The Sea Wolf by Jack London (best classic literature .txt) 📖

a great curiosity.  This wild stirring of yeasty life, this terrific revolt and defiance of matter that moved, perplexed and interested him.

Each moment I looked, and everybody looked, for him to leap upon the boy and destroy him.  But it was not his whim.  His cigar went out, and he continued to gaze silently and curiously.

Leach had worked himself into an ecstasy of impotent rage.

“Pig!  Pig!  Pig!” he was reiterating at the top of his lungs.  “Why don’t you come down and kill me, you murderer?  You can do it!  I ain’t afraid!  There’s no one to stop you!  Damn sight better dead and outa your reach than alive and in your clutches!  Come on, you coward!  Kill me!  Kill me!  Kill me!”

It was at this stage that Thomas Mugridge’s erratic soul brought him into the scene.  He had been listening at the galley door, but he now came out, ostensibly to fling some scraps over the side, but obviously to see the killing he was certain would take place.  He smirked greasily up into the face of Wolf Larsen, who seemed not to see him.  But the Cockney was unabashed, though mad, stark mad.  He turned to Leach, saying:

“Such langwidge!  Shockin’!”

Leach’s rage was no longer impotent.  Here at last was something ready to hand.  And for the first time since the stabbing the Cockney had appeared outside the galley without his knife.  The words had barely left his mouth when he was knocked down by Leach.  Three times he struggled to his feet, striving to gain the galley, and each time was knocked down.

“Oh, Lord!” he cried.  “’Elp!  ’Elp!  Tyke ’im aw’y, carn’t yer?  Tyke ’im aw’y!”

The hunters laughed from sheer relief.  Tragedy had dwindled, the farce had begun.  The sailors now crowded boldly aft, grinning and shuffling, to watch the pummelling of the hated Cockney.  And even I felt a great joy surge up within me.  I confess that I delighted in this beating Leach was giving to Thomas Mugridge, though it was as terrible, almost, as the one Mugridge had caused to be given to Johnson.  But the expression of Wolf Larsen’s face never changed.  He did not change his position either, but continued to gaze down with a great curiosity.  For all his pragmatic certitude, it seemed as if he watched the play and movement of life in the hope of discovering something more about it, of discerning in its maddest writhings a something which had hitherto escaped him,—the key to its mystery, as it were, which would make all clear and plain.

But the beating!  It was quite similar to the one I had witnessed in the cabin.  The Cockney strove in vain to protect himself from the infuriated boy.  And in vain he strove to gain the shelter of the cabin.  He rolled toward it, grovelled toward it, fell toward it when he was knocked down.  But blow followed blow with bewildering rapidity.  He was knocked about like a shuttlecock, until, finally, like Johnson, he was beaten and kicked as he lay helpless on the deck.  And no one interfered.  Leach could have killed him, but, having evidently filled the measure of his vengeance, he drew away from his prostrate foe, who was whimpering and wailing in a puppyish sort of way, and walked forward.

But these two affairs were only the opening events of the day’s programme.  In the afternoon Smoke and Henderson fell foul of each other, and a fusillade of shots came up from the steerage, followed by a stampede of the other four hunters for the deck.  A column of thick, acrid smoke—the kind always made by black powder—was arising through the open companion-way, and down through it leaped Wolf Larsen.  The sound of blows and scuffling came to our ears.  Both men were wounded, and he was thrashing them both for having disobeyed his orders and crippled themselves in advance of the hunting season.  In fact, they were badly wounded, and, having thrashed them, he proceeded to operate upon them in a rough surgical fashion and to dress their wounds.  I served as assistant while he probed and cleansed the passages made by the bullets, and I saw the two men endure his crude surgery without anæsthetics and with no more to uphold them than a stiff tumbler of whisky.

Then, in the first dog-watch, trouble came to a head in the forecastle.  It took its rise out of the tittle-tattle and tale-bearing which had been the cause of Johnson’s beating, and from the noise we heard, and from the sight of the bruised men next day, it was patent that half the forecastle had soundly drubbed the other half.

The second dog-watch and the day were wound up by a fight between Johansen and the lean, Yankee-looking hunter, Latimer.  It was caused by remarks of Latimer’s concerning the noises made by the mate in his sleep, and though Johansen was whipped, he kept the steerage awake for the rest of the night while he blissfully slumbered and fought the fight over and over again.

As for myself, I was oppressed with nightmare.  The day had been like some horrible dream.  Brutality had followed brutality, and flaming passions and cold-blooded cruelty had driven men to seek one another’s lives, and to strive to hurt, and maim, and destroy.  My nerves were shocked.  My mind itself was shocked.  All my days had been passed in comparative ignorance of the animality of man.  In fact, I had known life only in its intellectual phases.  Brutality I had experienced, but it was the brutality of the intellect—the cutting sarcasm of Charley Furuseth, the cruel epigrams and occasional harsh witticisms of the fellows at the Bibelot, and the nasty remarks of some of the professors during my undergraduate days.

That was all.  But that men should wreak their anger on others by the bruising of the flesh and the letting of blood was something strangely and fearfully new to me.  Not for nothing had I been called “Sissy” Van Weyden, I thought, as I tossed restlessly on my bunk between one nightmare and another.  And it seemed to me that my innocence of the realities of life had been complete indeed.  I laughed bitterly to myself, and seemed to find in Wolf Larsen’s forbidding philosophy a more adequate explanation of life than I found in my own.

