Chapter 5

by Jack London

　　Chapter V

　　But my first night in the hunters' steerage was also my last. Nextday Johansen, the new mate, was routed from the cabin by WolfLarsen, and sent into the steerage to sleep thereafter, while Itook possession of the tiny cabin state-room, which, on the firstday of the voyage, had already had two occupants. The reason forthis change was quickly learned by the hunters, and became thecause of a deal of grumbling on their part. It seemed thatJohansen, in his sleep, lived over each night the events of theday. His incessant talking and shouting and bellowing of ordershad been too much for Wolf Larsen, who had accordingly foisted thenuisance upon his hunters.

　　After a sleepless night, I arose weak and in agony, to hobblethrough my second day on the Ghost. Thomas Mugridge routed me outat half-past five, much in the fashion that Bill Sykes must haverouted out his dog; but Mr. Mugridge's brutality to me was paidback in kind and with interest. The unnecessary noise he made (Ihad lain wide-eyed the whole night) must have awakened one of thehunters; for a heavy shoe whizzed through the semi-darkness, andMr. Mugridge, with a sharp howl of pain, humbly begged everybody'spardon. Later on, in the galley, I noticed that his ear wasbruised and swollen. It never went entirely back to its normalshape, and was called a "cauliflower ear" by the sailors.

　　The day was filled with miserable variety. I had taken my driedclothes down from the galley the night before, and the first thingI did was to exchange the cook's garments for them. I looked formy purse. In addition to some small change (and I have a goodmemory for such things), it had contained one hundred and eighty-five dollars in gold and paper. The purse I found, but itscontents, with the exception of the small silver, had beenabstracted. I spoke to the cook about it, when I went on deck totake up my duties in the galley, and though I had looked forward toa surly answer, I had not expected the belligerent harangue that Ireceived.

　　"Look 'ere, 'Ump," he began, a malicious light in his eyes and asnarl in his throat; "d'ye want yer nose punched? If you think I'ma thief, just keep it to yerself, or you'll find 'ow bloody wellmistyken you are. Strike me blind if this ayn't gratitude for yer!'Ere you come, a pore mis'rable specimen of 'uman scum, an' I tykesyer into my galley an' treats yer 'ansom, an' this is wot I get forit. Nex' time you can go to 'ell, say I, an' I've a good mind togive you what-for anyw'y."

　　So saying, he put up his fists and started for me. To my shame beit, I cowered away from the blow and ran out the galley door. Whatelse was I to do? Force, nothing but force, obtained on thisbrute-ship. Moral suasion was a thing unknown. Picture it toyourself: a man of ordinary stature, slender of build, and withweak, undeveloped muscles, who has lived a peaceful, placid life,and is unused to violence of any sort - what could such a manpossibly do? There was no more reason that I should stand and facethese human beasts than that I should stand and face an infuriatedbull.

　　So I thought it out at the time, feeling the need for vindicationand desiring to be at peace with my conscience. But thisvindication did not satisfy. Nor, to this day can I permit mymanhood to look back upon those events and feel entirelyexonerated. The situation was something that really exceededrational formulas for conduct and demanded more than the coldconclusions of reason. When viewed in the light of formal logic,there is not one thing of which to be ashamed; but nevertheless ashame rises within me at the recollection, and in the pride of mymanhood I feel that my manhood has in unaccountable ways beensmirched and sullied.

　　All of which is neither here nor there. The speed with which I ranfrom the galley caused excruciating pain in my knee, and I sankdown helplessly at the break of the poop. But the Cockney had notpursued me.

　　"Look at 'im run! Look at 'im run!" I could hear him crying. "An'with a gyme leg at that! Come on back, you pore little mamma'sdarling. I won't 'it yer; no, I won't."

　　I came back and went on with my work; and here the episode endedfor the time, though further developments were yet to take place.I set the breakfast-table in the cabin, and at seven o'clock waitedon the hunters and officers. The storm had evidently broken duringthe night, though a huge sea was still running and a stiff windblowing. Sail had been made in the early watches, so that theGhost was racing along under everything except the two topsails andthe flying jib. These three sails, I gathered from theconversation, were to be set immediately after breakfast. Ilearned, also, that Wolf Larsen was anxious to make the most of thestorm, which was driving him to the south-west into that portion ofthe sea where he expected to pick up with the north-east trades.It was before this steady wind that he hoped to make the majorportion of the run to Japan, curving south into the tropics andnorth again as he approached the coast of Asia.

