Chapter 15

by Jack London

　　Chapter XV

　　There was a deal of cursing and groaning as the men at the bottomof the ladder crawled to their feet.

　　"Somebody strike a light, my thumb's out of joint," said one of themen, Parsons, a swarthy, saturnine man, boat-steerer in Standish'sboat, in which Harrison was puller.

　　"You'll find it knockin' about by the bitts," Leach said, sittingdown on the edge of the bunk in which I was concealed.

　　There was a fumbling and a scratching of matches, and the sea-lampflared up, dim and smoky, and in its weird light bare-legged menmoved about nursing their bruises and caring for their hurts.Oofty-Oofty laid hold of Parsons's thumb, pulling it out stoutlyand snapping it back into place. I noticed at the same time thatthe Kanaka's knuckles were laid open clear across and to the bone.He exhibited them, exposing beautiful white teeth in a grin as hedid so, and explaining that the wounds had come from striking WolfLarsen in the mouth.

　　"So it was you, was it, you black beggar?" belligerently demandedone Kelly, an Irish-American and a longshoreman, making his firsttrip to sea, and boat-puller for Kerfoot.

　　As he made the demand he spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth andshoved his pugnacious face close to Oofty-Oofty. The Kanaka leapedbackward to his bunk, to return with a second leap, flourishing along knife.

　　"Aw, go lay down, you make me tired," Leach interfered. He wasevidently, for all of his youth and inexperience, cock of theforecastle. "G'wan, you Kelly. You leave Oofty alone. How inhell did he know it was you in the dark?"

　　Kelly subsided with some muttering, and the Kanaka flashed hiswhite teeth in a grateful smile. He was a beautiful creature,almost feminine in the pleasing lines of his figure, and there wasa softness and dreaminess in his large eyes which seemed tocontradict his well-earned reputation for strife and action.

　　"How did he get away?" Johnson asked.

　　He was sitting on the side of his bunk, the whole pose of hisfigure indicating utter dejection and hopelessness. He was stillbreathing heavily from the exertion he had made. His shirt hadbeen ripped entirely from him in the struggle, and blood from agash in the cheek was flowing down his naked chest, marking a redpath across his white thigh and dripping to the floor.

　　"Because he is the devil, as I told you before," was Leach'sanswer; and thereat he was on his feet and raging hisdisappointment with tears in his eyes.

　　"And not one of you to get a knife!" was his unceasing lament.

　　But the rest of the hands had a lively fear of consequences to comeand gave no heed to him.

　　"How'll he know which was which?" Kelly asked, and as he went on helooked murderously about him - "unless one of us peaches."

　　"He'll know as soon as ever he claps eyes on us," Parsons replied."One look at you'd be enough."

　　"Tell him the deck flopped up and gouged yer teeth out iv yer jaw,"Louis grinned. He was the only man who was not out of his bunk,and he was jubilant in that he possessed no bruises to advertisethat he had had a hand in the night's work. "Just wait till hegets a glimpse iv yer mugs to-morrow, the gang iv ye," he chuckled.

　　"We'll say we thought it was the mate," said one. And another, "Iknow what I'll say - that I heered a row, jumped out of my bunk,got a jolly good crack on the jaw for my pains, and sailed inmyself. Couldn't tell who or what it was in the dark and just hitout."

　　"An' 'twas me you hit, of course," Kelly seconded, his facebrightening for the moment.

　　Leach and Johnson took no part in the discussion, and it was plainto see that their mates looked upon them as men for whom the worstwas inevitable, who were beyond hope and already dead. Leach stoodtheir fears and reproaches for some time. Then he broke out:

　　"You make me tired! A nice lot of gazabas you are! If you talkedless with yer mouth and did something with yer hands, he'd a-bendone with by now. Why couldn't one of you, just one of you, get mea knife when I sung out? You make me sick! A-beefin' andbellerin' 'round, as though he'd kill you when he gets you! Youknow damn well he wont. Can't afford to. No shipping masters orbeach-combers over here, and he wants yer in his business, and hewants yer bad. Who's to pull or steer or sail ship if he losesyer? It's me and Johnson have to face the music. Get into yerbunks, now, and shut yer faces; I want to get some sleep."

　　"That's all right all right," Parsons spoke up. "Mebbe he won't dofor us, but mark my words, hell 'll be an ice-box to this ship fromnow on."

　　All the while I had been apprehensive concerning my ownpredicament. What would happen to me when these men discovered mypresence? I could never fight my way out as Wolf Larsen had done.And at this moment Latimer called down the scuttles:

　　"Hump! The old man wants you!"

　　"He ain't down here!" Parsons called back.

　　"Yes, he is," I said, sliding out of the bunk and striving myhardest to keep my voice steady and bold.

　　The sailors looked at me in consternation. Fear was strong intheir faces, and the devilishness which comes of fear.

　　"I'm coming!" I shouted up to Latimer.

　　"No you don't!" Kelly cried, stepping between me and the ladder,his right hand shaped into a veritable strangler's clutch. "Youdamn little sneak! I'll shut yer mouth!"

　　"Let him go," Leach commanded.

　　"Not on yer life," was the angry retort.

　　Leach never changed his position on the edge of the bunk. "Let himgo, I say," he repeated; but this time his voice was gritty andmetallic.

