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CHAPTER XXXIIII
We waited
all day for Wolf Larsen to come ashore. It was an intolerable period of
anxiety. Each moment one or the other of us cast expectant glances toward
the Ghost. But he did not
come. He did not even appear on deck. “Perhaps it
is his headache,” I said. “I left him lying on the poop. He may lie
there all night. I think I’ll go and see.” Maud looked
entreaty at me. “It is all
right,” I assured her. “I shall take the revolvers. You know I
collected every weapon on board.” “But there
are his arms, his hands, his terrible, terrible hands!” she objected. And
then she cried, “Oh, Humphrey, I am afraid of him! Don’t go — please
don’t go!” She rested
her hand appealingly on mine, and sent my pulse fluttering. My heart was
surely in my eyes for a moment. The dear and lovely woman! And she
was so much the woman, clinging and appealing, sunshine and dew to my manhood,
rooting it deeper and sending through it the sap of a new strength. I was
for putting my arm around her, as when in the midst of the seal herd; but I
considered, and refrained. “I shall not
take any risks,” I said. “I’ll merely peep over the bow and see.” She pressed
my hand earnestly and let me go. But the space on deck where I had left
him lying was vacant. He had evidently gone below. That night we
stood alternate watches, one of us sleeping at a time; for there was no telling
what Wolf Larsen might do. He was certainly capable of anything. The next day
we waited, and the next, and still he made no sign. “These
headaches of his, these attacks,” Maud said, on the afternoon of the fourth
day; “Perhaps he is ill, very ill. He may be dead.” “Or dying,”
was her afterthought when she had waited some time for me to speak. “Better so,”
I answered. “But think,
Humphrey, a fellow-creature in his last lonely hour.” “Perhaps,” I
suggested. “Yes, even
perhaps,” she acknowledged. “But we do not know. It would be
terrible if he were. I could never forgive myself. We must do
something.” “Perhaps,” I
suggested again. I waited,
smiling inwardly at the woman of her which compelled a solicitude for Wolf
Larsen, of all creatures. Where was her solicitude for me, I thought, —
for me whom she had been afraid to have merely peep aboard? She was too
subtle not to follow the trend of my silence. And she was as direct as
she was subtle. “You must go
aboard, Humphrey, and find out,” she said. “And if you want to laugh at
me, you have my consent and forgiveness.” I arose
obediently and went down the beach. “Do be
careful,” she called after me. I waved my
arm from the forecastle head and dropped down to the deck. Aft I walked
to the cabin companion, where I contented myself with hailing below. Wolf
Larsen answered, and as he started to ascend the stairs I cocked my
revolver. I displayed it openly during our conversation, but he took no
notice of it. He appeared the same, physically, as when last I saw him,
but he was gloomy and silent. In fact, the few words we spoke could
hardly be called a conversation. I did not inquire why he had not been
ashore, nor did he ask why I had not come aboard. His head was all right
again, he said, and so, without further parley, I left him. Maud
received my report with obvious relief, and the sight of smoke which later rose
in the galley put her in a more cheerful mood. The next day, and the
next, we saw the galley smoke rising, and sometimes we caught glimpses of him
on the poop. But that was all. He made no attempt to come
ashore. This we knew, for we still maintained our night-watches. We
were waiting for him to do something, to show his hand, so to say, and his
inaction puzzled and worried us. A week of
this passed by. We had no other interest than Wolf Larsen, and his
presence weighed us down with an apprehension which prevented us from doing any
of the little things we had planned. But at the
end of the week the smoke ceased rising from the galley, and he no longer
showed himself on the poop. I could see Maud’s solicitude again growing,
though she timidly — and even proudly, I think — forbore a repetition of her
request. After all, what censure could be put upon her? She was
divinely altruistic, and she was a woman. Besides, I was myself aware of
hurt at thought of this man whom I had tried to kill, dying alone with his
fellow-creatures so near. He was right. The code of my group was
stronger than I. The fact that he had hands, feet, and a body shaped
somewhat like mine, constituted a claim which I could not ignore. So I did not
wait a second time for Maud to send me. I discovered that we stood in
need of condensed milk and marmalade, and announced that I was going
aboard. I could see that she wavered. She even went so far as to
murmur that they were non-essentials and that my trip after them might be
inexpedient. And as she had followed the trend of my silence, she now
followed the trend of my speech, and she knew that I was going aboard, not
because of condensed milk and marmalade, but because of her and of her anxiety,
which she knew she had failed to hide. I took off
my shoes when I gained the forecastle head, and went noiselessly aft in my
stocking feet. Nor did I call this time from the top of the
companion-way. Cautiously descending, I found the cabin deserted.
The door to his state-room was closed. At first I thought of knocking,
then I remembered my ostensible errand and resolved to carry it out.