　　After breakfast I had another unenviable experience. When I hadfinished washing the dishes, I cleaned the cabin stove and carriedthe ashes up on deck to empty them. Wolf Larsen and Henderson werestanding near the wheel, deep in conversation. The sailor,Johnson, was steering. As I started toward the weather side I sawhim make a sudden motion with his head, which I mistook for a tokenof recognition and good-morning. In reality, he was attempting towarn me to throw my ashes over the lee side. Unconscious of myblunder, I passed by Wolf Larsen and the hunter and flung the ashesover the side to windward. The wind drove them back, and not onlyover me, but over Henderson and Wolf Larsen. The next instant thelatter kicked me, violently, as a cur is kicked. I had notrealized there could be so much pain in a kick. I reeled away fromhim and leaned against the cabin in a half-fainting condition.Everything was swimming before my eyes, and I turned sick. Thenausea overpowered me, and I managed to crawl to the side of thevessel. But Wolf Larsen did not follow me up. Brushing the ashesfrom his clothes, he had resumed his conversation with Henderson.Johansen, who had seen the affair from the break of the poop, senta couple of sailors aft to clean up the mess.

　　Later in the morning I received a surprise of a totally differentsort. Following the cook's instructions, I had gone into WolfLarsen's state-room to put it to rights and make the bed. Againstthe wall, near the head of the bunk, was a rack filled with books.I glanced over them, noting with astonishment such names asShakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, and De Quincey. There were scientificworks, too, among which were represented men such as Tyndall,Proctor, and Darwin. Astronomy and physics were represented, and Iremarked Bulfinch's Age of Fable, Shaw's History of English andAmerican Literature, and Johnson's Natural History in two largevolumes. Then there were a number of grammars, such as Metcalf's,and Reed and Kellogg's; and I smiled as I saw a copy of The Dean'sEnglish.

　　I could not reconcile these books with the man from what I had seenof him, and I wondered if he could possibly read them. But when Icame to make the bed I found, between the blankets, droppedapparently as he had sunk off to sleep, a complete Browning, theCambridge Edition. It was open at "In a Balcony," and I noticed,here and there, passages underlined in pencil. Further, lettingdrop the volume during a lurch of the ship, a sheet of paper fellout. It was scrawled over with geometrical diagrams andcalculations of some sort.

　　It was patent that this terrible man was no ignorant clod, such asone would inevitably suppose him to be from his exhibitions ofbrutality. At once he became an enigma. One side or the other ofhis nature was perfectly comprehensible; but both sides togetherwere bewildering. I had already remarked that his language wasexcellent, marred with an occasional slight inaccuracy. Of course,in common speech with the sailors and hunters, it sometimes fairlybristled with errors, which was due to the vernacular itself; butin the few words he had held with me it had been clear and correct.

　　This glimpse I had caught of his other side must have emboldenedme, for I resolved to speak to him about the money I had lost.

　　"I have been robbed," I said to him, a little later, when I foundhim pacing up and down the poop alone.

　　"Sir," he corrected, not harshly, but sternly.

　　"I have been robbed, sir," I amended.

　　"How did it happen?" he asked.

　　Then I told him the whole circumstance, how my clothes had beenleft to dry in the galley, and how, later, I was nearly beaten bythe cook when I mentioned the matter.

　　He smiled at my recital. "Pickings," he concluded; "Cooky'spickings. And don't you think your miserable life worth the price?Besides, consider it a lesson. You'll learn in time how to takecare of your money for yourself. I suppose, up to now, your lawyerhas done it for you, or your business agent."

　　I could feel the quiet sneer through his words, but demanded, "Howcan I get it back again?"

　　"That's your look-out. You haven't any lawyer or business agentnow, so you'll have to depend on yourself. When you get a dollar,hang on to it. A man who leaves his money lying around, the wayyou did, deserves to lose it. Besides, you have sinned. You haveno right to put temptation in the way of your fellow-creatures.You tempted Cooky, and he fell. You have placed his immortal soulin jeopardy. By the way, do you believe in the immortal soul?"

　　His lids lifted lazily as he asked the question, and it seemed thatthe deeps were opening to me and that I was gazing into his soul.But it was an illusion. Far as it might have seemed, no man hasever seen very far into Wolf Larsen's soul, or seen it at all, - ofthis I am convinced. It was a very lonely soul, I was to learn,that never unmasked, though at rare moments it played at doing so.

　　"I read immortality in your eyes," I answered, dropping the "sir,"- an experiment, for I thought the intimacy of the conversationwarranted it.

　　He took no notice. "By that, I take it, you see something that isalive, but that necessarily does not have to live for ever."

