 25 You've been on deck, Mr. Van Wyden. Wolf Larson said the following morning at the breakfast table. How do things look? Clear enough, I answered, glancing at the sunshine which streamed down the open companion way. Fair westerly breeze with the promise of stiffening, if Lewis predicts correctly. He nodded his head in a pleased way. Any signs of fog? Thick banks in the north and northwest. He nodded his head again, evincing even greater satisfaction than before. What of the Macedonia? Not sighted, I answered. I could have sworn his face fell at the intelligence, but why he should be disappointed I could not conceive. I was soon to learn. Smoke-ho! came the hail from on deck and his face brightened. Good! he exclaimed, and left the table at once to go on deck and into the steerage, where the hunters were taking the first breakfast to their exile. Mod Brewster and I scarcely touched the food before us, gazing instead, in silent anxiety at each other, and listening to Wolf Larson's voice, which easily penetrated the cabin through the intervening bulkhead. He spoke at length, and his conclusion was greeted by a wild roar of cheers. The bulkhead was too thick for us to hear what he said, but whatever it was it affected the hunters strongly, for the cheering was followed by loud exclamations and shouts of joy. In the sounds on deck I knew that sailors had been routed out and were preparing till over the boats. Mod Brewster accompanied me on deck, but I left her at the break of the poop where she might watch the scene and not be in it. The sailors must have learned whatever project was on hand, and the vim and snap they put into their work attested their enthusiasm. The hunters came trooping on deck with shotguns and ammunition boxes, and, most unusual, their rifles. The latter were rarely taken in the boats, for a seal shot at long range with her rifle, and variably sank before a boat could reach it. But each hunter this day had his rifle and a large supply of cartridges. I noticed they grinned with satisfaction whenever they looked at the Macedonia's smoke, which was rising higher and higher as she approached from the west. The five boats went over the side with her rush, spread out like the ribs of a fan, and set a northerly course as on the preceding afternoon for us to follow. I watched for some time, curiously, but there seemed nothing extraordinary about their behavior. They lowered sails, shot seals, and hoisted sails again and continued on their way, as I had always seen them do. The Macedonia repeated her performance of yesterday, hogging the sea by dropping her line of boats in advance of hours and across our course. Fourteen boats required a considerable spread of ocean for comfortable hunting, and when she had completely lapped our line, she continued steaming into the northeast, dropping more boats as she went. What's up? I asked Wolf Larson, unable longer to keep my curiosity in check. Never mind what's up, he answered gruffly. You won't be a thousand years in finding out, and in the meantime just pray for plenty of wind. Oh, well, I don't mind telling you, he said the next moment. I'm going to give that brother a taste of his own medicine. In short, I'm going to play the hog myself, and not for one day, but for the rest of the season, if we're in luck. And if we're not, I queried, not to be considered, he laughed. We simply must be in luck, or it's all up with us. He had the wheel at the time, and I went forward to my hospital in the Forecastle, where lay the two crippled men, Nilsen and Thomas Mugridge. Nilsen was as cheerful as could be expected, for his broken leg was knitting nicely, but the cockney was desperately melancholy, and I was aware of a great sympathy for the unfortunate creature. And the marvel of it was that still he lived and clung to life. The brutal years had reduced his meager body to splintered wreckage, and yet the spark of life within burned brightly as ever. With an artificial foot, and they make excellent ones, you will be stomping chips galleys to the end of time, I assured him jofeily. But his answer was serious, nay, solemn. I don't know about what you saw, Mr. Van Wyden, but I do know I'll never rest happy till I see that El-Own bloody well dead. He can't live as long as me. He's got no right to live, and, as the good word puts it, he shall surely die. And I sigh, amen, and damn soon at that. When I returned on deck, I found Wolf Larson steering mainly with one hand, while with the other hand he held the marine glasses and studied the situation of the boats, paying particular attention to the position of the Macedonia. The only change noticeable in our boats was that they had hauled close on the wind, and were heading several points west of north. Still, I could not see the expediency of the maneuver, for the free sea was still intercepted by the Macedonia's five weather boats, which in turn had hauled close on the wind. Thus they slowly diverged toward the west, drawing further away from the remainder of the boats in their line. Our boats were rowing as well as sailing. Even the hunters were pulling, and with three pairs of oars in the water they rapidly overhauled what I may appropriately term the enemy. The smoke of the Macedonia had dwindled to a dim blood on the northeastern horizon. Of the steamer herself nothing was to be seen. We had been loafing along till now, our sails shaking half the time and spelling the wind, and twice for short periods we had been hoe of two. But there was no more loafing. Sheets were trimmed, and Wolf Larson proceeded to put the ghosts through her paces. We ran past our line of boats and bore down