Chapter 3

by Jack London

　　Chapter III

　　Wolf Larsen ceased swearing as suddenly as he had begun. Herelighted his cigar and glanced around. His eyes chanced upon thecook.

　　"Well, Cooky?" he began, with a suaveness that was cold and of thetemper of steel.

　　"Yes, sir," the cook eagerly interpolated, with appeasing andapologetic servility.

　　"Don't you think you've stretched that neck of yours just aboutenough? It's unhealthy, you know. The mate's gone, so I can'tafford to lose you too. You must be very, very careful of yourhealth, Cooky. Understand?"

　　His last word, in striking contrast with the smoothness of hisprevious utterance, snapped like the lash of a whip. The cookquailed under it.

　　"Yes, sir," was the meek reply, as the offending head disappearedinto the galley.

　　At this sweeping rebuke, which the cook had only pointed, the restof the crew became uninterested and fell to work at one task oranother. A number of men, however, who were lounging about acompanion-way between the galley and hatch, and who did not seem tobe sailors, continued talking in low tones with one another.These, I afterward learned, were the hunters, the men who shot theseals, and a very superior breed to common sailor-folk.

　　"Johansen!" Wolf Larsen called out. A sailor stepped forwardobediently. "Get your palm and needle and sew the beggar up.You'll find some old canvas in the sail-locker. Make it do."

　　"What'll I put on his feet, sir?" the man asked, after thecustomary "Ay, ay, sir."

　　"We'll see to that," Wolf Larsen answered, and elevated his voicein a call of "Cooky!"

　　Thomas Mugridge popped out of his galley like a jack-in-the-box.

　　"Go below and fill a sack with coal."

　　"Any of you fellows got a Bible or Prayer-book?" was the captain'snext demand, this time of the hunters lounging about the companion-way.

　　They shook their heads, and some one made a jocular remark which Idid not catch, but which raised a general laugh.

　　Wolf Larsen made the same demand of the sailors. Bibles andPrayer-books seemed scarce articles, but one of the men volunteeredto pursue the quest amongst the watch below, returning in a minutewith the information that there was none.

　　The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Then we'll drop him overwithout any palavering, unless our clerical-looking castaway hasthe burial service at sea by heart."

　　By this time he had swung fully around and was facing me. "You'rea preacher, aren't you?" he asked.

　　The hunters, - there were six of them, - to a man, turned andregarded me. I was painfully aware of my likeness to a scarecrow.A laugh went up at my appearance, - a laugh that was not lessenedor softened by the dead man stretched and grinning on the deckbefore us; a laugh that was as rough and harsh and frank as the seaitself; that arose out of coarse feelings and bluntedsensibilities, from natures that knew neither courtesy norgentleness.

　　Wolf Larsen did not laugh, though his grey eyes lighted with aslight glint of amusement; and in that moment, having steppedforward quite close to him, I received my first impression of theman himself, of the man as apart from his body, and from thetorrent of blasphemy I had heard him spew forth. The face, withlarge features and strong lines, of the square order, yet wellfilled out, was apparently massive at first sight; but again, aswith the body, the massiveness seemed to vanish, and a convictionto grow of a tremendous and excessive mental or spiritual strengththat lay behind, sleeping in the deeps of his being. The jaw, thechin, the brow rising to a goodly height and swelling heavily abovethe eyes, - these, while strong in themselves, unusually strong,seemed to speak an immense vigour or virility of spirit that laybehind and beyond and out of sight. There was no sounding such aspirit, no measuring, no determining of metes and bounds, norneatly classifying in some pigeon-hole with others of similar type.

　　The eyes - and it was my destiny to know them well - were large andhandsome, wide apart as the true artist's are wide, shelteringunder a heavy brow and arched over by thick black eyebrows. Theeyes themselves were of that baffling protean grey which is nevertwice the same; which runs through many shades and colourings likeintershot silk in sunshine; which is grey, dark and light, andgreenish-grey, and sometimes of the clear azure of the deep sea.They were eyes that masked the soul with a thousand guises, andthat sometimes opened, at rare moments, and allowed it to rush upas though it were about to fare forth nakedly into the world onsome wonderful adventure, - eyes that could brood with the hopelesssombreness of leaden skies; that could snap and crackle points offire like those which sparkle from a whirling sword; that couldgrow chill as an arctic landscape, and yet again, that could warmand soften and be all a-dance with love-lights, intense andmasculine, luring and compelling, which at the same time fascinateand dominate women till they surrender in a gladness of joy and ofrelief and sacrifice.

