having stepped forward quite close to him, I received my
first impression of the man himself, of the man as apart from his body, and
from the torrent of blasphemy I had heard him spew forth. The face, with
large features and strong lines, of the square order, yet well filled out, was
apparently massive at first sight; but again, as with the body, the massiveness
seemed to vanish, and a conviction to grow of a tremendous and excessive mental
or spiritual strength that lay behind, sleeping in the deeps of his
being. The jaw, the chin, the brow rising to a goodly height and swelling
heavily above the eyes, — these, while strong in themselves, unusually strong,
seemed to speak an immense vigour or virility of spirit that lay behind and
beyond and out of sight. There was no sounding such a spirit, no
measuring, no determining of metes and bounds, nor neatly classifying in some
pigeon-hole with others of similar type. The eyes —
and it was my destiny to know them well — were large and handsome, wide apart
as the true artist’s are wide, sheltering under a heavy brow and arched over by
thick black eyebrows. The eyes themselves were of that baffling protean
grey which is never twice the same; which runs through many shades and
colourings like intershot silk in sunshine; which is grey, dark and light, and
greenish-grey, and sometimes of the clear azure of the deep sea. They
were eyes that masked the soul with a thousand guises, and that sometimes
opened, at rare moments, and allowed it to rush up as though it were about to
fare forth nakedly into the world on some wonderful adventure, — eyes that
could brood with the hopeless sombreness of leaden skies; that could snap and
crackle points of fire like those which sparkle from a whirling sword; that
could grow chill as an arctic landscape, and yet again, that could warm and
soften and be all a-dance with love-lights, intense and masculine, luring and
compelling, which at the same time fascinate and dominate women till they
surrender in a gladness of joy and of relief and sacrifice. But to
return. I told him that, unhappily for the burial service, I was not a
preacher, when he sharply demanded: “What do you
do for a living?” I confess I
had never had such a question asked me before, nor had I ever canvassed
it. I was quite taken aback, and before I could find myself had sillily
stammered, “I — I am a gentleman.” His lip
curled in a swift sneer. “I have
worked, I do work,” I cried impetuously, as though he were my judge and I
required vindication, and at the same time very much aware of my arrant idiocy
in discussing the subject at all. “For your
living?” There was
something so imperative and masterful about him that I was quite beside myself
— “rattled,” as Furuseth would have termed it, like a quaking child before a
stern school-master. “Who feeds
you?” was his next question. “I have an
income,” I answered stoutly, and could have bitten my tongue the next
instant. “All of which, you will pardon my observing, has nothing
whatsoever to do with what I wish to see you about.” But he
disregarded my protest. “Who earned
it? Eh? I thought so. Your father. You stand on dead
men’s legs. You’ve never had any of your own. You couldn’t walk
alone between two sunrises and hustle the meat for your belly for three
meals. Let me see your hand.” His
tremendous, dormant strength must have stirred, swiftly and accurately, or I
must have slept a moment, for before I knew it he had stepped two paces
forward, gripped my right hand in his, and held it up for inspection. I
tried to withdraw it, but his fingers tightened, without visible effort, till I
thought mine would be crushed. It is hard to maintain one’s dignity under
such circumstances. I could not squirm or struggle like a
schoolboy. Nor could I attack such a creature who had but to twist my arm
to break it. Nothing remained but to stand still and accept the
indignity. I had time to notice that the pockets of the dead man had been
emptied on the deck, and that his body and his grin had been wrapped from view
in canvas, the folds of which the sailor, Johansen, was sewing together with
coarse white twine, shoving the needle through with a leather contrivance
fitted on the palm of his hand. Wolf Larsen
dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain. “Dead men’s
hands have kept it soft. Good for little else than dish-washing and
scullion work.” “I wish to
be put ashore,” I said firmly, for I now had myself in control. “I shall
pay you whatever you judge your delay and trouble to be worth.” He looked at
me curiously. Mockery shone in his eyes. “I have a
counter proposition to make, and for the good of your soul. My mate’s
gone, and there’ll be a lot of promotion. A sailor comes aft to take
mate’s place, cabin-boy goes for’ard to take sailor’s place, and you take the
cabin-boy’s place, sign the articles for the cruise, twenty dollars per month
and found. Now what do you say? And mind you, it’s for your own
