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CHAPTER XXXVII
At once we
moved aboard the Ghost, occupying
our old state-rooms and cooking in the galley. The imprisonment of Wolf
Larsen had happened most opportunely, for what must have been the Indian summer
of this high latitude was gone and drizzling stormy weather had set in.
We were very comfortable, and the inadequate shears, with the foremast
suspended from them, gave a business-like air to the schooner and a promise of
departure. And now that
we had Wolf Larsen in irons, how little did we need it! Like his first
attack, his second had been accompanied by serious disablement. Maud made
the discovery in the afternoon while trying to give him nourishment. He
had shown signs of consciousness, and she had spoken to him, eliciting no
response. He was lying on his left side at the time, and in evident
pain. With a restless movement he rolled his head around, clearing his
left ear from the pillow against which it had been pressed. At once he
heard and answered her, and at once she came to me. Pressing the
pillow against his left ear, I asked him if he heard me, but he gave no
sign. Removing the pillow and, repeating the question he answered
promptly that he did. “Do you know
you are deaf in the right ear?” I asked. “Yes,” he
answered in a low, strong voice, “and worse than that. My whole right
side is affected. It seems asleep. I cannot move arm or leg.” “Feigning
again?” I demanded angrily. He shook his
head, his stern mouth shaping the strangest, twisted smile. It was indeed
a twisted smile, for it was on the left side only, the facial muscles of the
right side moving not at all. “That was
the last play of the Wolf,” he said. “I am paralysed. I shall never
walk again. Oh, only on the other side,” he added, as though divining the
suspicious glance I flung at his left leg, the knee of which had just then drawn
up, and elevated the blankets. “It’s
unfortunate,” he continued. “I’d liked to have done for you first,
Hump. And I thought I had that much left in me.” “But why?” I
asked; partly in horror, partly out of curiosity. Again his
stern mouth framed the twisted smile, as he said: “Oh, just to
be alive, to be living and doing, to be the biggest bit of the ferment to the
end, to eat you. But to die this way.” He shrugged
his shoulders, or attempted to shrug them, rather, for the left shoulder alone
moved. Like the smile, the shrug was twisted. “But how can
you account for it?” I asked. “Where is the seat of your trouble?” “The brain,”
he said at once. “It was those cursed headaches brought it on.” “Symptoms,”
I said. He nodded
his head. “There is no accounting for it. I was never sick in my
life. Something’s gone wrong with my brain. A cancer, a tumour, or
something of that nature, — a thing that devours and destroys. It’s
attacking my nerve-centres, eating them up, bit by bit, cell by cell — from the
pain.” “The
motor-centres, too,” I suggested. “So it would
seem; and the curse of it is that I must lie here, conscious, mentally
unimpaired, knowing that the lines are going down, breaking bit by bit
communication with the world. I cannot see, hearing and feeling are
leaving me, at this rate I shall soon cease to speak; yet all the time I shall
be here, alive, active, and powerless.” “When you
say you are here, I’d suggest the
likelihood of the soul,” I said. “Bosh!” was
his retort. “It simply means that in the attack on my brain the higher
psychical centres are untouched. I can remember, I can think and
reason. When that goes, I go. I am not. The soul?” He broke out
in mocking laughter, then turned his left ear to the pillow as a sign that he
wished no further conversation. Maud and I
went about our work oppressed by the fearful fate which had overtaken him, —
how fearful we were yet fully to realize. There was the awfulness of
retribution about it. Our thoughts were deep and solemn, and we spoke to each
other scarcely above whispers. “You might
remove the handcuffs,” he said that night, as we stood in consultation over
him. “It’s dead safe. I’m a paralytic now. The next thing to
watch out for is bed sores.” He smiled
his twisted smile, and Maud, her eyes wide with horror, was compelled to turn
away her head. “Do you know
that your smile is crooked?” I asked him; for I knew that she must attend him,
and I wished to save her as much as possible. “Then I
shall smile no more,” he said calmly. “I thought something was
wrong. My right cheek has been numb all day. Yes, and I’ve had
warnings of this for the last three days; by spells, my right side seemed going
to sleep, sometimes arm or hand, sometimes leg or foot.” “So my smile
is crooked?” he queried a short while after. “Well, consider henceforth
that I smile internally, with my soul, if you please, my soul. Consider
that I am smiling now.” And for the
space of several minutes he lay there, quiet, indulging his grotesque fancy. The man of
him was not changed. It was the old, indomitable, terrible Wolf Larsen,
imprisoned somewhere within that flesh which had once been so invincible and
splendid. Now it bound him with insentient fetters, walling his soul in
darkness and silence, blocking it from the world which to him had been a riot
of action. No more would he conjugate the verb “to do in every mood and
tense.” “To be” was all that remained to him — to be, as he had defined
death, without movement; to will, but not to execute; to think and reason and
in the spirit of him to be as alive as ever, but in the flesh to be dead, quite
dead. And yet,
though I even removed the handcuffs, we could not adjust ourselves to his
condition. Our minds revolted. To us he was full of
potentiality. We knew not what to expect of him next, what fearful thing,
rising above the flesh, he might break out and do. Our experience
warranted this state of mind, and we went about our work with anxiety always
upon us. I had solved
the problem which had arisen through the shortness of the shears. By
means of the watch-tackle (I had made a new one), I heaved the butt of the
foremast across the rail and then lowered it to the deck. Next, by means
of the shears, I hoisted the main boom on board. Its forty feet of length
would supply the height necessary properly to swing the mast. By means of
a secondary tackle I had attached to the shears, I swung the boom to a nearly
perpendicular position, then lowered the butt to the deck, where, to prevent
slipping, I spiked great cleats around it. The single block of my
original shears-tackle I had attached to the end of the boom. Thus, by
carrying this tackle to the windlass, I could raise and lower the end of the
boom at will, the butt always remaining stationary, and, by means of guys, I
could swing the boom from side to side. To the end of the boom I had
likewise rigged a hoisting tackle; and when the whole arrangement was completed
I could not but be startled by the power and latitude it gave me. Of course,
two days’ work was required for the accomplishment of this part of my task, and
it was not till the morning of the third day that I swung the foremast from the
deck and proceeded to square its butt to fit the step. Here I was
especially awkward. I sawed and chopped and chiselled the weathered wood
till it had the appearance of having been gnawed by some gigantic mouse.
