Chapter 12

by Jack London

　　Chapter XII

　　The last twenty-four hours have witnessed a carnival of brutality.From cabin to forecastle it seems to have broken out like acontagion. I scarcely know where to begin. Wolf Larsen was reallythe cause of it. The relations among the men, strained and madetense by feuds, quarrels and grudges, were in a state of unstableequilibrium, and evil passions flared up in flame like prairie-grass.

　　Thomas Mugridge is a sneak, a spy, an informer. He has beenattempting to curry favour and reinstate himself in the good gracesof the captain by carrying tales of the men forward. He it was, Iknow, that carried some of Johnson's hasty talk to Wolf Larsen.Johnson, it seems, bought a suit of oilskins from the slop-chestand found them to be of greatly inferior quality. Nor was he slowin advertising the fact. The slop-chest is a sort of miniaturedry-goods store which is carried by all sealing schooners and whichis stocked with articles peculiar to the needs of the sailors.Whatever a sailor purchases is taken from his subsequent earningson the sealing grounds; for, as it is with the hunters so it iswith the boat-pullers and steerers - in the place of wages theyreceive a "lay," a rate of so much per skin for every skin capturedin their particular boat.

　　But of Johnson's grumbling at the slop-chest I knew nothing, sothat what I witnessed came with a shock of sudden surprise. I hadjust finished sweeping the cabin, and had been inveigled by WolfLarsen into a discussion of Hamlet, his favourite Shakespeariancharacter, when Johansen descended the companion stairs followed byJohnson. The latter's cap came off after the custom of the sea,and he stood respectfully in the centre of the cabin, swayingheavily and uneasily to the roll of the schooner and facing thecaptain.

　　"Shut the doors and draw the slide," Wolf Larsen said to me.

　　As I obeyed I noticed an anxious light come into Johnson's eyes,but I did not dream of its cause. I did not dream of what was tooccur until it did occur, but he knew from the very first what wascoming and awaited it bravely. And in his action I found completerefutation of all Wolf Larsen's materialism. The sailor Johnsonwas swayed by idea, by principle, and truth, and sincerity. He wasright, he knew he was right, and he was unafraid. He would die forthe right if needs be, he would be true to himself, sincere withhis soul. And in this was portrayed the victory of the spirit overthe flesh, the indomitability and moral grandeur of the soul thatknows no restriction and rises above time and space and matter witha surety and invincibleness born of nothing else than eternity andimmortality.

　　But to return. I noticed the anxious light in Johnson's eyes, butmistook it for the native shyness and embarrassment of the man.The mate, Johansen, stood away several feet to the side of him, andfully three yards in front of him sat Wolf Larsen on one of thepivotal cabin chairs. An appreciable pause fell after I had closedthe doors and drawn the slide, a pause that must have lasted fullya minute. It was broken by Wolf Larsen.

　　"Yonson," he began.

　　"My name is Johnson, sir," the sailor boldly corrected.

　　"Well, Johnson, then, damn you! Can you guess why I have sent foryou?"

　　"Yes, and no, sir," was the slow reply. "My work is done well.The mate knows that, and you know it, sir. So there cannot be anycomplaint."

　　"And is that all?" Wolf Larsen queried, his voice soft, and low,and purring.

　　"I know you have it in for me," Johnson continued with hisunalterable and ponderous slowness. "You do not like me. You -you - "

　　"Go on," Wolf Larsen prompted. "Don't be afraid of my feelings."

　　"I am not afraid," the sailor retorted, a slight angry flush risingthrough his sunburn. "If I speak not fast, it is because I havenot been from the old country as long as you. You do not like mebecause I am too much of a man; that is why, sir."

　　"You are too much of a man for ship discipline, if that is what youmean, and if you know what I mean," was Wolf Larsen's retort.

　　"I know English, and I know what you mean, sir," Johnson answered,his flush deepening at the slur on his knowledge of the Englishlanguage.

　　"Johnson," Wolf Larsen said, with an air of dismissing all that hadgone before as introductory to the main business in hand, "Iunderstand you're not quite satisfied with those oilskins?"

　　"No, I am not. They are no good, sir."

　　"And you've been shooting off your mouth about them."

　　"I say what I think, sir," the sailor answered courageously, notfailing at the same time in ship courtesy, which demanded that"sir" be appended to each speech he made.