soul’s sake. It will be the making of you. You might learn in time
to stand on your own legs, and perhaps to toddle along a bit.” But I took
no notice. The sails of the vessel I had seen off to the south-west had
grown larger and plainer. They were of the same schooner-rig as the Ghost, though the hull itself, I could
see, was smaller. She was a pretty sight, leaping and flying toward us,
and evidently bound to pass at close range. The wind had been momentarily
increasing, and the sun, after a few angry gleams, had disappeared. The
sea had turned a dull leaden grey and grown rougher, and was now tossing
foaming whitecaps to the sky. We were travelling faster, and heeled
farther over. Once, in a gust, the rail dipped under the sea, and the
decks on that side were for the moment awash with water that made a couple of
the hunters hastily lift their feet. “That vessel
will soon be passing us,” I said, after a moment’s pause. “As she is
going in the opposite direction, she is very probably bound for San Francisco.” “Very
probably,” was Wolf Larsen’s answer, as he turned partly away from me and cried
out, “Cooky! Oh, Cooky!” The Cockney
popped out of the galley. “Where’s
that boy? Tell him I want him.” “Yes, sir;”
and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down another companion-way
near the wheel. A moment later he emerged, a heavy-set young fellow of
eighteen or nineteen, with a glowering, villainous countenance, trailing at his
heels. “’Ere ’e is,
sir,” the cook said. But Wolf
Larsen ignored that worthy, turning at once to the cabin-boy. “What’s your
name, boy? “George
Leach, sir,” came the sullen answer, and the boy’s bearing showed clearly that
he divined the reason for which he had been summoned. “Not an
Irish name,” the captain snapped sharply. “O’Toole or McCarthy would suit
your mug a damn sight better. Unless, very likely, there’s an Irishman in
your mother’s woodpile.” I saw the
young fellow’s hands clench at the insult, and the blood crawl scarlet up his
neck. “But let
that go,” Wolf Larsen continued. “You may have very good reasons for
forgetting your name, and I’ll like you none the worse for it as long as you
toe the mark. Telegraph Hill, of course, is your port of entry. It
sticks out all over your mug. Tough as they make them and twice as
nasty. I know the kind. Well, you can make up your mind to have it
taken out of you on this craft. Understand? Who shipped you,
anyway?” “McCready
and Swanson.” “Sir!” Wolf
Larsen thundered. “McCready
and Swanson, sir,” the boy corrected, his eyes burning with a bitter light. “Who got the
advance money?” “They did,
sir.” “I thought
as much. And damned glad you were to let them have it. Couldn’t
make yourself scarce too quick, with several gentlemen you may have heard of
looking for you.” The boy
metamorphosed into a savage on the instant. His body bunched together as
though for a spring, and his face became as an infuriated beast’s as he
snarled, “It’s a — ” “A what?”
Wolf Larsen asked, a peculiar softness in his voice, as though he were
overwhelmingly curious to hear the unspoken word. The boy
hesitated, then mastered his temper. “Nothin’, sir. I take it
back.” “And you
have shown me I was right.” This with a gratified smile. “How old are
you?” “Just turned
sixteen, sir,” “A
lie. You’ll never see eighteen again. Big for your age at that,
with muscles like a horse. Pack up your kit and go for’ard into the
fo’c’sle. You’re a boat-puller now. You’re promoted; see?” Without
waiting for the boy’s acceptance, the captain turned to the sailor who had just
finished the gruesome task of sewing up the corpse. “Johansen, do you
know anything about navigation?” “No, sir,” “Well, never
mind; you’re mate just the same. Get your traps aft into the mate’s
berth.” “Ay, ay,
sir,” was the cheery response, as Johansen started forward. In the
meantime the erstwhile cabin-boy had not moved. “What are you waiting
for?” Wolf Larsen demanded. “I didn’t
sign for boat-puller, sir,” was the reply. “I signed for cabin-boy.
An’ I don’t want no boat-pullin’ in mine.” “Pack up and
go for’ard.” This time
Wolf Larsen’s command was thrillingly imperative. The boy glowered
sullenly, but refused to move. Then came
another stirring of Wolf Larsen’s tremendous strength. It was utterly
unexpected, and it was over and done with between the ticks of two
seconds. He had sprung fully six feet across the deck and driven his fist
into the other’s stomach. At the same moment, as though I had been struck
myself, I felt a sickening shock in the pit of my stomach. I instance
this to show the sensitiveness of my nervous organization at the time, and how
unused I was to spectacles of brutality. The cabin-boy — and he weighed
one hundred and sixty-five at the very least — crumpled up. His body
wrapped limply about the fist like a wet rag about a stick. He lifted
into the air, described a short curve, and struck the deck alongside the corpse
on his head and shoulders, where he lay and writhed about in agony. “Well?”