　　The Irishman wavered. I made to step by him, and he stood aside.When I had gained the ladder, I turned to the circle of brutal andmalignant faces peering at me through the semi-darkness. A suddenand deep sympathy welled up in me. I remembered the Cockney's wayof putting it. How God must have hated them that they should betortured so!

　　"I have seen and heard nothing, believe me," I said quietly.

　　"I tell yer, he's all right," I could hear Leach saying as I wentup the ladder. "He don't like the old man no more nor you or me."

　　I found Wolf Larsen in the cabin, stripped and bloody, waiting forme. He greeted me with one of his whimsical smiles.

　　"Come, get to work, Doctor. The signs are favourable for anextensive practice this voyage. I don't know what the Ghost wouldhave been without you, and if I could only cherish such noblesentiments I would tell you her master is deeply grateful."

　　I knew the run of the simple medicine-chest the Ghost carried, andwhile I was heating water on the cabin stove and getting the thingsready for dressing his wounds, he moved about, laughing andchatting, and examining his hurts with a calculating eye. I hadnever before seen him stripped, and the sight of his body quitetook my breath away. It has never been my weakness to exalt theflesh - far from it; but there is enough of the artist in me toappreciate its wonder.

　　I must say that I was fascinated by the perfect lines of WolfLarsen's figure, and by what I may term the terrible beauty of it.I had noted the men in the forecastle. Powerfully muscled thoughsome of them were, there had been something wrong with all of them,an insufficient development here, an undue development there, atwist or a crook that destroyed symmetry, legs too short or toolong, or too much sinew or bone exposed, or too little. Oofty-Oofty had been the only one whose lines were at all pleasing,while, in so far as they pleased, that far had they been what Ishould call feminine.

　　But Wolf Larsen was the man-type, the masculine, and almost a godin his perfectness. As he moved about or raised his arms the greatmuscles leapt and moved under the satiny skin. I have forgotten tosay that the bronze ended with his face. His body, thanks to hisScandinavian stock, was fair as the fairest woman's. I rememberhis putting his hand up to feel of the wound on his head, and mywatching the biceps move like a living thing under its whitesheath. It was the biceps that had nearly crushed out my lifeonce, that I had seen strike so many killing blows. I could nottake my eyes from him. I stood motionless, a roll of antisepticcotton in my hand unwinding and spilling itself down to the floor.

　　He noticed me, and I became conscious that I was staring at him.

　　"God made you well," I said.

　　"Did he?" he answered. "I have often thought so myself, andwondered why."

　　"Purpose - " I began.

　　"Utility," he interrupted. "This body was made for use. Thesemuscles were made to grip, and tear, and destroy living things thatget between me and life. But have you thought of the other livingthings? They, too, have muscles, of one kind and another, made togrip, and tear, and destroy; and when they come between me andlife, I out-grip them, out-tear them, out-destroy them. Purposedoes not explain that. Utility does."

　　"It is not beautiful," I protested.

　　"Life isn't, you mean," he smiled. "Yet you say I was made well.Do you see this?"

　　He braced his legs and feet, pressing the cabin floor with his toesin a clutching sort of way. Knots and ridges and mounds of muscleswrithed and bunched under the skin.

　　"Feel them," he commanded.

　　They were hard as iron. And I observed, also, that his whole bodyhad unconsciously drawn itself together, tense and alert; thatmuscles were softly crawling and shaping about the hips, along theback, and across the shoulders; that the arms were slightly lifted,their muscles contracting, the fingers crooking till the hands werelike talons; and that even the eyes had changed expression and intothem were coming watchfulness and measurement and a light noneother than of battle.

　　"Stability, equilibrium," he said, relaxing on the instant andsinking his body back into repose. "Feet with which to clutch theground, legs to stand on and to help withstand, while with arms andhands, teeth and nails, I struggle to kill and to be not killed.Purpose? Utility is the better word."

　　I did not argue. I had seen the mechanism of the primitivefighting beast, and I was as strongly impressed as if I had seenthe engines of a great battleship or Atlantic liner.

　　I was surprised, considering the fierce struggle in the forecastle,at the superficiality of his hurts, and I pride myself that Idressed them dexterously. With the exception of several badwounds, the rest were merely severe bruises and lacerations. Theblow which he had received before going overboard had laid hisscalp open several inches. This, under his direction, I cleansedand sewed together, having first shaved the edges of the wound.Then the calf of his leg was badly lacerated and looked as thoughit had been mangled by a bulldog. Some sailor, he told me, hadlaid hold of it by his teeth, at the beginning of the fight, andhung on and been dragged to the top of the forecastle ladder, whenhe was kicked loose.

　　"By the way, Hump, as I have remarked, you are a handy man," WolfLarsen began, when my work was done. "As you know, we're short amate. Hereafter you shall stand watches, receive seventy-fivedollars per month, and be addressed fore and aft as Mr. VanWeyden."

　　"I - I don't understand navigation, you know," I gasped.

　　"Not necessary at all."

　　"I really do not care to sit in the high places," I objected. "Ifind life precarious enough in my present humble situation. I haveno experience. Mediocrity, you see, has its compensations."

　　He smiled as though it were all settled.

　　"I won't be mate on this hell-ship!" I cried defiantly.

　　I saw his face grow hard and the merciless glitter come into hiseyes. He walked to the door of his room, saying:

　　"And now, Mr. Van Weyden, good-night."

　　"Good-night, Mr. Larsen," I answered weakly.