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

“And now we are no longer travelling toward Japan,” I answered.  “Our drift is to the south-east, or south-south-east, at the rate of at least two miles an hour.”

“That will be only twenty-four miles,” she urged, “if the wind remains high all night.”

“Yes, and only one hundred and forty miles if it continues for three days and nights.”

“But it won’t continue,” she said with easy confidence.  “It will turn around and blow fair.”

“The sea is the great faithless one.”

“But the wind!” she retorted.  “I have heard you grow eloquent over the brave trade-wind.”

“I wish I had thought to bring Wolf Larsen’s chronometer and sextant,” I said, still gloomily.  “Sailing one direction, drifting another direction, to say nothing of the set of the current in some third direction, makes a resultant which dead reckoning can never calculate.  Before long we won’t know where we are by five hundred miles.”

Then I begged her pardon and promised I should not be disheartened any more.  At her solicitation I let her take the watch till midnight,—it was then nine o’clock, but I wrapped her in blankets and put an oilskin about her before I lay down.  I slept only cat-naps.  The boat was leaping and pounding as it fell over the crests, I could hear the seas rushing past, and spray was continually being thrown aboard.  And still, it was not a bad night, I mused—nothing to the nights I had been through on the Ghost; nothing, perhaps, to the nights we should go through in this cockle-shell.  Its planking was three-quarters of an inch thick.  Between us and the bottom of the sea was less than an inch of wood.

And yet, I aver it, and I aver it again, I was unafraid.  The death which Wolf Larsen and even Thomas Mugridge had made me fear, I no longer feared.  The coming of Maud Brewster into my life seemed to have transformed me.  After all, I thought, it is better and finer to love than to be loved, if it makes something in life so worth while that one is not loath to die for it.  I forget my own life in the love of another life; and yet, such is the paradox, I never wanted so much to live as right now when I place the least value upon my own life.  I never had so much reason for living, was my concluding thought; and after that, until I dozed, I contented myself with trying to pierce the darkness to where I knew Maud crouched low in the stern-sheets, watchful of the foaming sea and ready to call me on an instant’s notice.

There is no need of going into an extended recital of our suffering in the small boat during the many days we were driven and drifted, here and there, willy-nilly, across the ocean.  The high wind blew from the north-west for twenty-four hours, when it fell calm, and in the night sprang up from the south-west.  This was dead in our teeth, but I took in the sea-anchor and set sail, hauling a course on the wind which took us in a south-south-easterly direction.  It was an even choice between this and the west-north-westerly course which the wind permitted; but the warm airs of the south fanned my desire for a warmer sea and swayed my decision.

In three hours—it was midnight, I well remember, and as dark as I had ever seen it on the sea—the wind, still blowing out of the south-west, rose furiously, and once again I was compelled to set the sea-anchor.

Day broke and found me wan-eyed and the ocean lashed white, the boat pitching, almost on end, to its drag.  We were in imminent danger of being swamped by the whitecaps.  As it was, spray and spume came aboard in such quantities that I bailed without cessation.  The blankets were soaking.  Everything was wet except Maud, and she, in oilskins, rubber boots, and sou’wester, was dry, all but her face and hands and a stray wisp of hair.  She relieved me at the bailing-hole from time to time, and bravely she threw out the water and faced the storm.  All things are relative.  It was no more than a stiff blow, but to us, fighting for life in our frail craft, it was indeed a storm.

Cold and cheerless, the wind beating on our faces, the white seas roaring by, we struggled through the day.  Night came, but neither of us slept.  Day came, and still the wind beat on our faces and the white seas roared past.  By the second night Maud was falling asleep from exhaustion.  I covered her with oilskins and a tarpaulin.  She was comparatively dry, but she was numb with the cold.  I feared greatly that she might die in the night; but day broke, cold and cheerless, with the same clouded sky and beating wind and roaring seas.

I had had no sleep for forty-eight hours.  I was wet and chilled to the marrow, till I felt more dead than alive.  My body was stiff from exertion as well as from cold, and my aching muscles gave me the severest torture whenever I used them, and I used them continually.  And all the time we were being driven off into the north-east, directly away from Japan and toward bleak Bering Sea.

And still we lived, and the boat lived, and the wind blew unabated.  In fact, toward nightfall of the third day it increased a trifle and something more.  The boat’s bow plunged under a crest, and we came through quarter-full of water.  I bailed like a madman.  The liability of shipping another such sea was enormously increased by the water that weighed the boat down and robbed it of its buoyancy.  And another such sea meant the end.  When I had the boat empty again I was forced to take away the tarpaulin which covered Maud, in order that I might lash it down across the bow.  It was well I did, for it covered the boat fully a third of the way aft, and three times, in the next several hours, it flung off the bulk of the down-rushing water when the bow shoved under the seas.

