Chapter VII

by Jack London

　　I was barely turned fifteen, and working long hours in a cannery.Month in and month out, the shortest day I ever worked was tenhours. When to ten hours of actual work at a machine is added thenoon hour; the walking to work and walking home from work; thegetting up in the morning, dressing, and eating; the eating atnight, undressing, and going to bed, there remains no more thanthe nine hours out of the twenty-four required by a healthyyoungster for sleep. Out of those nine hours, after I was in bedand ere my eyes drowsed shut, I managed to steal a little time forreading.

　　But many a night I did not knock off work until midnight. Onoccasion I worked eighteen and twenty hours on a stretch. Once Iworked at my machine for thirty-six consecutive hours. And therewere weeks on end when I never knocked off work earlier thaneleven o'clock, got home and in bed at half after midnight, andwas called at half-past five to dress, eat, walk to work, and beat my machine at seven o'clock whistle blow.

　　No moments here to be stolen for my beloved books. And what hadJohn Barleycorn to do with such strenuous, Stoic toil of a ladjust turned fifteen? He had everything to do with it. Let me showyou. I asked myself if this were the meaning of life--to be awork-beast? I knew of no horse in the city of Oakland that workedthe hours I worked. If this were living, I was entirelyunenamoured of it. I remembered my skiff, lying idle andaccumulating barnacles at the boat-wharf; I remembered the windthat blew every day on the bay, the sunrises and sunsets I neversaw; the bite of the salt air in my nostrils, the bite of the saltwater on my flesh when I plunged overside; I remembered all thebeauty and the wonder and the sense-delights of the world deniedme. There was only one way to escape my deadening toil. I mustget out and away on the water. I must earn my bread on the water.And the way of the water led inevitably to John Barleycorn. I didnot know this. And when I did learn it, I was courageous enoughnot to retreat back to my bestial life at the machine.

　　I wanted to be where the winds of adventure blew. And the windsof adventure blew the oyster pirate sloops up and down SanFrancisco Bay, from raided oyster-beds and fights at night onshoal and flat, to markets in the morning against city wharves,where peddlers and saloon-keepers came down to buy. Every raid onan oyster-bed was a felony. The penalty was State imprisonment,the stripes and the lockstep. And what of that? The men instripes worked a shorter day than I at my machine. And there wasvastly more romance in being an oyster pirate or a convict than inbeing a machine slave. And behind it all, behind all of me withyouth abubble, whispered Romance, Adventure.

　　So I interviewed my Mammy Jennie, my old nurse at whose blackbreast I had suckled. She was more prosperous than my folks. Shewas nursing sick people at a good weekly wage. Would she lend her"white child" the money? Would she? What she had was mine.

　　Then I sought out French Frank, the oyster pirate, who wanted tosell, I had heard, his sloop, the Razzle Dazzle. I found himlying at anchor on the Alameda side of the estuary near theWebster Street bridge, with visitors aboard, whom he wasentertaining with afternoon wine. He came on deck to talkbusiness. He was willing to sell. But it was Sunday. Besides,he had guests. On the morrow he would make out the bill of saleand I could enter into possession. And in the meantime I must comebelow and meet his friends. They were two sisters, Mamie andTess; a Mrs. Hadley, who chaperoned them; "Whisky" Bob, a youthfuloyster pirate of sixteen; and "Spider" Healey, a black-whiskeredwharf-rat of twenty. Mamie, who was Spider's niece, was calledthe Queen of the Oyster Pirates, and, on occasion, presided attheir revels. French Frank was in love with her, though I did notknow it at the time; and she steadfastly refused to marry him.

　　French Frank poured a tumbler of red wine from a big demijohn todrink to our transaction. I remembered the red wine of theItalian rancho, and shuddered inwardly. Whisky and beer were notquite so repulsive. But the Queen of the Oyster Pirates waslooking at me, a part-emptied glass in her own hand. I had mypride. If I was only fifteen, at least I could not show myselfany less a man than she. Besides, there were her sister, and Mrs.Hadley, and the young oyster pirate, and the whiskered wharf-rat,all with glasses in their hands. Was I a milk-and-water sop? No;a thousand times no, and a thousand glasses no. I downed thetumblerful like a man.