　　"I read more than that," I continued boldly.

　　"Then you read consciousness. You read the consciousness of lifethat it is alive; but still no further away, no endlessness oflife."

　　How clearly he thought, and how well he expressed what he thought!From regarding me curiously, he turned his head and glanced outover the leaden sea to windward. A bleakness came into his eyes,and the lines of his mouth grew severe and harsh. He was evidentlyin a pessimistic mood.

　　"Then to what end?" he demanded abruptly, turning back to me. "IfI am immortal - why?"

　　I halted. How could I explain my idealism to this man? How couldI put into speech a something felt, a something like the strains ofmusic heard in sleep, a something that convinced yet transcendedutterance?

　　"What do you believe, then?" I countered.

　　"I believe that life is a mess," he answered promptly. "It is likeyeast, a ferment, a thing that moves and may move for a minute, anhour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease tomove. The big eat the little that they may continue to move, thestrong eat the weak that they may retain their strength. The luckyeat the most and move the longest, that is all. What do you makeof those things?"

　　He swept his am in an impatient gesture toward a number of thesailors who were working on some kind of rope stuff amidships.

　　"They move, so does the jelly-fish move. They move in order to eatin order that they may keep moving. There you have it. They livefor their belly's sake, and the belly is for their sake. It's acircle; you get nowhere. Neither do they. In the end they come toa standstill. They move no more. They are dead."

　　"They have dreams," I interrupted, "radiant, flashing dreams - "

　　"Of grub," he concluded sententiously.

　　"And of more - "

　　"Grub. Of a larger appetite and more luck in satisfying it." Hisvoice sounded harsh. There was no levity in it. "For, look you,they dream of making lucky voyages which will bring them moremoney, of becoming the mates of ships, of finding fortunes - inshort, of being in a better position for preying on their fellows,of having all night in, good grub and somebody else to do the dirtywork. You and I are just like them. There is no difference,except that we have eaten more and better. I am eating them now,and you too. But in the past you have eaten more than I have. Youhave slept in soft beds, and worn fine clothes, and eaten goodmeals. Who made those beds? and those clothes? and those meals?Not you. You never made anything in your own sweat. You live onan income which your father earned. You are like a frigate birdswooping down upon the boobies and robbing them of the fish theyhave caught. You are one with a crowd of men who have made whatthey call a government, who are masters of all the other men, andwho eat the food the other men get and would like to eatthemselves. You wear the warm clothes. They made the clothes, butthey shiver in rags and ask you, the lawyer, or business agent whohandles your money, for a job."

　　"But that is beside the matter," I cried.

　　"Not at all." He was speaking rapidly now, and his eyes wereflashing. "It is piggishness, and it is life. Of what use orsense is an immortality of piggishness? What is the end? What isit all about? You have made no food. Yet the food you have eatenor wasted might have saved the lives of a score of wretches whomade the food but did not eat it. What immortal end did you serve?or did they? Consider yourself and me. What does your boastedimmortality amount to when your life runs foul of mine? You wouldlike to go back to the land, which is a favourable place for yourkind of piggishness. It is a whim of mine to keep you aboard thisship, where my piggishness flourishes. And keep you I will. I maymake or break you. You may die to-day, this week, or next month.I could kill you now, with a blow of my fist, for you are amiserable weakling. But if we are immortal, what is the reason forthis? To be piggish as you and I have been all our lives does notseem to be just the thing for immortals to be doing. Again, what'sit all about? Why have I kept you here? - "

　　"Because you are stronger," I managed to blurt out.

　　"But why stronger?" he went on at once with his perpetual queries."Because I am a bigger bit of the ferment than you? Don't you see?Don't you see?"

　　"But the hopelessness of it," I protested.

　　"I agree with you," he answered. "Then why move at all, sincemoving is living? Without moving and being part of the yeast therewould be no hopelessness. But, - and there it is, - we want tolive and move, though we have no reason to, because it happens thatit is the nature of life to live and move, to want to live andmove. If it were not for this, life would be dead. It is becauseof this life that is in you that you dream of your immortality.The life that is in you is alive and wants to go on being alive forever. Bah! An eternity of piggishness!"

　　He abruptly turned on his heel and started forward. He stopped atthe break of the poop and called me to him.

　　"By the way, how much was it that Cooky got away with?" he asked.

　　"One hundred and eighty-five dollars, sir," I answered.

　　He nodded his head. A moment later, as I started down thecompanion stairs to lay the table for dinner, I heard him loudlycuring some men amidships.