Maud’s condition was pitiable.  She sat crouched in the bottom of the boat, her lips blue, her face grey and plainly showing the pain she suffered.  But ever her eyes looked bravely at me, and ever her lips uttered brave words.

The worst of the storm must have blown that night, though little I noticed it.  I had succumbed and slept where I sat in the stern-sheets.  The morning of the fourth day found the wind diminished to a gentle whisper, the sea dying down and the sun shining upon us.  Oh, the blessed sun!  How we bathed our poor bodies in its delicious warmth, reviving like bugs and crawling things after a storm.  We smiled again, said amusing things, and waxed optimistic over our situation.  Yet it was, if anything, worse than ever.  We were farther from Japan than the night we left the Ghost.  Nor could I more than roughly guess our latitude and longitude.  At a calculation of a two-mile drift per hour, during the seventy and odd hours of the storm, we had been driven at least one hundred and fifty miles to the north-east.  But was such calculated drift correct?  For all I knew, it might have been four miles per hour instead of two.  In which case we were another hundred and fifty miles to the bad.

Where we were I did not know, though there was quite a likelihood that we were in the vicinity of the Ghost.  There were seals about us, and I was prepared to sight a sealing-schooner at any time.  We did sight one, in the afternoon, when the north-west breeze had sprung up freshly once more.  But the strange schooner lost itself on the sky-line and we alone occupied the circle of the sea.

Came days of fog, when even Maud’s spirit drooped and there were no merry words upon her lips; days of calm, when we floated on the lonely immensity of sea, oppressed by its greatness and yet marvelling at the miracle of tiny life, for we still lived and struggled to live; days of sleet and wind and snow-squalls, when nothing could keep us warm; or days of drizzling rain, when we filled our water-breakers from the drip of the wet sail.

And ever I loved Maud with an increasing love.  She was so many-sided, so many-mooded—“protean-mooded” I called her.  But I called her this, and other and dearer things, in my thoughts only.  Though the declaration of my love urged and trembled on my tongue a thousand times, I knew that it was no time for such a declaration.  If for no other reason, it was no time, when one was protecting and trying to save a woman, to ask that woman for her love.  Delicate as was the situation, not alone in this but in other ways, I flattered myself that I was able to deal delicately with it; and also I flattered myself that by look or sign I gave no advertisement of the love I felt for her.  We were like good comrades, and we grew better comrades as the days went by.

One thing about her which surprised me was her lack of timidity and fear.  The terrible sea, the frail boat, the storms, the suffering, the strangeness and isolation of the situation,—all that should have frightened a robust woman,—seemed to make no impression upon her who had known life only in its most sheltered and consummately artificial aspects, and who was herself all fire and dew and mist, sublimated spirit, all that was soft and tender and clinging in woman.  And yet I am wrong.  She was timid and afraid, but she possessed courage.  The flesh and the qualms of the flesh she was heir to, but the flesh bore heavily only on the flesh.  And she was spirit, first and always spirit, etherealized essence of life, calm as her calm eyes, and sure of permanence in the changing order of the universe.

Came days of storm, days and nights of storm, when the ocean menaced us with its roaring whiteness, and the wind smote our struggling boat with a Titan’s buffets.  And ever we were flung off, farther and farther, to the north-east.  It was in such a storm, and the worst that we had experienced, that I cast a weary glance to leeward, not in quest of anything, but more from the weariness of facing the elemental strife, and in mute appeal, almost, to the wrathful powers to cease and let us be.  What I saw I could not at first believe.  Days and nights of sleeplessness and anxiety had doubtless turned my head.  I looked back at Maud, to identify myself, as it were, in time and space.  The sight of her dear wet cheeks, her flying hair, and her brave brown eyes convinced me that my vision was still healthy.  Again I turned my face to leeward, and again I saw the jutting promontory, black and high and naked, the raging surf that broke about its base and beat its front high up with spouting fountains, the black and forbidden coast-line running toward the south-east and fringed with a tremendous scarf of white.

“Maud,” I said.  “Maud.”

She turned her head and beheld the sight.

“It cannot be Alaska!” she cried.

“Alas, no,” I answered, and asked, “Can you swim?”

She shook her head.

“Neither can I,” I said.  “So we must get ashore without swimming, in some opening between the rocks through which we can drive the boat and clamber out.  But we must be quick, most quick—and sure.”

I spoke with a confidence she knew I did not feel, for she looked at me with that unfaltering gaze of hers and said:

“I have not thanked you yet for all you have done