　　It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Johansen. Hisbig fists were clenching and unclenching, and his face waspositively fiendish, so malignantly did he look at Johnson. Inoticed a black discoloration, still faintly visible, underJohansen's eye, a mark of the thrashing he had received a fewnights before from the sailor. For the first time I began todivine that something terrible was about to be enacted, - what, Icould not imagine.

　　"Do you know what happens to men who say what you've said about myslop-chest and me?" Wolf Larsen was demanding.

　　"I know, sir," was the answer.

　　"What?" Wolf Larsen demanded, sharply and imperatively.

　　"What you and the mate there are going to do to me, sir."

　　"Look at him, Hump," Wolf Larsen said to me, "look at this bit ofanimated dust, this aggregation of matter that moves and breathesand defies me and thoroughly believes itself to be compounded ofsomething good; that is impressed with certain human fictions suchas righteousness and honesty, and that will live up to them inspite of all personal discomforts and menaces. What do you thinkof him, Hump? What do you think of him?"

　　"I think that he is a better man than you are," I answered,impelled, somehow, with a desire to draw upon myself a portion ofthe wrath I felt was about to break upon his head. "His humanfictions, as you choose to call them, make for nobility andmanhood. You have no fictions, no dreams, no ideals. You are apauper."

　　He nodded his head with a savage pleasantness. "Quite true, Hump,quite true. I have no fictions that make for nobility and manhood.A living dog is better than a dead lion, say I with the Preacher.My only doctrine is the doctrine of expediency, and it makes forsurviving. This bit of the ferment we call 'Johnson,' when he isno longer a bit of the ferment, only dust and ashes, will have nomore nobility than any dust and ashes, while I shall still be aliveand roaring."

　　"Do you know what I am going to do?" he questioned.

　　I shook my head.

　　"Well, I am going to exercise my prerogative of roaring and showyou how fares nobility. Watch me."

　　Three yards away from Johnson he was, and sitting down. Nine feet!And yet he left the chair in full leap, without first gaining astanding position. He left the chair, just as he sat in it,squarely, springing from the sitting posture like a wild animal, atiger, and like a tiger covered the intervening space. It was anavalanche of fury that Johnson strove vainly to fend off. He threwone arm down to protect the stomach, the other arm up to protectthe head; but Wolf Larsen's fist drove midway between, on thechest, with a crushing, resounding impact. Johnson's breath,suddenly expelled, shot from his mouth and as suddenly checked,with the forced, audible expiration of a man wielding an axe. Healmost fell backward, and swayed from side to side in an effort torecover his balance.

　　I cannot give the further particulars of the horrible scene thatfollowed. It was too revolting. It turns me sick even now when Ithink of it. Johnson fought bravely enough, but he was no matchfor Wolf Larsen, much less for Wolf Larsen and the mate. It wasfrightful. I had not imagined a human being could endure so muchand still live and struggle on. And struggle on Johnson did. Ofcourse there was no hope for him, not the slightest, and he knew itas well as I, but by the manhood that was in him he could not ceasefrom fighting for that manhood.

　　It was too much for me to witness. I felt that I should lose mymind, and I ran up the companion stairs to open the doors andescape on deck. But Wolf Larsen, leaving his victim for themoment, and with one of his tremendous springs, gained my side andflung me into the far corner of the cabin.

　　"The phenomena of life, Hump," he girded at me. "Stay and watchit. You may gather data on the immortality of the soul. Besides,you know, we can't hurt Johnson's soul. It's only the fleetingform we may demolish."

　　It seemed centuries - possibly it was no more than ten minutes thatthe beating continued. Wolf Larsen and Johansen were all about thepoor fellow. They struck him with their fists, kicked him withtheir heavy shoes, knocked him down, and dragged him to his feet toknock him down again. His eyes were blinded so that he could notset, and the blood running from ears and nose and mouth turned thecabin into a shambles. And when he could no longer rise they stillcontinued to beat and kick him where he lay.

　　"Easy, Johansen; easy as she goes," Wolf Larsen finally said.

　　But the beast in the mate was up and rampant, and Wolf Larsen wascompelled to brush him away with a back-handed sweep of the arm,gentle enough, apparently, but which hurled Johansen back like acork, driving his head against the wall with a crash. He fell tothe floor, half stunned for the moment, breathing heavily andblinking his eyes in a stupid sort of way.

　　"Jerk open the doors, - Hump," I was commanded.

　　I obeyed, and the two brutes picked up the senseless man like asack of rubbish and hove him clear up the companion stairs, throughthe narrow doorway, and out on deck. The blood from his nosegushed in a scarlet stream over the feet of the helmsman, who wasnone other than Louis, his boat-mate. But Louis took and gave aspoke and gazed imperturbably into the binnacle.

