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

remember the scene impelled me to sudden laughter, and in the next instant I realized I was becoming hysterical myself; for these were women of my own kind, like my mother and sisters, with the fear of death upon them and unwilling to die.  And I remember that the sounds they made reminded me of the squealing of pigs under the knife of the butcher, and I was struck with horror at the vividness of the analogy.  These women, capable of the most sublime emotions, of the tenderest sympathies, were open-mouthed and screaming.  They wanted to live, they were helpless, like rats in a trap, and they screamed.

The horror of it drove me out on deck.  I was feeling sick and squeamish, and sat down on a bench.  In a hazy way I saw and heard men rushing and shouting as they strove to lower the boats.  It was just as I had read descriptions of such scenes in books.  The tackles jammed.  Nothing worked.  One boat lowered away with the plugs out, filled with women and children and then with water, and capsized.  Another boat had been lowered by one end, and still hung in the tackle by the other end, where it had been abandoned.  Nothing was to be seen of the strange steamboat which had caused the disaster, though I heard men saying that she would undoubtedly send boats to our assistance.

I descended to the lower deck.  The Martinez was sinking fast, for the water was very near.  Numbers of the passengers were leaping overboard.  Others, in the water, were clamouring to be taken aboard again.  No one heeded them.  A cry arose that we were sinking.  I was seized by the consequent panic, and went over the side in a surge of bodies.  How I went over I do not know, though I did know, and instantly, why those in the water were so desirous of getting back on the steamer.  The water was cold—so cold that it was painful.  The pang, as I plunged into it, was as quick and sharp as that of fire.  It bit to the marrow.  It was like the grip of death.  I gasped with the anguish and shock of it, filling my lungs before the life-preserver popped me to the surface.  The taste of the salt was strong in my mouth, and I was strangling with the acrid stuff in my throat and lungs.

But it was the cold that was most distressing.  I felt that I could survive but a few minutes.  People were struggling and floundering in the water about me.  I could hear them crying out to one another.  And I heard, also, the sound of oars.  Evidently the strange steamboat had lowered its boats.  As the time went by I marvelled that I was still alive.  I had no sensation whatever in my lower limbs, while a chilling numbness was wrapping about my heart and creeping into it.  Small waves, with spiteful foaming crests, continually broke over me and into my mouth, sending me off into more strangling paroxysms.

The noises grew indistinct, though I heard a final and despairing chorus of screams in the distance, and knew that the Martinez had gone down.  Later,—how much later I have no knowledge,—I came to myself with a start of fear.  I was alone.  I could hear no calls or cries—only the sound of the waves, made weirdly hollow and reverberant by the fog.  A panic in a crowd, which partakes of a sort of community of interest, is not so terrible as a panic when one is by oneself; and such a panic I now suffered.  Whither was I drifting?  The red-faced man had said that the tide was ebbing through the Golden Gate.  Was I, then, being carried out to sea?  And the life-preserver in which I floated?  Was it not liable to go to pieces at any moment?  I had heard of such things being made of paper and hollow rushes which quickly became saturated and lost all buoyancy.  And I could not swim a stroke.  And I was alone, floating, apparently, in the midst of a grey primordial vastness.  I confess that a madness seized me, that I shrieked aloud as the women had shrieked, and beat the water with my numb hands.

How long this lasted I have no conception, for a blankness intervened, of which I remember no more than one remembers of troubled and painful sleep.  When I aroused, it was as after centuries of time; and I saw, almost above me and emerging from the fog, the bow of a vessel, and three triangular sails, each shrewdly lapping the other and filled with wind.  Where the bow cut the water there was a great foaming and gurgling, and I seemed directly in its path.  I tried to cry out, but was too exhausted.  The bow plunged down, just missing me and sending a swash of water clear over my head.  Then the long, black side of the vessel began slipping past, so near that I could have touched it with my hands.  I tried to reach it, in a mad resolve to claw into the wood with my nails, but my arms were heavy and lifeless.  Again I strove to call out, but made no sound.

The stern of the vessel shot by, dropping, as it did so, into a hollow between the waves; and I caught a glimpse of a man standing at the wheel, and of another man who seemed to be doing little else than smoke a cigar.  I saw the smoke issuing from his lips as he slowly turned his head and glanced out over the water in my direction.  It was a careless, unpremeditated glance, one of those haphazard things men do when they have no immediate call to do anything in particular, but act because they are alive and must do something.