　　French Frank was elated by the sale, which I had bound with atwenty-dollar goldpiece. He poured more wine. I had learned mystrong head and stomach, and I was certain I could drink with themin a temperate way and not poison myself for a week to come. Icould stand as much as they; and besides, they had already beendrinking for some time.

　　We got to singing. Spider sang "The Boston Burglar" and "BlackLulu." The Queen sang "Then I Wisht I Were a Little Bird." And hersister Tess sang "Oh, Treat My Daughter Kindily." The fun grewfast and furious. I found myself able to miss drinks withoutbeing noticed or called to account. Also, standing in thecompanionway, head and shoulders out and glass in hand, I couldfling the wine overboard.

　　I reasoned something like this: It is a queerness of these peoplethat they like this vile-tasting wine. Well, let them. I cannotquarrel with their tastes. My manhood, according to their queernotions, must compel me to appear to like this wine. Very well.I shall so appear. But I shall drink no more than is unavoidable.

　　And the Queen began to make love to me, the latest recruit to theoyster pirate fleet, and no mere hand, but a master and owner.She went upon deck to take the air, and took me with her. Sheknew, of course, but I never dreamed, how French Frank was ragingdown below. Then Tess joined us, sitting on the cabin; andSpider, and Bob; and at the last, Mrs. Hadley and French Frank.And we sat there, glasses in hand, and sang, while the bigdemijohn went around; and I was the only strictly sober one.

　　And I enjoyed it as no one of them was able to enjoy it. Here, inthis atmosphere of bohemianism, I could not but contrast the scenewith my scene of the day before, sitting at my machine, in thestifling, shut-in air, repeating, endlessly repeating, at topspeed, my series of mechanical motions. And here I sat now, glassin hand, in warm-glowing camaraderie, with the oyster pirates,adventurers who refused to be slaves to petty routine, who floutedrestrictions and the law, who carried their lives and theirliberty in their hands. And it was through John Barleycorn that Icame to join this glorious company of free souls, unashamed andunafraid.

　　And the afternoon seabreeze blew its tang into my lungs, andcurled the waves in mid-channel. Before it came the scowschooners, wing-and-wing, blowing their horns for the drawbridgesto open. Red-stacked tugs tore by, rocking the Razzle Dazzle inthe waves of their wake. A sugar barque towed from the "boneyard"to sea. The sun-wash was on the crisping water, and life was big.And Spider sang:

　　"Oh, it's Lulu, black Lulu, my darling, Oh, it's where have you been so long? Been layin' in jail, A-waitin' for bail, Till my bully comes rollin' along."There it was, the smack and slap of the spirit of revolt, ofadventure, of romance, of the things forbidden and done defiantlyand grandly. And I knew that on the morrow I would not go back tomy machine at the cannery. To-morrow I would be an oyster pirate,as free a freebooter as the century and the waters of SanFrancisco Bay would permit. Spider had already agreed to sailwith me as my crew of one, and, also, as cook while I did the deckwork. We would outfit our grub and water in the morning, hoistthe big mainsail (which was a bigger piece of canvas than any Ihad ever sailed under), and beat our way out the estuary on thefirst of the seabreeze and the last of the ebb. Then we wouldslack sheets, and on the first of the flood run down the bay tothe Asparagus Islands, where we would anchor miles off shore. Andat last my dream would be realised: I would sleep upon the water.And next morning I would wake upon the water; and thereafter allmy days and nights would be on the water.

　　And the Queen asked me to row her ashore in my skiff, when atsunset French Frank prepared to take his guests ashore. Nor did Icatch the significance of his abrupt change of plan when he turnedthe task of rowing his skiff over to Whisky Bob, himself remainingon board the sloop. Nor did I understand Spider's grinning side-remark to me: "Gee! There's nothin' slow about you." How could itpossibly enter my boy's head that a grizzled man of fifty shouldbe jealous of me?