　　But to return. I told him that, unhappily for the burial service,I was not a preacher, when he sharply demanded:

　　"What do you do for a living?"

　　I confess I had never had such a question asked me before, nor hadI ever canvassed it. I was quite taken aback, and before I couldfind myself had sillily stammered, "I - I am a gentleman."

　　His lip curled in a swift sneer.

　　"I have worked, I do work," I cried impetuously, as though he weremy judge and I required vindication, and at the same time very muchaware of my arrant idiocy in discussing the subject at all.

　　"For your living?"

　　There was something so imperative and masterful about him that Iwas quite beside myself - "rattled," as Furuseth would have termedit, like a quaking child before a stern school-master.

　　"Who feeds you?" was his next question.

　　"I have an income," I answered stoutly, and could have bitten mytongue the next instant. "All of which, you will pardon myobserving, has nothing whatsoever to do with what I wish to see youabout."

　　But he disregarded my protest.

　　"Who earned it? Eh? I thought so. Your father. You stand ondead men's legs. You've never had any of your own. You couldn'twalk alone between two sunrises and hustle the meat for your bellyfor three meals. Let me see your hand."

　　His tremendous, dormant strength must have stirred, swiftly andaccurately, or I must have slept a moment, for before I knew it hehad stepped two paces forward, gripped my right hand in his, andheld it up for inspection. I tried to withdraw it, but his fingerstightened, without visible effort, till I thought mine would becrushed. It is hard to maintain one's dignity under suchcircumstances. I could not squirm or struggle like a schoolboy.Nor could I attack such a creature who had but to twist my arm tobreak it. Nothing remained but to stand still and accept theindignity. I had time to notice that the pockets of the dead manhad been emptied on the deck, and that his body and his grin hadbeen wrapped from view in canvas, the folds of which the sailor,Johansen, was sewing together with coarse white twine, shoving theneedle through with a leather contrivance fitted on the palm of hishand.

　　Wolf Larsen dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain.

　　"Dead men's hands have kept it soft. Good for little else thandish-washing and scullion work."

　　"I wish to be put ashore," I said firmly, for I now had myself incontrol. "I shall pay you whatever you judge your delay andtrouble to be worth."

　　He looked at me curiously. Mockery shone in his eyes.

　　"I have a counter proposition to make, and for the good of yoursoul. My mate's gone, and there'll be a lot of promotion. Asailor comes aft to take mate's place, cabin-boy goes for'ard totake sailor's place, and you take the cabin-boy's place, sign thearticles for the cruise, twenty dollars per month and found. Nowwhat do you say? And mind you, it's for your own soul's sake. Itwill be the making of you. You might learn in time to stand onyour own legs, and perhaps to toddle along a bit."

　　But I took no notice. The sails of the vessel I had seen off tothe south-west had grown larger and plainer. They were of the sameschooner-rig as the Ghost, though the hull itself, I could see, wassmaller. She was a pretty sight, leaping and flying toward us, andevidently bound to pass at close range. The wind had beenmomentarily increasing, and the sun, after a few angry gleams, haddisappeared. The sea had turned a dull leaden grey and grownrougher, and was now tossing foaming whitecaps to the sky. We weretravelling faster, and heeled farther over. Once, in a gust, therail dipped under the sea, and the decks on that side were for themoment awash with water that made a couple of the hunters hastilylift their feet.

　　"That vessel will soon be passing us," I said, after a moment'spause. "As she is going in the opposite direction, she is veryprobably bound for San Francisco."

　　"Very probably," was Wolf Larsen's answer, as he turned partly awayfrom me and cried out, "Cooky! Oh, Cooky!"

