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

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.

“Don’t you think you’ve stretched that neck of yours just about enough?  It’s unhealthy, you know.  The mate’s gone, so I can’t 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.  You’ll find some old canvas in the sail-locker.  Make it do.”

“What’ll I put on his feet, sir?” the man asked, after the customary “Ay, ay, sir.”

“We’ll see to that,” 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 captain’s 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 we’ll 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.  “You’re a preacher, aren’t 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, 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 artist’s 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.”

But he disregarded my protest.

“Who earned it?  Eh?  I thought so.  Your father.  You stand on dead men’s legs.  You’ve never had any of your own.  You couldn’t 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 one’s 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 men’s 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 mate’s gone, and there’ll be a lot of promotion.  A sailor comes aft to take mate’s place, cabin-boy goes for’ard to take sailor’s place, and you take the cabin-boy’s place, sign the articles for the cruise, twenty dollars per month and found.  Now what do you say?  And mind you, it’s for your own soul’s sake.  It will be the making of you.  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.  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 moment’s pause.  “As she is going in the opposite direction, she is very probably bound for San Francisco.”

“Very probably,” was Wolf Larsen’s answer, as he turned partly away from me and cried out, “Cooky!  Oh, Cooky!”

The Cockney popped out of the galley.

“Where’s that boy?  Tell him I want him.”

“Yes, sir;” and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down another companion-way 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.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“George Leach, sir,” came the sullen answer, and the boy’s bearing showed clearly that he divined the reason for which he had been summoned.

“Not an Irish name,” the captain snapped sharply.  “O’Toole or McCarthy would suit your mug a damn sight better.  Unless, very likely, there’s an Irishman in your mother’s woodpile.”

I saw the young fellow’s 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 I’ll like you none the worse for it as long as you toe the mark.  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.  Couldn’t 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 beast’s as he snarled, “It’s 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.