Chapter 7

by Jack London

　　Chapter VII

　　At last, after three days of variable winds, we have caught thenorth-east trades. I came on deck, after a good night's rest inspite of my poor knee, to find the Ghost foaming along, wing-and-wing, and every sail drawing except the jibs, with a fresh breezeastern. Oh, the wonder of the great trade-wind! All day wesailed, and all night, and the next day, and the next, day afterday, the wind always astern and blowing steadily and strong. Theschooner sailed herself. There was no pulling and hauling onsheets and tackles, no shifting of topsails, no work at all for thesailors to do except to steer. At night when the sun went down,the sheets were slackened; in the morning, when they yielded up thedamp of the dew and relaxed, they were pulled tight again - andthat was all.

　　Ten knots, twelve knots, eleven knots, varying from time to time,is the speed we are making. And ever out of the north-east thebrave wind blows, driving us on our course two hundred and fiftymiles between the dawns. It saddens me and gladdens me, the gaitwith which we are leaving San Francisco behind and with which weare foaming down upon the tropics. Each day grows perceptiblywarmer. In the second dog-watch the sailors come on deck,stripped, and heave buckets of water upon one another fromoverside. Flying-fish are beginning to be seen, and during thenight the watch above scrambles over the deck in pursuit of thosethat fall aboard. In the morning, Thomas Mugridge being dulybribed, the galley is pleasantly areek with the odour of theirfrying; while dolphin meat is served fore and aft on such occasionsas Johnson catches the blazing beauties from the bowsprit end.

　　Johnson seems to spend all his spare time there or aloft at thecrosstrees, watching the Ghost cleaving the water under press ofsail. There is passion, adoration, in his eyes, and he goes aboutin a sort of trance, gazing in ecstasy at the swelling sails, thefoaming wake, and the heave and the run of her over the liquidmountains that are moving with us in stately procession.

　　The days and nights are "all a wonder and a wild delight," andthough I have little time from my dreary work, I steal odd momentsto gaze and gaze at the unending glory of what I never dreamed theworld possessed. Above, the sky is stainless blue - blue as thesea itself, which under the forefoot is of the colour and sheen ofazure satin. All around the horizon are pale, fleecy clouds, neverchanging, never moving, like a silver setting for the flawlessturquoise sky.

　　I do not forget one night, when I should have been asleep, of lyingon the forecastle-head and gazing down at the spectral ripple offoam thrust aside by the Ghost's forefoot. It sounded like thegurgling of a brook over mossy stones in some quiet dell, and thecrooning song of it lured me away and out of myself till I was nolonger Hump the cabin-boy, nor Van Weyden, the man who had dreamedaway thirty-five years among books. But a voice behind me, theunmistakable voice of Wolf Larsen, strong with the invinciblecertitude of the man and mellow with appreciation of the words hewas quoting, aroused me.

　　"'O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light

　　That holds the hot sky tame,

　　And the steady forefoot snores through the planet-powdered floors

　　Where the scared whale flukes in flame.

　　Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,

　　And her ropes are taut with the dew,

　　For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

　　We're sagging south on the Long Trail - the trail that is always new.'"

　　"Eh, Hump? How's it strike you?" he asked, after the due pausewhich words and setting demanded.

　　I looked into his face. It was aglow with light, as the seaitself, and the eyes were flashing in the starshine.

　　"It strikes me as remarkable, to say the least, that you shouldshow enthusiasm," I answered coldly.

　　"Why, man, it's living! it's life!" he cried.

　　"Which is a cheap thing and without value." I flung his words athim.

　　He laughed, and it was the first time I had heard honest mirth inhis voice.

　　"Ah, I cannot get you to understand, cannot drive it into yourhead, what a thing this life is. Of course life is valueless,except to itself. And I can tell you that my life is prettyvaluable just now - to myself. It is beyond price, which you willacknowledge is a terrific overrating, but which I cannot help, forit is the life that is in me that makes the rating."

　　He appeared waiting for the words with which to express the thoughtthat was in him, and finally went on.

　　"Do you know, I am filled with a strange uplift; I feel as if alltime were echoing through me, as though all powers were mine. Iknow truth, divine good from evil, right from wrong. My vision isclear and far. I could almost believe in God. But," and his voicechanged and the light went out of his face, - "what is thiscondition in which I find myself? this joy of living? thisexultation of life? this inspiration, I may well call it? It iswhat comes when there is nothing wrong with one's digestion, whenhis stomach is in trim and his appetite has an edge, and all goeswell. It is the bribe for living, the champagne of the blood, theeffervescence of the ferment - that makes some men think holythoughts, and other men to see God or to create him when theycannot see him. That is all, the drunkenness of life, the stirringand crawling of the yeast, the babbling of the life that is insanewith consciousness that it is alive. And - bah! To-morrow I shallpay for it as the drunkard pays. And I shall know that I must die,at sea most likely, cease crawling of myself to be all a-crawl withthe corruption of the sea; to be fed upon, to be carrion, to yieldup all the strength and movement of my muscles that it may becomestrength and movement in fin and scale and the guts of fishes.Bah! And bah! again. The champagne is already flat. The sparkleand bubble has gone out and it is a tasteless drink."

　　He left me as suddenly as he had come, springing to the deck withthe weight and softness of a tiger. The Ghost ploughed on her way.I noted the gurgling forefoot was very like a snore, and as Ilistened to it the effect of Wolf Larsen's swift rush from sublimeexultation to despair slowly left me. Then some deep-water sailor,from the waist of the ship, lifted a rich tenor voice in the "Songof the Trade Wind":

　　"Oh, I am the wind the seamen love -

　　I am steady, and strong, and true;

　　They follow my track by the clouds above,

　　O'er the fathomless tropic blue.

　　* * * * *

　　Through daylight and dark I follow the bark

　　I keep like a hound on her trail;

　　I'm strongest at noon, yet under the moon,

　　I stiffen the bunt of her sail."