　　Not so was the conduct of George Leach, the erstwhile cabin-boy.Fore and aft there was nothing that could have surprised us morethan his consequent behaviour. He it was that came up on the poopwithout orders and dragged Johnson forward, where he set aboutdressing his wounds as well as he could and making him comfortable.Johnson, as Johnson, was unrecognizable; and not only that, for hisfeatures, as human features at all, were unrecognizable, sodiscoloured and swollen had they become in the few minutes whichhad elapsed between the beginning of the beating and the draggingforward of the body.

　　But of Leach's behaviour - By the time I had finished cleansingthe cabin he had taken care of Johnson. I had come up on deck fora breath of fresh air and to try to get some repose for myoverwrought nerves. Wolf Larsen was smoking a cigar and examiningthe patent log which the Ghost usually towed astern, but which hadbeen hauled in for some purpose. Suddenly Leach's voice came to myears. It was tense and hoarse with an overmastering rage. Iturned and saw him standing just beneath the break of the poop onthe port side of the galley. His face was convulsed and white, hiseyes were flashing, his clenched fists raised overhead.

　　"May God damn your soul to hell, Wolf Larsen, only hell's too goodfor you, you coward, you murderer, you pig!" was his openingsalutation.

　　I was thunderstruck. I looked for his instant annihilation. Butit was not Wolf Larsen's whim to annihilate him. He saunteredslowly forward to the break of the poop, and, leaning his elbow onthe corner of the cabin, gazed down thoughtfully and curiously atthe excited boy.

　　And the boy indicted Wolf Larsen as he had never been indictedbefore. The sailors assembled in a fearful group just outside theforecastle scuttle and watched and listened. The hunters piledpell-mell out of the steerage, but as Leach's tirade continued Isaw that there was no levity in their faces. Even they werefrightened, not at the boy's terrible words, but at his terribleaudacity. It did not seem possible that any living creature couldthus beard Wolf Larsen in his teeth. I know for myself that I wasshocked into admiration of the boy, and I saw in him the splendidinvincibleness of immortality rising above the flesh and the fearsof the flesh, as in the prophets of old, to condemnunrighteousness.

　　And such condemnation! He haled forth Wolf Larsen's soul naked tothe scorn of men. He rained upon it curses from God and HighHeaven, and withered it with a heat of invective that savoured of amediaeval excommunication of the Catholic Church. He ran the gamutof denunciation, rising to heights of wrath that were sublime andalmost Godlike, and from sheer exhaustion sinking to the vilest andmost indecent abuse.

　　His rage was a madness. His lips were flecked with a soapy froth,and sometimes he choked and gurgled and became inarticulate. Andthrough it all, calm and impassive, leaning on his elbow and gazingdown, Wolf Larsen seemed lost in a great curiosity. This wildstirring of yeasty life, this terrific revolt and defiance ofmatter that moved, perplexed and interested him.

　　Each moment I looked, and everybody looked, for him to leap uponthe boy and destroy him. But it was not his whim. His cigar wentout, and he continued to gaze silently and curiously.

　　Leach had worked himself into an ecstasy of impotent rage.

　　"Pig! Pig! Pig!" he was reiterating at the top of his lungs."Why don't you come down and kill me, you murderer? You can do it!I ain't afraid! There's no one to stop you! Damn sight betterdead and outa your reach than alive and in your clutches! Come on,you coward! Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!"

　　It was at this stage that Thomas Mugridge's erratic soul broughthim into the scene. He had been listening at the galley door, buthe now came out, ostensibly to fling some scraps over the side, butobviously to see the killing he was certain would take place. Hesmirked greasily up into the face of Wolf Larsen, who seemed not tosee him. But the Cockney was unabashed, though mad, stark mad. Heturned to Leach, saying:

　　"Such langwidge! Shockin'!"

　　Leach's rage was no longer impotent. Here at last was somethingready to hand. And for the first time since the stabbing theCockney had appeared outside the galley without his knife. Thewords had barely left his mouth when he was knocked down by Leach.Three times he struggled to his feet, striving to gain the galley,and each time was knocked down.

　　"Oh, Lord!" he cried. "'Elp! Elp! Tyke 'im aw'y, carn't yer?Tyke 'im aw'y!"

