The captain, or Wolf Larsen, as men called him, ceased pacing and gazed down at the dying man. So fierce had this final struggle become that the sailor paused in the act of flinging more water over him and stared curiously, the canvas bucket partly tilted and dripping its contents to the deck. The dying man beat a tattoo on the hatch with his heels, straightened out his legs, and stiffened in one great tense effort, and rolled his head from side to side. Then the muscles relaxed, the head stopped rolling, and a sigh, as of profound relief, floated upward from his lips. The jaw dropped, the upper lip lifted, and two rows of tobacco-discoloured teeth appeared. It seemed as though his features had frozen into a diabolical grin at the world he had left and outwitted.
Then a most surprising thing occurred. The captain broke loose upon the dead man like a thunderclap. Oaths rolled from his lips in a continuous stream. And they were not namby-pamby oaths, or mere expressions of indecency. Each word was a blasphemy, and there were many words. They crisped and crackled like electric sparks. I had never heard anything like it in my life, nor could I have conceived it possible. With a turn for literary expression myself, and a penchant for forcible figures and phrases, I appreciated, as no other listener, I dare say, the peculiar vividness and strength and absolute blasphemy of his metaphors. The cause of it all, as near as I could make out, was that the man, who was mate, had gone on a debauch before leaving San Francisco, and then had the poor taste to die at the beginning of the voyage and leave Wolf Larsen short-handed.
It should be unnecessary to state, at least to my friends, that I was shocked. Oaths and vile language of any sort had always been repellent to me. I felt a wilting sensation, a sinking at the heart, and, I might just as well say, a giddiness. To me, death had always been invested with solemnity and dignity. It had been peaceful in its occurrence, sacred in its ceremonial. But death in its more sordid and terrible aspects was a thing with which I had been unacquainted till now. As I say, while I appreciated the power of the terrific denunciation that swept out of Wolf Larsens mouth, I was inexpressibly shocked. The scorching torrent was enough to wither the face of the corpse. I should not have been surprised if the wet black beard had frizzled and curled and flared up in smoke and flame. But the dead man was unconcerned. He continued to grin with a sardonic humour, with a cynical mockery and defiance. He was master of the situation.
Chapter III
Wolf Larsen ceased swearing as suddenly as he had begun. He relighted his cigar and glanced around. His eyes chanced upon the cook.
Well, Cooky? he began, with a suaveness that was cold and of the temper of steel.
Yes, sir, the cook eagerly interpolated, with appeasing and apologetic servility.
Dont you think youve stretched that neck of yours just about enough? Its unhealthy, you know. The mates gone, so I cant afford to lose you too. You must be very, very careful of your health, Cooky. Understand?
His last word, in striking contrast with the smoothness of his previous utterance, snapped like the lash of a whip. The cook quailed under it.
Yes, sir, was the meek reply, as the offending head disappeared into the galley.
At this sweeping rebuke, which the cook had only pointed, the rest of the crew became uninterested and fell to work at one task or another. A number of men, however, who were lounging about a companion-way between the galley and hatch, and who did not seem to be sailors, continued talking in low tones with one another. These, I afterward learned, were the hunters, the men who shot the seals, and a very superior breed to common sailor-folk.
Johansen! Wolf Larsen called out. A sailor stepped forward obediently. Get your palm and needle and sew the beggar up. Youll find some old canvas in the sail-locker. Make it do.[16]
Whatll I put on his feet, sir? the man asked, after the customary Ay, ay, sir.
Well see to that[17], Wolf Larsen answered, and elevated his voice in 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 captains next demand, this time of the hunters lounging about the companion-way.
They shook their heads, and some one made a jocular remark which I did not catch, but which raised a general laugh.
Wolf Larsen made the same demand of the sailors. Bibles and Prayer-books seemed scarce articles, but one of the men volunteered to pursue the quest amongst the watch below, returning in a minute with the information that there was none.
The captain shrugged his shoulders. Then well drop him over without any palavering, unless our clerical-looking castaway has the burial service at sea by heart.