　　The Cockney popped out of the galley.

　　"Where's that boy? Tell him I want him."

　　"Yes, sir;" and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeareddown another companion-way near the wheel. A moment later heemerged, a heavy-set young fellow of eighteen or nineteen, with aglowering, villainous countenance, trailing at his heels.

　　"'Ere 'e is, sir," the cook said.

　　But Wolf Larsen ignored that worthy, turning at once to the cabin-boy.

　　"What's your name, boy?

　　"George Leach, sir," came the sullen answer, and the boy's bearingshowed clearly that he divined the reason for which he had beensummoned.

　　"Not an Irish name," the captain snapped sharply. "O'Toole orMcCarthy would suit your mug a damn sight better. Unless, verylikely, there's an Irishman in your mother's woodpile."

　　I saw the young fellow's hands clench at the insult, and the bloodcrawl scarlet up his neck.

　　"But let that go," Wolf Larsen continued. "You may have very goodreasons for forgetting your name, and I'll like you none the worsefor it as long as you toe the mark. Telegraph Hill, of course, isyour port of entry. It sticks out all over your mug. Tough asthey make them and twice as nasty. I know the kind. Well, you canmake up your mind to have it taken out of you on this craft.Understand? Who shipped you, anyway?"

　　"McCready and Swanson."

　　"Sir!" Wolf Larsen thundered.

　　"McCready and Swanson, sir," the boy corrected, his eyes burningwith a bitter light.

　　"Who got the advance money?"

　　"They did, sir."

　　"I thought as much. And damned glad you were to let them have it.Couldn't make yourself scarce too quick, with several gentlemen youmay have heard of looking for you."

　　The boy metamorphosed into a savage on the instant. His bodybunched together as though for a spring, and his face became as aninfuriated beast's as he snarled, "It's a - "

　　"A what?" Wolf Larsen asked, a peculiar softness in his voice, asthough he were overwhelmingly curious to hear the unspoken word.

　　The boy hesitated, then mastered his temper. "Nothin', sir. Itake it back."

　　"And you have shown me I was right." This with a gratified smile."How old are you?"

　　"Just turned sixteen, sir,"

　　"A lie. You'll never see eighteen again. Big for your age atthat, with muscles like a horse. Pack up your kit and go for'ardinto the fo'c'sle. You're a boat-puller now. You're promoted;see?"

　　Without waiting for the boy's acceptance, the captain turned to thesailor who had just finished the gruesome task of sewing up thecorpse. "Johansen, do you know anything about navigation?"

　　"No, sir,"

　　"Well, never mind; you're mate just the same. Get your traps aftinto the mate's berth."

　　"Ay, ay, sir," was the cheery response, as Johansen startedforward.

　　In the meantime the erstwhile cabin-boy had not moved. "What areyou waiting for?" Wolf Larsen demanded.

　　"I didn't sign for boat-puller, sir," was the reply. "I signed forcabin-boy. An' I don't want no boat-pullin' in mine."

　　"Pack up and go for'ard."

　　This time Wolf Larsen's command was thrillingly imperative. Theboy glowered sullenly, but refused to move.

　　Then came another stirring of Wolf Larsen's tremendous strength.It was utterly unexpected, and it was over and done with betweenthe ticks of two seconds. He had sprung fully six feet across thedeck and driven his fist into the other's stomach. At the samemoment, as though I had been struck myself, I felt a sickeningshock in the pit of my stomach. I instance this to show thesensitiveness of my nervous organization at the time, and howunused I was to spectacles of brutality. The cabin-boy - and heweighed one hundred and sixty-five at the very least - crumpled up.His body wrapped limply about the fist like a wet rag about astick. He lifted into the air, described a short curve, and struckthe deck alongside the corpse on his head and shoulders, where helay and writhed about in agony.

　　"Well?" Larsen asked of me. "Have you made up your mind?"

　　I had glanced occasionally at the approaching schooner, and it wasnow almost abreast of us and not more than a couple of hundredyards away. It was a very trim and neat little craft. I could seea large, black number on one of its sails, and I had seen picturesof pilot-boats.

