The Sea Wolf by Jack London (free novels to read .TXT) 📕

a moment in which to breathe; but between each lift the stern fell, and while the bow lazily climbed the next wave the line slacked and he sank beneath.

I had forgotten the existence of Maud Brewster, and I remembered her with a start as she stepped lightly beside me.  It was her first time on deck since she had come aboard.  A dead silence greeted her appearance.

“What is the cause of the merriment?” she asked.

“Ask Captain Larsen,” I answered composedly and coldly, though inwardly my blood was boiling at the thought that she should be witness to such brutality.

She took my advice and was turning to put it into execution, when her eyes lighted on Oofty-Oofty, immediately before her, his body instinct with alertness and grace as he held the turn of the rope.

“Are you fishing?” she asked him.

He made no reply.  His eyes, fixed intently on the sea astern, suddenly flashed.

“Shark ho, sir!” he cried.

“Heave in!  Lively!  All hands tail on!” Wolf Larsen shouted, springing himself to the rope in advance of the quickest.

Mugridge had heard the Kanaka’s warning cry and was screaming madly.  I could see a black fin cutting the water and making for him with greater swiftness than he was being pulled aboard.  It was an even toss whether the shark or we would get him, and it was a matter of moments.  When Mugridge was directly beneath us, the stern descended the slope of a passing wave, thus giving the advantage to the shark.  The fin disappeared.  The belly flashed white in swift upward rush.  Almost equally swift, but not quite, was Wolf Larsen.  He threw his strength into one tremendous jerk.  The Cockney’s body left the water; so did part of the shark’s.  He drew up his legs, and the man-eater seemed no more than barely to touch one foot, sinking back into the water with a splash.  But at the moment of contact Thomas Mugridge cried out.  Then he came in like a fresh-caught fish on a line, clearing the rail generously and striking the deck in a heap, on hands and knees, and rolling over.

But a fountain of blood was gushing forth.  The right foot was missing, amputated neatly at the ankle.  I looked instantly to Maud Brewster.  Her face was white, her eyes dilated with horror.  She was gazing, not at Thomas Mugridge, but at Wolf Larsen.  And he was aware of it, for he said, with one of his short laughs:

“Man-play, Miss Brewster.  Somewhat rougher, I warrant, than what you have been used to, but still-man-play.  The shark was not in the reckoning.  It—”

But at this juncture, Mugridge, who had lifted his head and ascertained the extent of his loss, floundered over on the deck and buried his teeth in Wolf Larsen’s leg.  Wolf Larsen stooped, coolly, to the Cockney, and pressed with thumb and finger at the rear of the jaws and below the ears.  The jaws opened with reluctance, and Wolf Larsen stepped free.

“As I was saying,” he went on, as though nothing unwonted had happened, “the shark was not in the reckoning.  It was—ahem—shall we say Providence?”

She gave no sign that she had heard, though the expression of her eyes changed to one of inexpressible loathing as she started to turn away.  She no more than started, for she swayed and tottered, and reached her hand weakly out to mine.  I caught her in time to save her from falling, and helped her to a seat on the cabin.  I thought she might faint outright, but she controlled herself.

“Will you get a tourniquet, Mr. Van Weyden,” Wolf Larsen called to me.

I hesitated.  Her lips moved, and though they formed no words, she commanded me with her eyes, plainly as speech, to go to the help of the unfortunate man.  “Please,” she managed to whisper, and I could but obey.

By now I had developed such skill at surgery that Wolf Larsen, with a few words of advice, left me to my task with a couple of sailors for assistants.  For his task he elected a vengeance on the shark.  A heavy swivel-hook, baited with fat salt-pork, was dropped overside; and by the time I had compressed the severed veins and arteries, the sailors were singing and heaving in the offending monster.  I did not see it myself, but my assistants, first one and then the other, deserted me for a few moments to run amidships and look at what was going on.  The shark, a sixteen-footer, was hoisted up against the main-rigging.  Its jaws were pried apart to their greatest extension, and a stout stake, sharpened at both ends, was so inserted that when the pries were removed the spread jaws were fixed upon it.  This accomplished, the hook was cut out.  The shark dropped back into the sea, helpless, yet with its full strength, doomed—to lingering starvation—a living death less meet for it than for the man who devised the punishment.

CHAPTER XXII

I knew what it was as she came toward me.  For ten minutes I had watched her talking earnestly with the engineer, and now, with a sign for silence, I drew her out of earshot of the helmsman.  Her face was white and set; her large eyes, larger than usual what of the purpose in them, looked penetratingly into mine.  I felt rather timid and apprehensive, for she had come to search Humphrey Van Weyden’s soul, and Humphrey Van Weyden had nothing of which to be particularly proud since his advent on the Ghost.

We walked to the break of the poop, where she turned and faced me.  I glanced around to see that no one was within hearing distance.

“What is it?” I asked gently; but the expression of determination on her face did not relax.