Carefully avoiding noise, I lifted the trap-door in the floor and set it to one
side. The slop-chest, as well as the provisions, was stored in the
lazarette, and I took advantage of the opportunity to lay in a stock of
underclothing. As I emerged
from the lazarette I heard sounds in Wolf Larsen’s state-room. I crouched
and listened. The door-knob rattled. Furtively, instinctively, I
slunk back behind the table and drew and cocked my revolver. The door
swung open and he came forth. Never had I seen so profound a despair as
that which I saw on his face, — the face of Wolf Larsen the fighter, the strong
man, the indomitable one. For all the world like a woman wringing her
hands, he raised his clenched fists and groaned. One fist unclosed, and
the open palm swept across his eyes as though brushing away cobwebs. “God!
God!” he groaned, and the clenched fists were raised again to the infinite
despair with which his throat vibrated. It was
horrible. I was trembling all over, and I could feel the shivers running
up and down my spine and the sweat standing out on my forehead. Surely
there can be little in this world more awful than the spectacle of a strong man
in the moment when he is utterly weak and broken. But Wolf
Larsen regained control of himself by an exertion of his remarkable will.
And it was exertion. His whole frame shook with the struggle. He
resembled a man on the verge of a fit. His face strove to compose itself,
writhing and twisting in the effort till he broke down again. Once more
the clenched fists went upward and he groaned. He caught his breath once
or twice and sobbed. Then he was successful. I could have thought
him the old Wolf Larsen, and yet there was in his movements a vague suggestion
of weakness and indecision. He started for the companion-way, and stepped
forward quite as I had been accustomed to see him do; and yet again, in his
very walk, there seemed that suggestion of weakness and indecision. I was now
concerned with fear for myself. The open trap lay directly in his path,
and his discovery of it would lead instantly to his discovery of me. I
was angry with myself for being caught in so cowardly a position, crouching on
the floor. There was yet time. I rose swiftly to my feet, and, I
know, quite unconsciously assumed a defiant attitude. He took no notice
of me. Nor did he notice the open trap. Before I could grasp the
situation, or act, he had walked right into the trap. One foot was
descending into the opening, while the other foot was just on the verge of
beginning the uplift. But when the descending foot missed the solid flooring
and felt vacancy beneath, it was the old Wolf Larsen and the tiger muscles that
made the falling body spring across the opening, even as it fell, so that he
struck on his chest and stomach, with arms outstretched, on the floor of the
opposite side. The next instant he had drawn up his legs and rolled
clear. But he rolled into my marmalade and underclothes and against the
trap-door. The
expression on his face was one of complete comprehension. But before I
could guess what he had comprehended, he had dropped the trap-door into place,
closing the lazarette. Then I understood. He thought he had me
inside. Also, he was blind, blind as a bat. I watched him,
breathing carefully so that he should not hear me. He stepped quickly to
his state-room. I saw his hand miss the door-knob by an inch, quickly
fumble for it, and find it. This was my chance. I tiptoed across
the cabin and to the top of the stairs. He came back, dragging a heavy
sea-chest, which he deposited on top of the trap. Not content with this
he fetched a second chest and placed it on top of the first. Then he
gathered up the marmalade and underclothes and put them on the table.
When he started up the companion-way, I retreated, silently rolling over on top
of the cabin. He shoved
the slide part way back and rested his arms on it, his body still in the
companion-way. His attitude was of one looking forward the length of the
schooner, or staring, rather, for his eyes were fixed and unblinking. I
was only five feet away and directly in what should have been his line of
vision. It was uncanny. I felt myself a ghost, what of my
invisibility. I waved my hand back and forth, of course without effect;
but when the moving shadow fell across his face I saw at once that he was
susceptible to the impression. His face became more expectant and tense
as he tried to analyze and identify the impression. He knew that he had
responded to something from without, that his sensibility had been touched by a
changing something in his environment; but what it was he could not
discover. I ceased waving my hand, so that the shadow remained
stationary. He slowly moved his head back and forth under it and turned
from side to side, now in the sunshine, now in the shade, feeling the shadow,
as it were, testing it by sensation. I, too, was
busy, trying to reason out how he was aware of the existence of so intangible a
thing as a shadow. If it were his eyeballs only that were affected, or if
his optic nerve were not wholly destroyed, the explanation was simple. If
otherwise, then the only conclusion I could reach was that the sensitive skin
recognized the difference of temperature between shade and sunshine. Or,
perhaps, — who can tell? — it was that fabled sixth sense which conveyed to him
the loom and feel of an object close at hand. Giving over
his attempt to determine the shadow, he stepped on deck and started forward,
walking with a swiftness and confidence which surprised me. And still
there was that hint of the feebleness of the blind in his walk. I knew it
now for what it was. To my amused chagrin, he discovered my shoes on the forecastle head and brought them back with him into the galley. I watched him build the fire and set about cooking food for himself; then I stole into the cabin for my marmalade and underclothes, slipped back past the galley, and climbed down to the beach to deliver my barefoot report. |