　　The hunters laughed from sheer relief. Tragedy had dwindled, thefarce had begun. The sailors now crowded boldly aft, grinning andshuffling, to watch the pummelling of the hated Cockney. And evenI felt a great joy surge up within me. I confess that I delightedin this beating Leach was giving to Thomas Mugridge, though it wasas terrible, almost, as the one Mugridge had caused to be given toJohnson. But the expression of Wolf Larsen's face never changed.He did not change his position either, but continued to gaze downwith a great curiosity. For all his pragmatic certitude, it seemedas if he watched the play and movement of life in the hope ofdiscovering something more about it, of discerning in its maddestwrithings a something which had hitherto escaped him, - the key toits mystery, as it were, which would make all clear and plain.

　　But the beating! It was quite similar to the one I had witnessedin the cabin. The Cockney strove in vain to protect himself fromthe infuriated boy. And in vain he strove to gain the shelter ofthe cabin. He rolled toward it, grovelled toward it, fell towardit when he was knocked down. But blow followed blow withbewildering rapidity. He was knocked about like a shuttlecock,until, finally, like Johnson, he was beaten and kicked as he layhelpless on the deck. And no one interfered. Leach could havekilled him, but, having evidently filled the measure of hisvengeance, he drew away from his prostrate foe, who was whimperingand wailing in a puppyish sort of way, and walked forward.

　　But these two affairs were only the opening events of the day'sprogramme. In the afternoon Smoke and Henderson fell foul of eachother, and a fusillade of shots came up from the steerage, followedby a stampede of the other four hunters for the deck. A column ofthick, acrid smoke - the kind always made by black powder - wasarising through the open companion-way, and down through it leapedWolf Larsen. The sound of blows and scuffling came to our ears.Both men were wounded, and he was thrashing them both for havingdisobeyed his orders and crippled themselves in advance of thehunting season. In fact, they were badly wounded, and, havingthrashed them, he proceeded to operate upon them in a roughsurgical fashion and to dress their wounds. I served as assistantwhile he probed and cleansed the passages made by the bullets, andI saw the two men endure his crude surgery without anaesthetics andwith no more to uphold them than a stiff tumbler of whisky.

　　Then, in the first dog-watch, trouble came to a head in theforecastle. It took its rise out of the tittle-tattle and tale-bearing which had been the cause of Johnson's beating, and from thenoise we heard, and from the sight of the bruised men next day, itwas patent that half the forecastle had soundly drubbed the otherhalf.

　　The second dog-watch and the day were wound up by a fight betweenJohansen and the lean, Yankee-looking hunter, Latimer. It wascaused by remarks of Latimer's concerning the noises made by themate in his sleep, and though Johansen was whipped, he kept thesteerage awake for the rest of the night while he blissfullyslumbered and fought the fight over and over again.

　　As for myself, I was oppressed with nightmare. The day had beenlike some horrible dream. Brutality had followed brutality, andflaming passions and cold-blooded cruelty had driven men to seekone another's lives, and to strive to hurt, and maim, and destroy.My nerves were shocked. My mind itself was shocked. All my dayshad been passed in comparative ignorance of the animality of man.In fact, I had known life only in its intellectual phases.Brutality I had experienced, but it was the brutality of theintellect - the cutting sarcasm of Charley Furuseth, the cruelepigrams and occasional harsh witticisms of the fellows at theBibelot, and the nasty remarks of some of the professors during myundergraduate days.

　　That was all. But that men should wreak their anger on others bythe bruising of the flesh and the letting of blood was somethingstrangely and fearfully new to me. Not for nothing had I beencalled "Sissy" Van Weyden, I thought, as I tossed restlessly on mybunk between one nightmare and another. And it seemed to me thatmy innocence of the realities of life had been complete indeed. Ilaughed bitterly to myself, and seemed to find in Wolf Larsen'sforbidding philosophy a more adequate explanation of life than Ifound in my own.

　　And I was frightened when I became conscious of the trend of mythought. The continual brutality around me was degenerative in itseffect. It bid fair to destroy for me all that was best andbrightest in life. My reason dictated that the beating ThomasMugridge had received was an ill thing, and yet for the life of meI could not prevent my soul joying in it. And even while I wasoppressed by the enormity of my sin, - for sin it was, - I chuckledwith an insane delight. I was no longer Humphrey Van Weyden. Iwas Hump, cabin-boy on the schooner Ghost. Wolf Larsen was mycaptain, Thomas Mugridge and the rest were my companions, and I wasreceiving repeated impresses from the die which had stamped themall.