upon the first weather boat of the other line. Down that flying jeb, Mr. Van Wyden, Wolf Larson commanded, and stand by to back over the jebs. I ran forward, and had the downhaul of the flying jeb all in and fast, as we slipped by the boat a hundred feet to Leeward. The three men in it gazed at us suspiciously. They had been hogging the sea, and I knew Wolf Larson by reputation at any rate. I noted that the hunter, a huge Scandinavian sitting in the bow, held his rifle ready to hand across his knees. It should have been in its proper place in the rack. When it came opposite, our stern Wolf Larson greeted them with a wave of the hand, and cried, Come on board and have a gam. To gam, among sealing-screwners, is a substitute for the verbs to visit, to gossip. It expresses the gerulity of the sea, and is a pleasant break in the monotony of the life. The ghosts swung around into the wind, and I finished my work forward in time to run aft and lend a hand with the main sheet. You will please stay on deck, Mr. Uster, Wolf Larson said as he started forward to meet his guest, and you too, Mr. Van Wyden. The boat had lowered at sail, and run alongside. The hunter, golden-bearded like a sea-king, came over the rail, and dropped on deck. But his hugeness could not quite overcome his apprehensiveness. What in distrust showed strongly in his face. It was a transparent face for all its hairy shield, and advertised instant relief when he glanced from Wolf Larson to me, noted that there was only the pair of us, then glanced over his own two men who had joined him. Surely he had little reason to be afraid. He towered like a gliath above Wolf Larson. He must have measured six-foot-eight or nine-inches in stature, and I subsequently learned his weight, 240 pounds. And there was no fad about him. It was all bone and muscle. A return of apprehension was apparent when, at the top of the companion-wave, Wolf Larson invited him below. But he reassured himself with a glance down at his host, a big man himself but dwarfed by the propinklity of the giant. So all hesitancy vanished, and the pair descended into the cabin. In the meantime his two men, as was the one of visiting sailors, had gone forward into the forecastle to do some visiting themselves. Suddenly, from the cabin came a great, choking bellow, followed by all the sounds of a furious struggle. It was the leopard and the lion, and the lion made all the noise. Wolf Larson was the leopard. You see the sacredness of our hospitality, I said bitterly, to Mod Brewster. She nodded her head that she heard, and I noted in her face the signs of the same sickness at sight or sound of violent struggle from which I had suffered so severely during my first weeks on the ghost. Wouldn't it be better if you went forward, say by the steerage companion-wave, until it is over, I suggested? She shook her head and gazed at me pitifully. She was not frightened, but appalled, rather, at the human amenality of it. You will understand, I took advantage of the opportunity to say, Whatever part I have taken what is going on, and what is to come, that I am compelled to take it, if you and I are ever to get out of this grape with our lives. It is not nice, for me, I added. I understand. She said, in a weak, faraway voice, and her eyes showed me that she did understand. The sounds from below soon died away. Then Wolf Larson came alone on deck. There was a slight flush under his bronze, but otherwise he bore no signs of the battle. Send those two men aft, Mr. Van Wyden, he said. I obeyed, and a minute or two later they stood before him. Hoist in your boat, he said to them. Your hunters decided to stay aboard awhile and doesn't want it pounding alongside. Hoist in your boat, I said, he repeated. This time in sharper tones as they hesitated to do his bidding. Who knows? You may have to sail with me for a time, he said, quite softly, with a silken threat that belayed the softness as they moved slowly to comply. And we might as well start with a friendly understanding. Lively now, Death Larson makes you jump better than that and you know it. Their movements perceptibly quickened under his coaching, and as the boat swung inboard, I was sent forward to let go the Jebs. Wolf Larson, at the wheel, directed the ghost after the Macedonia second-weather boat. Underway, and with nothing for the time being to do, I turned my attention to the situation of the boats. The Macedonia's third-weather boat was being attacked by two of ours, the fourth by our remaining three, and the fifth, turnabout, was taking a hand in the defense of its nearest mate. The fight had opened at long distance, and rifles were cracking steadily. A quick snappy sea was being kicked up by the wind, a condition which prevented fine shooting, and now and again, as we drew closer, we could see the bullet zip zipping from wave to wave. The boat we were pursuing had squared away and was running before the wind to escape us, and in the course of its flight to take part in repulsing our general boat attack. Attending the sheets and tacks, now left me little time to see what was taking place, but I happened to be on the poop when Wolf Larson ordered the two strange sailors forward and into the forecastle. They went sullenly, but they went. He next ordered Miss Brewster below and smiled at the instant horror that leapt into her eyes. You'll find nothing gruesome down there, he said. Only an unhurt man securely made fast to the ring bolts. Bullets are reliable to come aboard, and I don't want you killed, you know. Even as he spoke, a bullet was deflected by a brass cap spoke of the wheel between his hands and screeched