　　"What vessel is that?" I asked.

　　"The pilot-boat Lady Mine," Wolf Larsen answered grimly. "Got ridof her pilots and running into San Francisco. She'll be there infive or six hours with this wind."

　　"Will you please signal it, then, so that I may be put ashore."

　　"Sorry, but I've lost the signal book overboard," he remarked, andthe group of hunters grinned.

　　I debated a moment, looking him squarely in the eyes. I had seenthe frightful treatment of the cabin-boy, and knew that I shouldvery probably receive the same, if not worse. As I say, I debatedwith myself, and then I did what I consider the bravest act of mylife. I ran to the side, waving my arms and shouting:

　　"Lady Mine ahoy! Take me ashore! A thousand dollars if you takeme ashore!"

　　I waited, watching two men who stood by the wheel, one of themsteering. The other was lifting a megaphone to his lips. I didnot turn my head, though I expected every moment a killing blowfrom the human brute behind me. At last, after what seemedcenturies, unable longer to stand the strain, I looked around. Hehad not moved. He was standing in the same position, swayingeasily to the roll of the ship and lighting a fresh cigar.

　　"What is the matter? Anything wrong?"

　　This was the cry from the Lady Mine.

　　"Yes!" I shouted, at the top of my lungs. "Life or death! Onethousand dollars if you take me ashore!"

　　"Too much 'Frisco tanglefoot for the health of my crew!" WolfLarsen shouted after. "This one" - indicating me with his thumb -"fancies sea-serpents and monkeys just now!"

　　The man on the Lady Mine laughed back through the megaphone. Thepilot-boat plunged past.

　　"Give him hell for me!" came a final cry, and the two men wavedtheir arms in farewell.

　　I leaned despairingly over the rail, watching the trim littleschooner swiftly increasing the bleak sweep of ocean between us.And she would probably be in San Francisco in five or six hours!My head seemed bursting. There was an ache in my throat as thoughmy heart were up in it. A curling wave struck the side andsplashed salt spray on my lips. The wind puffed strongly, and theGhost heeled far over, burying her lee rail. I could hear thewater rushing down upon the deck.

　　When I turned around, a moment later, I saw the cabin-boystaggering to his feet. His face was ghastly white, twitching withsuppressed pain. He looked very sick.

　　"Well, Leach, are you going for'ard?" Wolf Larsen asked.

　　"Yes, sir," came the answer of a spirit cowed.

　　"And you?" I was asked.

　　"I'll give you a thousand - " I began, but was interrupted.

　　"Stow that! Are you going to take up your duties as cabin-boy? Ordo I have to take you in hand?"

　　What was I to do? To be brutally beaten, to be killed perhaps,would not help my case. I looked steadily into the cruel greyeyes. They might have been granite for all the light and warmth ofa human soul they contained. One may see the soul stir in somemen's eyes, but his were bleak, and cold, and grey as the seaitself.

　　"Well?"

　　"Yes," I said.

　　"Say 'yes, sir.'"

　　"Yes, sir," I corrected.

　　"What is your name?"

　　"Van Weyden, sir."

　　"First name?"

　　"Humphrey, sir; Humphrey Van Weyden."

　　"Age?"

　　"Thirty-five, sir."

　　"That'll do. Go to the cook and learn your duties."

　　And thus it was that I passed into a state of involuntary servitudeto Wolf Larsen. He was stronger than I, that was all. But it wasvery unreal at the time. It is no less unreal now that I look backupon it. It will always be to me a monstrous, inconceivable thing,a horrible nightmare.

　　"Hold on, don't go yet."

　　I stopped obediently in my walk toward the galley.

　　"Johansen, call all hands. Now that we've everything cleaned up,we'll have the funeral and get the decks cleared of uselesslumber."

　　While Johansen was summoning the watch below, a couple of sailors,under the captain's direction, laid the canvas-swathed corpse upona hatch-cover. On either side the deck, against the rail andbottoms up, were lashed a number of small boats. Several menpicked up the hatch-cover with its ghastly freight, carried it tothe lee side, and rested it on the boats, the feet pointingoverboard. To the feet was attached the sack of coal which thecook had fetched.