And I was frightened when I became conscious of the trend of my thought.  The continual brutality around me was degenerative in its effect.  It bid fair to destroy for me all that was best and brightest in life.  My reason dictated that the beating Thomas Mugridge had received was an ill thing, and yet for the life of me I could not prevent my soul joying in it.  And even while I was oppressed by the enormity of my sin,—for sin it was,—I chuckled with an insane delight.  I was no longer Humphrey Van Weyden.  I was Hump, cabin-boy on the schooner Ghost.  Wolf Larsen was my captain, Thomas Mugridge and the rest were my companions, and I was receiving repeated impresses from the die which had stamped them all.

CHAPTER XIII

For three days I did my own work and Thomas Mugridge’s too; and I flatter myself that I did his work well.  I know that it won Wolf Larsen’s approval, while the sailors beamed with satisfaction during the brief time my régime lasted.

“The first clean bite since I come aboard,” Harrison said to me at the galley door, as he returned the dinner pots and pans from the forecastle.  “Somehow Tommy’s grub always tastes of grease, stale grease, and I reckon he ain’t changed his shirt since he left ’Frisco.”

“I know he hasn’t,” I answered.

“And I’ll bet he sleeps in it,” Harrison added.

“And you won’t lose,” I agreed.  “The same shirt, and he hasn’t had it off once in all this time.”

But three days was all Wolf Larsen allowed him in which to recover from the effects of the beating.  On the fourth day, lame and sore, scarcely able to see, so closed were his eyes, he was haled from his bunk by the nape of the neck and set to his duty.  He sniffled and wept, but Wolf Larsen was pitiless.

“And see that you serve no more slops,” was his parting injunction.  “No more grease and dirt, mind, and a clean shirt occasionally, or you’ll get a tow over the side.  Understand?”

Thomas Mugridge crawled weakly across the galley floor, and a short lurch of the Ghost sent him staggering.  In attempting to recover himself, he reached for the iron railing which surrounded the stove and kept the pots from sliding off; but he missed the railing, and his hand, with his weight behind it, landed squarely on the hot surface.  There was a sizzle and odour of burning flesh, and a sharp cry of pain.

“Oh, Gawd, Gawd, wot ’ave I done?” he wailed; sitting down in the coal-box and nursing his new hurt by rocking back and forth.  “W’y ’as all this come on me?  It mykes me fair sick, it does, an’ I try so ’ard to go through life ’armless an’ ’urtin’ nobody.”

The tears were running down his puffed and discoloured cheeks, and his face was drawn with pain.  A savage expression flitted across it.

“Oh, ’ow I ’ate ’im!  ’Ow I ’ate ’im!” he gritted out.

“Whom?” I asked; but the poor wretch was weeping again over his misfortunes.  Less difficult it was to guess whom he hated than whom he did not hate.  For I had come to see a malignant devil in him which impelled him to hate all the world.  I sometimes thought that he hated even himself, so grotesquely had life dealt with him, and so monstrously.  At such moments a great sympathy welled up within me, and I felt shame that I had ever joyed in his discomfiture or pain.  Life had been unfair to him.  It had played him a scurvy trick when it fashioned him into the thing he was, and it had played him scurvy tricks ever since.  What chance had he to be anything else than he was?  And as though answering my unspoken thought, he wailed:

“I never ’ad no chance, not ’arf a chance!  ’Oo was there to send me to school, or put tommy in my ’ungry belly, or wipe my bloody nose for me, w’en I was a kiddy?  ’Oo ever did anything for me, heh?  ’Oo, I s’y?”

“Never mind, Tommy,” I said, placing a soothing hand on his shoulder.  “Cheer up.  It’ll all come right in the end.  You’ve long years before you, and you can make anything you please of yourself.”

“It’s a lie! a bloody lie!” he shouted in my face, flinging off the hand.  “It’s a lie, and you know it.  I’m already myde, an’ myde out of leavin’s an’ scraps.  It’s all right for you, ’Ump.  You was born a gentleman.  You never knew wot it was to go ’ungry, to cry yerself asleep with yer little belly gnawin’ an’ gnawin’, like a rat inside yer.  It carn’t come right.  If I was President of the United Stytes to-morrer, ’ow would it fill my belly for one time w’en I was a kiddy and it went empty?

“’Ow could it, I s’y?  I was born to sufferin’ and sorrer.  I’ve had more cruel sufferin’ than any ten men, I ’ave.  I’ve been in orspital arf my bleedin’ life.  I’ve ’ad the fever in Aspinwall, in ’Avana, in New Orleans.  I near died of the scurvy and was rotten with it six months in Barbadoes.  Smallpox in ’Onolulu, two broken legs in Shanghai, pnuemonia in Unalaska, three busted ribs an’ my insides all twisted in ’Frisco.  An’ ’ere I am now.  Look at me!  Look at me!  My ribs kicked loose from my back again.  I’ll be coughin’ blood before eyght bells.  ’Ow can it be myde up to me, I arsk?  ’Oo’s goin’ to do it?  Gawd?  ’Ow Gawd must ’ave ’ated me w’en