But it fitted. “It will
work, I know it will work,” I cried. “Do you know
Dr. Jordan’s final test of truth?” Maud asked. I shook my
head and paused in the act of dislodging the shavings which had drifted down my
neck. “Can we make
it work? Can we trust our lives to it? is the test.” “He is a
favourite of yours,” I said. “When I
dismantled my old Pantheon and cast out Napoleon and Caesar and their fellows,
I straightway erected a new Pantheon,” she answered gravely, “and the first I
installed as Dr. Jordan.” “A modern
hero.” “And a
greater because modern,” she added. “How can the Old World heroes compare
with ours?” I shook my
head. We were too much alike in many things for argument. Our
points of view and outlook on life at least were very alike. “For a pair
of critics we agree famously,” I laughed. “And as
shipwright and able assistant,” she laughed back. But there
was little time for laughter in those days, what of our heavy work and of the
awfulness of Wolf Larsen’s living death. He had
received another stroke. He had lost his voice, or he was losing
it. He had only intermittent use of it. As he phrased it, the wires
were like the stock market, now up, now down. Occasionally the wires were
up and he spoke as well as ever, though slowly and heavily. Then speech
would suddenly desert him, in the middle of a sentence perhaps, and for hours,
sometimes, we would wait for the connection to be re-established. He complained
of great pain in his head, and it was during this period that he arranged a
system of communication against the time when speech should leave him
altogether — one pressure of the hand for “yes,” two for “no.” It was
well that it was arranged, for by evening his voice had gone from him. By
hand pressures, after that, he answered our questions, and when he wished to
speak he scrawled his thoughts with his left hand, quite legibly, on a sheet of
paper. The fierce
winter had now descended upon us. Gale followed gale, with snow and sleet
and rain. The seals had started on their great southern migration, and
the rookery was practically deserted. I worked feverishly. In spite
of the bad weather, and of the wind which especially hindered me, I was on deck
from daylight till dark and making substantial progress. I profited
by my lesson learned through raising the shears and then climbing them to
attach the guys. To the top of the foremast, which was just lifted
conveniently from the deck, I attached the rigging, stays and throat and peak
halyards. As usual, I had underrated the amount of work involved in this
portion of the task, and two long days were necessary to complete it. And
there was so much yet to be done — the sails, for instance, which practically
had to be made over. While I
toiled at rigging the foremast, Maud sewed on canvas, ready always to drop
everything and come to my assistance when more hands than two were
required. The canvas was heavy and hard, and she sewed with the regular
sailor’s palm and three-cornered sail-needle. Her hands were soon sadly
blistered, but she struggled bravely on, and in addition doing the cooking and
taking care of the sick man. “A fig for
superstition,” I said on Friday morning. “That mast goes in to-day.’ Everything
was ready for the attempt. Carrying the boom-tackle to the windlass, I
hoisted the mast nearly clear of the deck. Making this tackle fast, I
took to the windlass the shears-tackle (which was connected with the end of the
boom), and with a few turns had the mast perpendicular and clear. Maud clapped
her hands the instant she was relieved from holding the turn, crying: “It
works! It works! We’ll trust our lives to it!” Then she
assumed a rueful expression. “It’s not
over the hole,” she add. “Will you have to begin all over?” I smiled in
superior fashion, and, slacking off on one of the boom-guys and taking in on
the other, swung the mast perfectly in the centre of the deck. Still it
was not over the hole. Again the rueful expression came on her face, and
again I smiled in a superior way. Slacking away on the boom-tackle and
hoisting an equivalent amount on the shears-tackle, I brought the butt of the
mast into position directly over the hole in the deck. Then I gave Maud
careful instructions for lowering away and went into the hold to the step on
the schooner’s bottom. I called to
her, and the mast moved easily and accurately. Straight toward the square
hole of the step the square butt descended; but as it descended it slowly
twisted so that square would not fit into square. But I had not even a
moment’s indecision. Calling to Maud to cease lowering, I went on deck
and made the watch-tackle fast to the mast with a rolling hitch. I left
Maud to pull on it while I went below. By the light of the lantern I saw
the butt twist slowly around till its sides coincided with the sides of the
step. Maud made fast and returned to the windlass. Slowly the butt
descended the several intervening inches, at the same time slightly twisting