By this time he had swung fully around and was facing me. Youre a preacher, arent you? he asked.
The hunters, there were six of them, to a man, turned and regarded me. I was painfully aware of my likeness to a scarecrow. A laugh went up at my appearance, a laugh that was not lessened or softened by the dead man stretched and grinning on the deck before us; a laugh that was as rough and harsh and frank as the sea itself; that arose out of coarse feelings and blunted sensibilities, from natures that knew neither courtesy nor gentleness.
Wolf Larsen did not laugh, though his grey eyes lighted with a slight glint of amusement; and in that moment, having stepped forward quite close to him, I received my first impression of the man himself, of the man as apart from his body, and from the torrent of blasphemy I had heard him spew forth. The face, with large features and strong lines, of the square order, yet well filled out, was apparently massive at first sight; but again, as with the body, the massiveness seemed to vanish, and a conviction to grow of a tremendous and excessive mental or spiritual strength that lay behind, sleeping in the deeps of his being. The jaw, the chin, the brow rising to a goodly height and swelling heavily above the eyes, these, while strong in themselves, unusually strong, seemed to speak an immense vigour or virility of spirit that lay behind and beyond and out of sight. There was no sounding such a spirit, no measuring, no determining of metes and bounds[18], nor neatly classifying in some pigeon-hole with others of similar type.
The eyes and it was my destiny to know them well were large and handsome, wide apart as the true artists are wide, sheltering under a heavy brow and arched over by thick black eyebrows. The eyes themselves were of that baffling protean grey which is never twice the same; which runs through many shades and colourings like intershot silk in sunshine; which is grey, dark and light, and greenish-grey, and sometimes of the clear azure of the deep sea. They were eyes that masked the soul with a thousand guises, and that sometimes opened, at rare moments, and allowed it to rush up as though it were about to fare forth nakedly into the world on some wonderful adventure, eyes that could brood with the hopeless sombreness of leaden skies; that could snap and crackle points of fire like those which sparkle from a whirling sword; that could grow chill as an arctic landscape, and yet again, that could warm and soften and be all a-dance with love-lights, intense and masculine, luring and compelling, which at the same time fascinate and dominate women till they surrender in a gladness of joy and of relief 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 had I ever canvassed it. I was quite taken aback, and before I could find 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 were my judge and I required vindication, and at the same time very much aware of my arrant idiocy in discussing the subject at all.
For your living?
There was something so imperative and masterful about him that I was quite beside myself rattled, as Furuseth would have termed it, 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 my tongue the next instant. All of which, you will pardon my observing, has nothing whatsoever to do with what I wish to see you about[19].
But he disregarded my protest.
Who earned it? Eh? I thought so. Your father. You stand on dead mens legs[20]. Youve never had any of your own. You couldnt walk alone between two sunrises and hustle the meat for your belly for three meals. Let me see your hand.
His tremendous, dormant strength must have stirred, swiftly and accurately, or I must have slept a moment, for before I knew it he had stepped two paces forward, gripped my right hand in his, and held it up for inspection. I tried to withdraw it, but his fingers tightened, without visible effort, till I thought mine would be crushed. It is hard to maintain ones dignity under such circumstances. I could not squirm or struggle like a schoolboy. Nor could I attack such a creature who had but to twist my arm to break it. Nothing remained but to stand still and accept the indignity. I had time to notice that the pockets of the dead man had been emptied on the deck, and that his body and his grin had been wrapped from view in canvas, the folds of which the sailor, Johansen, was sewing together with coarse white twine, shoving the needle through with a leather contrivance fitted on the palm of his hand.
Wolf Larsen dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain.
Dead mens hands have kept it soft. Good for little else than dish-washing and scullion work.