Larsen asked of me. “Have you made up your mind?” I had
glanced occasionally at the approaching schooner, and it was now almost abreast
of us and not more than a couple of hundred yards away. It was a very
trim and neat little craft. I could see a large, black number on one of
its sails, and I had seen pictures of pilot-boats. “What vessel
is that?” I asked. “The
pilot-boat Lady Mine,” Wolf
Larsen answered grimly. “Got rid of her pilots and running into San
Francisco. She’ll be there in five or six hours with this wind.” “Will you
please signal it, then, so that I may be put ashore.” “Sorry, but
I’ve lost the signal book overboard,” he remarked, and the group of hunters
grinned. I debated a
moment, looking him squarely in the eyes. I had seen the frightful
treatment of the cabin-boy, and knew that I should very probably receive the
same, if not worse. As I say, I debated with myself, and then I did what
I consider the bravest act of my life. I ran to the side, waving my arms
and shouting: “Lady Mine ahoy! Take me
ashore! A thousand dollars if you take me ashore!” "Ahoy! Take me ashore! A thousand dollars if you take me ashore!"
I waited,
watching two men who stood by the wheel, one of them steering. The other
was lifting a megaphone to his lips. I did not turn my head, though I
expected every moment a killing blow from the human brute behind me. At
last, after what seemed centuries, unable longer to stand the strain, I looked
around. He had not moved. He was standing in the same position,
swaying easily to the roll of the ship and lighting a fresh cigar. “What is the
matter? Anything wrong?” This was the
cry from the Lady Mine. “Yes!” I
shouted, at the top of my lungs. “Life or death! One thousand
dollars if you take me ashore!” “Too much
’Frisco tanglefoot for the health of my crew!” Wolf Larsen shouted after.
“This one” — indicating me with his thumb — “fancies sea-serpents and monkeys
just now!” The man on
the Lady Mine laughed back
through the megaphone. The pilot-boat plunged past. “Give him
hell for me!” came a final cry, and the two men waved their arms in farewell. I leaned
despairingly over the rail, watching the trim little schooner swiftly
increasing the bleak sweep of ocean between us. And she would probably be
in San Francisco in five or six hours! My head seemed bursting.
There was an ache in my throat as though my heart were up in it. A
curling wave struck the side and splashed salt spray on my lips. The wind
puffed strongly, and the Ghost
heeled far over, burying her lee rail. I could hear the water rushing
down upon the deck. When I
turned around, a moment later, I saw the cabin-boy staggering to his
feet. His face was ghastly white, twitching with suppressed pain.
He looked very sick. “Well,
Leach, are you going for’ard?” Wolf Larsen asked. “Yes, sir,”
came the answer of a spirit cowed. “And you?” I
was asked. “I’ll give
you a thousand — ” I began, but was interrupted. “Stow
that! Are you going to take up your duties as cabin-boy? Or do I
have to take you in hand?” What was I
to do? To be brutally beaten, to be killed perhaps, would not help my case.
I looked steadily into the cruel grey eyes. They might have been granite
for all the light and warmth of a human soul they contained. One may see
the soul stir in some men’s eyes, but his were bleak, and cold, and grey as the
sea itself. “Well?” “Yes,” I
said. “Say ‘yes,
sir.’” “Yes, sir,”
I corrected. “What is
your name?” “Van Weyden,
sir.” “First
name?” “Humphrey,
sir; Humphrey Van Weyden.” “Age?” “Thirty-five,
sir.” “That’ll
do. Go to the cook and learn your duties.” And thus it
was that I passed into a state of involuntary servitude to Wolf Larsen.
He was stronger than I, that was all. But it was very unreal at the
time. It is no less unreal now that I look back upon it. It will
always be to me a monstrous, inconceivable thing, a horrible nightmare. “Hold on,
don’t go yet.” I stopped
obediently in my walk toward the galley. “Johansen,
call all hands. Now that we’ve everything cleaned up, we’ll have the
funeral and get the decks cleared of useless lumber.” While
Johansen was summoning the watch below, a couple of sailors, under the
captain’s direction, laid the canvas-swathed corpse upon a hatch-cover.