But life and death were in that glance.  I could see the vessel being swallowed up in the fog; I saw the back of the man at the wheel, and the head of the other man turning, slowly turning, as his gaze struck the water and casually lifted along it toward me.  His face wore an absent expression, as of deep thought, and I became afraid that if his eyes did light upon me he would nevertheless not see me.  But his eyes did light upon me, and looked squarely into mine; and he did see me, for he sprang to the wheel, thrusting the other man aside, and whirled it round and round, hand over hand, at the same time shouting orders of some sort.  The vessel seemed to go off at a tangent to its former course and leapt almost instantly from view into the fog.

I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, and tried with all the power of my will to fight above the suffocating blankness and darkness that was rising around me.  A little later I heard the stroke of oars, growing nearer and nearer, and the calls of a man.  When he was very near I heard him crying, in vexed fashion, “Why in hell don’t you sing out?”  This meant me, I thought, and then the blankness and darkness rose over me.

CHAPTER II

I seemed swinging in a mighty rhythm through orbit vastness.  Sparkling points of light spluttered and shot past me.  They were stars, I knew, and flaring comets, that peopled my flight among the suns.  As I reached the limit of my swing and prepared to rush back on the counter swing, a great gong struck and thundered.  For an immeasurable period, lapped in the rippling of placid centuries, I enjoyed and pondered my tremendous flight.

But a change came over the face of the dream, for a dream I told myself it must be.  My rhythm grew shorter and shorter.  I was jerked from swing to counter swing with irritating haste.  I could scarcely catch my breath, so fiercely was I impelled through the heavens.  The gong thundered more frequently and more furiously.  I grew to await it with a nameless dread.  Then it seemed as though I were being dragged over rasping sands, white and hot in the sun.  This gave place to a sense of intolerable anguish.  My skin was scorching in the torment of fire.  The gong clanged and knelled.  The sparkling points of light flashed past me in an interminable stream, as though the whole sidereal system were dropping into the void.  I gasped, caught my breath painfully, and opened my eyes.  Two men were kneeling beside me, working over me.  My mighty rhythm was the lift and forward plunge of a ship on the sea.  The terrific gong was a frying-pan, hanging on the wall, that rattled and clattered with each leap of the ship.  The rasping, scorching sands were a man’s hard hands chafing my naked chest.  I squirmed under the pain of it, and half lifted my head.  My chest was raw and red, and I could see tiny blood globules starting through the torn and inflamed cuticle.

“That’ll do, Yonson,” one of the men said.  “Carn’t yer see you’ve bloomin’ well rubbed all the gent’s skin orf?”

The man addressed as Yonson, a man of the heavy Scandinavian type, ceased chafing me, and arose awkwardly to his feet.  The man who had spoken to him was clearly a Cockney, with the clean lines and weakly pretty, almost effeminate, face of the man who has absorbed the sound of Bow Bells with his mother’s milk.  A draggled muslin cap on his head and a dirty gunny-sack about his slim hips proclaimed him cook of the decidedly dirty ship’s galley in which I found myself.

“An’ ’ow yer feelin’ now, sir?” he asked, with the subservient smirk which comes only of generations of tip-seeking ancestors.

For reply, I twisted weakly into a sitting posture, and was helped by Yonson to my feet.  The rattle and bang of the frying-pan was grating horribly on my nerves.  I could not collect my thoughts.  Clutching the woodwork of the galley for support,—and I confess the grease with which it was scummed put my teeth on edge,—I reached across a hot cooking-range to the offending utensil, unhooked it, and wedged it securely into the coal-box.

The cook grinned at my exhibition of nerves, and thrust into my hand a steaming mug with an “’Ere, this’ll do yer good.”  It was a nauseous mess,—ship’s coffee,—but the heat of it was revivifying.  Between gulps of the molten stuff I glanced down at my raw and bleeding chest and turned to the Scandinavian.

“Thank you, Mr. Yonson,” I said; “but don’t you think your measures were rather heroic?”

It was because he understood the reproof of my action, rather than of my words, that he held up his palm for inspection.  It was remarkably calloused.  I passed my hand over the horny projections, and my teeth went on edge once more from the horrible rasping sensation produced.

“My name is Johnson, not Yonson,” he said, in very good, though slow, English, with no more than a shade of accent to it.

There was mild protest in his pale blue eyes, and withal a timid frankness and manliness that quite won me to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” I corrected, and reached out my hand for his.

He hesitated, awkward and bashful, shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then blunderingly gripped my hand in a hearty shake.

“Have you any dry clothes I may put on?” I asked the cook.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, with cheerful alacrity.  “I’ll run down an’ tyke a look over my kit, if you’ve no objections, sir, to wearin’ my things.”

He dived out of the galley door, or glided rather, with a swiftness and smoothness of gait that struck me as being not so much cat-like as oily.  In fact, this oiliness, or greasiness, as I was later to learn, was probably the most salient expression of his personality.

“And where am I?” I asked Johnson, whom