“I can readily understand,” she began, “that this morning’s affair was largely an accident; but I have been talking with Mr. Haskins.  He tells me that the day we were rescued, even while I was in the cabin, two men were drowned, deliberately drowned—murdered.”

There was a query in her voice, and she faced me accusingly, as though I were guilty of the deed, or at least a party to it.

“The information is quite correct,” I answered.  “The two men were murdered.”

“And you permitted it!” she cried.

“I was unable to prevent it, is a better way of phrasing it,” I replied, still gently.

“But you tried to prevent it?”  There was an emphasis on the “tried,” and a pleading little note in her voice.

“Oh, but you didn’t,” she hurried on, divining my answer.  “But why didn’t you?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “You must remember, Miss Brewster, that you are a new inhabitant of this little world, and that you do not yet understand the laws which operate within it.  You bring with you certain fine conceptions of humanity, manhood, conduct, and such things; but here you will find them misconceptions.  I have found it so,” I added, with an involuntary sigh.

She shook her head incredulously.

“What would you advise, then?” I asked.  “That I should take a knife, or a gun, or an axe, and kill this man?”

She half started back.

“No, not that!”

“Then what should I do?  Kill myself?”

“You speak in purely materialistic terms,” she objected.  “There is such a thing as moral courage, and moral courage is never without effect.”

“Ah,” I smiled, “you advise me to kill neither him nor myself, but to let him kill me.”  I held up my hand as she was about to speak.  “For moral courage is a worthless asset on this little floating world.  Leach, one of the men who were murdered, had moral courage to an unusual degree.  So had the other man, Johnson.  Not only did it not stand them in good stead, but it destroyed them.  And so with me if I should exercise what little moral courage I may possess.

“You must understand, Miss Brewster, and understand clearly, that this man is a monster.  He is without conscience.  Nothing is sacred to him, nothing is too terrible for him to do.  It was due to his whim that I was detained aboard in the first place.  It is due to his whim that I am still alive.  I do nothing, can do nothing, because I am a slave to this monster, as you are now a slave to him; because I desire to live, as you will desire to live; because I cannot fight and overcome him, just as you will not be able to fight and overcome him.”

She waited for me to go on.

“What remains?  Mine is the role of the weak.  I remain silent and suffer ignominy, as you will remain silent and suffer ignominy.  And it is well.  It is the best we can do if we wish to live.  The battle is not always to the strong.  We have not the strength with which to fight this man; we must dissimulate, and win, if win we can, by craft.  If you will be advised by me, this is what you will do.  I know my position is perilous, and I may say frankly that yours is even more perilous.  We must stand together, without appearing to do so, in secret alliance.  I shall not be able to side with you openly, and, no matter what indignities may be put upon me, you are to remain likewise silent.  We must provoke no scenes with this man, nor cross his will.  And we must keep smiling faces and be friendly with him no matter how repulsive it may be.”

She brushed her hand across her forehead in a puzzled way, saying, “Still I do not understand.”

“You must do as I say,” I interrupted authoritatively, for I saw Wolf Larsen’s gaze wandering toward us from where he paced up and down with Latimer amidships.  “Do as I say, and ere long you will find I am right.”

“What shall I do, then?” she asked, detecting the anxious glance I had shot at the object of our conversation, and impressed, I flatter myself, with the earnestness of my manner.

“Dispense with all the moral courage you can,” I said briskly.  “Don’t arouse this man’s animosity.  Be quite friendly with him, talk with him, discuss literature and art with him—he is fond of such things.  You will find him an interested listener and no fool.  And for your own sake try to avoid witnessing, as much as you can, the brutalities of the ship.  It will make it easier for you to act your part.”

“I am to lie,” she said in steady, rebellious tones, “by speech and action to lie.”

Wolf Larsen had separated from Latimer and was coming toward us.  I was desperate.

“Please, please understand me,” I said hurriedly, lowering my voice.  “All your experience of men and things is worthless here.  You must begin over again.  I know,—I can see it—you have, among other ways, been used to managing people with your eyes, letting your moral courage speak out through them, as it were.  You have already managed me with your eyes, commanded me with them.  But don’t try it on Wolf Larsen.  You could as easily control a lion, while he would make a mock of you.  He would—I have always been proud of the fact that I discovered him,” I said, turning the conversation as Wolf Larsen stepped on the poop and joined us.  “The editors were afraid of him and the publishers would have none of him.  But I knew, and his genius and my judgment were vindicated when he made that magnificent hit with his ‘Forge.’”

“And it was a newspaper poem,” she said glibly.

“It did happen to see the light in a newspaper,” I replied, “but not because the magazine editors had been denied a glimpse at it.”

“We were talking of Harris,” I said to Wolf Larsen.

“Oh, yes,” he acknowledged.  “I remember the ‘Forge.’  Filled with pretty sentiments and an almighty faith in human illusions.  By the way, Mr. Van Weyden, you’d better look in on Cooky.  He’s complaining and restless.”

Thus was I bluntly