　　I had always conceived a burial at sea to be a very solemn and awe-inspiring event, but I was quickly disillusioned, by this burial atany rate. One of the hunters, a little dark-eyed man whom hismates called "Smoke," was telling stories, liberally intersprinkledwith oaths and obscenities; and every minute or so the group ofhunters gave mouth to a laughter that sounded to me like a wolf-chorus or the barking of hell-hounds. The sailors trooped noisilyaft, some of the watch below rubbing the sleep from their eyes, andtalked in low tones together. There was an ominous and worriedexpression on their faces. It was evident that they did not likethe outlook of a voyage under such a captain and begun soinauspiciously. From time to time they stole glances at WolfLarsen, and I could see that they were apprehensive of the man.

　　He stepped up to the hatch-cover, and all caps came off. I ran myeyes over them - twenty men all told; twenty-two including the manat the wheel and myself. I was pardonably curious in my survey,for it appeared my fate to be pent up with them on this miniaturefloating world for I knew not how many weeks or months. Thesailors, in the main, were English and Scandinavian, and theirfaces seemed of the heavy, stolid order. The hunters, on the otherhand, had stronger and more diversified faces, with hard lines andthe marks of the free play of passions. Strange to say, and Inoted it all once, Wolf Larsen's features showed no such evilstamp. There seemed nothing vicious in them. True, there werelines, but they were the lines of decision and firmness. Itseemed, rather, a frank and open countenance, which frankness oropenness was enhanced by the fact that he was smooth-shaven. Icould hardly believe - until the next incident occurred - that itwas the face of a man who could behave as he had behaved to thecabin-boy.

　　At this moment, as he opened his mouth to speak, puff after puffstruck the schooner and pressed her side under. The wind shriekeda wild song through the rigging. Some of the hunters glancedanxiously aloft. The lee rail, where the dead man lay, was buriedin the sea, and as the schooner lifted and righted the water sweptacross the deck wetting us above our shoe-tops. A shower of raindrove down upon us, each drop stinging like a hailstone. As itpassed, Wolf Larsen began to speak, the bare-headed men swaying inunison, to the heave and lunge of the deck.

　　"I only remember one part of the service," he said, "and that is,'And the body shall be cast into the sea.' So cast it in."

　　He ceased speaking. The men holding the hatch-cover seemedperplexed, puzzled no doubt by the briefness of the ceremony. Heburst upon them in a fury.

　　"Lift up that end there, damn you! What the hell's the matter withyou?"

　　They elevated the end of the hatch-cover with pitiful haste, and,like a dog flung overside, the dead man slid feet first into thesea. The coal at his feet dragged him down. He was gone.

　　"Johansen," Wolf Larsen said briskly to the new mate, "keep allhands on deck now they're here. Get in the topsails and jibs andmake a good job of it. We're in for a sou'-easter. Better reefthe jib and mainsail too, while you're about it."

　　In a moment the decks were in commotion, Johansen bellowing ordersand the men pulling or letting go ropes of various sorts - allnaturally confusing to a landsman such as myself. But it was theheartlessness of it that especially struck me. The dead man was anepisode that was past, an incident that was dropped, in a canvascovering with a sack of coal, while the ship sped along and herwork went on. Nobody had been affected. The hunters were laughingat a fresh story of Smoke's; the men pulling and hauling, and twoof them climbing aloft; Wolf Larsen was studying the clouding skyto windward; and the dead man, dying obscenely, buried sordidly,and sinking down, down -

　　Then it was that the cruelty of the sea, its relentlessness andawfulness, rushed upon me. Life had become cheap and tawdry, abeastly and inarticulate thing, a soulless stirring of the ooze andslime. I held on to the weather rail, close by the shrouds, andgazed out across the desolate foaming waves to the low-lying fog-banks that hid San Francisco and the California coast. Rain-squalls were driving in between, and I could scarcely see the fog.And this strange vessel, with its terrible men, pressed under bywind and sea and ever leaping up and out, was heading away into thesouth-west, into the great and lonely Pacific expanse.