I wish to be put ashore, I said firmly, for I now had myself in control. I shall pay you whatever you judge your delay and trouble 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 your soul. My mates gone, and therell be a lot of promotion. A sailor comes aft to take mates place, cabin-boy goes forard to take sailors place, and you take the cabin-boys place, sign the articles for the cruise, twenty dollars per month and found. Now what do you say? And mind you, its for your own souls sake. It will be the making of you.[21] You might learn in time to stand on your own legs, and perhaps to toddle along a bit.
But I took no notice. The sails of the vessel I had seen off to the south-west had grown larger and plainer. They were of the same schooner-rig as the Ghost, though the hull itself, I could see, was smaller. She was a pretty sight, leaping and flying toward us, and evidently bound to pass at close range. The wind had been momentarily increasing, and the sun, after a few angry gleams, had disappeared. The sea had turned a dull leaden grey and grown rougher, and was now tossing foaming whitecaps to the sky. We were travelling faster, and heeled farther over[22]. Once, in a gust, the rail dipped under the sea, and the decks on that side were for the moment awash with water that made a couple of the hunters hastily lift their feet.
That vessel will soon be passing us, I said, after a moments pause. As she is going in the opposite direction, she is very probably bound for San Francisco.
Very probably, was Wolf Larsens answer, as he turned partly away from me and cried out, Cooky! Oh, Cooky!
The Cockney popped out of the galley.
Wheres that boy? Tell him I want him.
Yes, sir; and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down another companionway near the wheel. A moment later he emerged, a heavy-set young fellow of eighteen or nineteen, with a glowering, 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.
Whats your name, boy?
George Leach, sir, came the sullen answer, and the boys bearing showed clearly that he divined the reason for which he had been summoned.
Not an Irish name, the captain snapped sharply. OToole or McCarthy would suit your mug a damn sight better. Unless, very likely, theres an Irishman in your mothers woodpile.
I saw the young fellows hands clench at the insult, and the blood crawl scarlet up his neck.
But let that go, Wolf Larsen continued. You may have very good reasons for forgetting your name, and Ill like you none the worse for it as long as you toe the mark[23]. Telegraph Hill, of course, is your port of entry. It sticks out all over your mug. Tough as they make them and twice as nasty. I know the kind. Well, you can make 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 burning with 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. Couldnt make yourself scarce too quick, with several gentlemen you may have heard of looking for you.
The boy metamorphosed into a savage on the instant. His body bunched together as though for a spring, and his face became as an infuriated beasts as he snarled, Its a
A what? Wolf Larsen asked, a peculiar softness in his voice, as though he were overwhelmingly curious to hear the unspoken word.
The boy hesitated, then mastered his temper. Nothin, sir. I take 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. Youll never see eighteen again.[24] Big for your age at that, with muscles like a horse. Pack up your kit and go forard into the focsle. Youre a boat-puller now. Youre promoted; see?
Without waiting for the boys acceptance, the captain turned to the sailor who had just finished the gruesome task of sewing up the corpse. Johansen, do you know anything about navigation?
No, sir,
Well, never mind; youre mate just the same. Get your traps aft into the mates berth.
Ay, ay, sir, was the cheery response, as Johansen started forward.
In the meantime the erstwhile cabin-boy had not moved. What are you waiting for? Wolf Larsen demanded.
I didnt sign for boat-puller, sir, was the reply. I signed for cabin-boy. An I dont want no boat-pullin in mine.
Pack up and go forard.
This time Wolf Larsens command was thrillingly imperative. The boy glowered sullenly, but refused to move.
Then came another stirring of Wolf Larsens tremendous strength. It was utterly unexpected, and it was over and done with between the ticks of two seconds[25]. He had sprung fully six feet across the deck and driven his fist into the others stomach. At the same moment, as though I had been struck myself, I felt a sickening shock in the pit of my stomach. I instance this to show the sensitiveness of my nervous organization at the time, and how unused I was to spectacles of brutality. The cabin-boy and he weighed one hundred and sixty-five at the very least crumpled up. His body wrapped limply about the fist like a wet rag about a stick. He lifted into the air, described a short curve, and struck the deck alongside the corpse on his head and shoulders, where he lay and writhed about in agony.