again. Again Maud rectified the twist with the watch-tackle, and again
she lowered away from the windlass. Square fitted into square. The
mast was stepped. I raised a
shout, and she ran down to see. In the yellow lantern light we peered at
what we had accomplished. We looked at each other, and our hands felt
their way and clasped. The eyes of both of us, I think, were moist with
the joy of success. “It was done
so easily after all,” I remarked. “All the work was in the preparation.” “And all the
wonder in the completion,” Maud added. “I can scarcely bring myself to
realize that that great mast is really up and in; that you have lifted it from
the water, swung it through the air, and deposited it here where it
belongs. It is a Titan’s task.” “And they
made themselves many inventions,” I began merrily, then paused to sniff the
air. I looked
hastily at the lantern. It was not smoking. Again I sniffed. “Something
is burning,” Maud said, with sudden conviction. We sprang
together for the ladder, but I raced past her to the deck. A dense volume
of smoke was pouring out of the steerage companion-way. “The Wolf is
not yet dead,” I muttered to myself as I sprang down through the smoke. It was so
thick in the confined space that I was compelled to feel my way; and so potent
was the spell of Wolf Larsen on my imagination, I was quite prepared for the
helpless giant to grip my neck in a strangle hold. I hesitated, the
desire to race back and up the steps to the deck almost overpowering me.
Then I recollected Maud. The vision of her, as I had last seen her, in
the lantern light of the schooner’s hold, her brown eyes warm and moist with
joy, flashed before me, and I knew that I could not go back. I was
choking and suffocating by the time I reached Wolf Larsen’s bunk. I reached
my hand and felt for his. He was lying motionless, but moved slightly at
the touch of my hand. I felt over and under his blankets. There was
no warmth, no sign of fire. Yet that smoke which blinded me and made me
cough and gasp must have a source. I lost my head temporarily and dashed
frantically about the steerage. A collision with the table partially
knocked the wind from my body and brought me to myself. I reasoned that a
helpless man could start a fire only near to where he lay. I returned
to Wolf Larsen’s bunk. There I encountered Maud. How long she had
been there in that suffocating atmosphere I could not guess. “Go up on
deck!” I commanded peremptorily. “But,
Humphrey — ” she began to protest in a queer, husky voice. “Please!
please!” I shouted at her harshly. She drew
away obediently, and then I thought, What if she cannot find the steps? I
started after her, to stop at the foot of the companion-way. Perhaps she
had gone up. As I stood there, hesitant, I heard her cry softly: “Oh, Humphrey,
I am lost.” I found her
fumbling at the wall of the after bulkhead, and, half leading her, half
carrying her, I took her up the companion-way. The pure air was like
nectar. Maud was only faint and dizzy, and I left her lying on the deck
when I took my second plunge below. The source
of the smoke must be very close to Wolf Larsen — my mind was made up to this,
and I went straight to his bunk. As I felt about among his blankets,
something hot fell on the back of my hand. It burned me, and I jerked my
hand away. Then I understood. Through the cracks in the bottom of
the upper bunk he had set fire to the mattress. He still retained
sufficient use of his left arm to do this. The damp straw of the
mattress, fired from beneath and denied air, had been smouldering all the
while. As I dragged
the mattress out of the bunk it seemed to disintegrate in mid-air, at the same
time bursting into flames. I beat out the burning remnants of straw in
the bunk, then made a dash for the deck for fresh air. Several
buckets of water sufficed to put out the burning mattress in the middle of the
steerage floor; and ten minutes later, when the smoke had fairly cleared, I
allowed Maud to come below. Wolf Larsen was unconscious, but it was a
matter of minutes for the fresh air to restore him. We were working over
him, however, when he signed for paper and pencil. “Pray do not
interrupt me,” he wrote. “I am smiling.” “I am still
a bit of the ferment, you see,” he wrote a little later. “I am glad
you are as small a bit as you are,” I said. “Thank you,”
he wrote. “But just think of how much smaller I shall be before I die.” “And yet I
am all here, Hump,” he wrote with a final flourish. “I can think more
clearly than ever in my life before. Nothing to disturb me. Concentration
is perfect. I am all here and more than here.” It was like
a message from the night of the grave; for this man’s body had become his
mausoleum. And there, in so strange sepulchre, his spirit fluttered and
lived. It would flutter and live till the last line of communication was
broken, and after that who was to say how much longer it might continue to
flutter and live? |