On either side the deck, against the rail and bottoms up, were lashed a number
of small boats. Several men picked up the hatch-cover with its ghastly
freight, carried it to the lee side, and rested it on the boats, the feet
pointing overboard. To the feet was attached the sack of coal which the
cook had fetched. I had always
conceived a burial at sea to be a very solemn and awe-inspiring event, but I
was quickly disillusioned, by this burial at any rate. One of the
hunters, a little dark-eyed man whom his mates called “Smoke,” was telling
stories, liberally intersprinkled with oaths and obscenities; and every minute
or so the group of hunters gave mouth to a laughter that sounded to me like a
wolf-chorus or the barking of hell-hounds. The sailors trooped noisily
aft, some of the watch below rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and talked in
low tones together. There was an ominous and worried expression on their
faces. It was evident that they did not like the outlook of a voyage
under such a captain and begun so inauspiciously. From time to time they
stole glances at Wolf Larsen, and I could see that they were apprehensive of
the man. He stepped
up to the hatch-cover, and all caps came off. I ran my eyes over them —
twenty men all told; twenty-two including the man at the wheel and
myself. I was pardonably curious in my survey, for it appeared my fate to
be pent up with them on this miniature floating world for I knew not how many
weeks or months. The sailors, in the main, were English and Scandinavian,
and their faces seemed of the heavy, stolid order. The hunters, on the
other hand, had stronger and more diversified faces, with hard lines and the
marks of the free play of passions. Strange to say, and I noted it all
once, Wolf Larsen’s features showed no such evil stamp. There seemed
nothing vicious in them. True, there were lines, but they were the lines
of decision and firmness. It seemed, rather, a frank and open
countenance, which frankness or openness was enhanced by the fact that he was
smooth-shaven. I could hardly believe — until the next incident occurred
— that it was the face of a man who could behave as he had behaved to the
cabin-boy. At this
moment, as he opened his mouth to speak, puff after puff struck the schooner
and pressed her side under. The wind shrieked a wild song through the
rigging. Some of the hunters glanced anxiously aloft. The lee rail,
where the dead man lay, was buried in the sea, and as the schooner lifted and
righted the water swept across the deck wetting us above our shoe-tops. A
shower of rain drove down upon us, each drop stinging like a hailstone.
As it passed, Wolf Larsen began to speak, the bare-headed men swaying in
unison, to the heave and lunge of the deck. “I only
remember one part of the service,” he said, “and that is, ‘And the body shall
be cast into the sea.’ So cast it in.” He ceased
speaking. The men holding the hatch-cover seemed perplexed, puzzled no
doubt by the briefness of the ceremony. He burst upon them in a fury. “Lift up
that end there, damn you! What the hell’s the matter with you?” They
elevated the end of the hatch-cover with pitiful haste, and, like a dog flung
overside, the dead man slid feet first into the sea. The coal at his feet
dragged him down. He was gone. “Johansen,”
Wolf Larsen said briskly to the new mate, “keep all hands on deck now they’re
here. Get in the topsails and jibs and make a good job of it. We’re
in for a sou’-easter. Better reef the jib and mainsail too, while you’re
about it.” In a moment
the decks were in commotion, Johansen bellowing orders and the men pulling or
letting go ropes of various sorts — all naturally confusing to a landsman such
as myself. But it was the heartlessness of it that especially struck
me. The dead man was an episode that was past, an incident that was
dropped, in a canvas covering with a sack of coal, while the ship sped along
and her work went on. Nobody had been affected. The hunters were
laughing at a fresh story of Smoke’s; the men pulling and hauling, and two of
them climbing aloft; Wolf Larsen was studying the clouding sky to windward; and
the dead man, dying obscenely, buried sordidly, and sinking down, down — Then it was
that the cruelty of the sea, its relentlessness and awfulness, rushed upon
me. Life had become cheap and tawdry, a beastly and inarticulate thing, a
soulless stirring of the ooze and slime. I held on to the weather rail,
close by the shrouds, and gazed out across the desolate foaming waves to the
low-lying fog-banks that hid San Francisco and the California coast.
Rain-squalls were driving in between, and I could scarcely see the fog.
And this strange vessel, with its terrible men, pressed under by wind and sea
and ever leaping up and out, was heading away into the south-west, into the
great and lonely Pacific expanse. |