off through the air to windward. You see, he said to her, and then to me, Mr. Van Wyden, will you take the wheel? Mod Brewster had stepped inside the companion way so that only her head was exposed. Wolf Larson had procured a rifle and was throwing a cartridge into the barrel. I begged her with my eyes to go below, but she smiled and said, We may be feeble land creatures without legs, but we can show Captain Larson that we are at least as brave as he. He gave her a quick look of admiration. I like you a hundred percent better for that, he said. Books and brains and bravery. You are well rounded, a blue stocking fit to be the wife of a pirate chief. We'll discuss that later, he smiled, as a bullet struck solidly into the cabin wall. I saw his eyes flash golden as he spoke, and I saw the terror mount in her own. We are braver, I hasten to say. At least speaking for myself, I know I am braver than Captain Larson. It was I who was now favored with a quick look. He was wondering if I were making fun of him. I put three or four spokes over to counteract a shear toward the wind on the part of the ghost, and then steadied her. Wolf Larson was still waiting for an explanation, and I pointed down to my knees. You will observe there, I said, this white trembling. It is because I am afraid, the flesh is afraid, and I am afraid in my mind, because I do not wish to die. But my spirit masters the trembling flesh and the qualms of the mind. I am more than brave, I am courageous. Your flesh is not afraid, you are not afraid. On the one hand it costs you nothing to encounter danger, on the other hand it even gives you delight. You enjoy it. You may be unafraid, Mr. Larson, but you must grant that the bravery is mine. You're right, he acknowledged it once. I never thought of it that way before. But is the opposite true? If you were braver than I, am I more cowardly than you? We both laughed at the absurdity, and he dropped down to the deck and rested his rifle across the rail. The bullets we had received had traveled nearly a mile, but by now we had cut that distance in half. He fired three careful shots. The first struck 50 feet to windward of the boat, the second alongside, and at the third the boat steered or let loose his steering oar and crumpled up in the bottom of the boat. I guess that'll fix them, Wolf Larson said, rising to his feet. I couldn't afford to let the hunter have it, and there is a chance the boat puller doesn't know how to steer, in which case the hunter cannot steer and shoot at the same time. His reasoning was justified, for the boat rushed at once into the wind, and the hunter sprang off to take the boat steer as place. There was no more shooting, though the rifles were still crackling merrily from the other boats. The hunter had managed to get the boat before the wind again, but we ran down upon it, going at least two feet to its one. A hundred yards away I saw the boat puller pass the rifle to the hunter. Wolf Larson went to midships and took the coil of the throat halyards from its pin. Then he peered over the rail with the leveled rifle. Twice I saw the hunter let go the steering oar with one hand, reach for his rifle, and hesitate. We were now alongside and foaming past. Here you, Wolf Larson, tried suddenly to the boat puller, take a turn. At the same time he flung the coil of rope. It struck fairly, nearly knocking the man over, but he did not obey. Instead he looked to his hunter for orders. The hunter, in turn, was in a quandary. His rifle was between his knees, but if he let go the steering oar in order to shoot, the boat would sweep around and collide with the schooner. Also he saw Wolf Larson's rifle bearing upon him and knew he would be shot air he could get his rifle into play. Take a turn, he said quietly, to the man. The boat puller obeyed, taking the turn around the little forward thwart and paying the line as the jerk taught. The boat sheared out with a rush, and the hunter steadied it to a parallel course some 20 feet from the side of the ghost. Now get that sail down and come alongside, Wolf Larson ordered. He never let go his rifle, even passing down the tackles with one hand. When they were fast, bow and stern, and the two uninjured men prepared to come aboard, the hunter picked up his rifle as if to place it in the secure position. Drop it, Wolf Larson cried, and the hunter dropped it as though it were hot and had burned him. Once aboard, the two prisoners hoisted in the boat and under Wolf Larson's direction carried the wounded boat steerer down into the forecastle. If our five boats do as well as you and I have done, we'll have a pretty full crew, Wolf Larson said to me. The man you shot, he is, I hope, Mod Brewster quavered. In the shoulder, he answered, nothing serious. Mr. Van Wyden will pull him around as good as ever in three or four weeks. But he won't pull those chaps around, from the look of it, he added, pointing to the Macedonia's third boat, for which I had been steering, and which was now nearly abreast of us. That's Horner's and Smoke's work. I told them we wanted live men, not carcasses. But the joy of shooting to hit is a most compelling thing, when once you've learned how to shoot. Ever experienced it, Mr. Van Wyden? I shook my head and regarded their work. It had indeed been bloody, for they had drawn off and joined our other three boats in the attack on the remaining two of the enemy. The deserted boat was in the trough of the sea, rolling drunkenly across each comor. Its loose spritz sail out at right angles to it, and fluttering and flapping in the wind. The hunter and boat-poller were both lying awkwardly in the bottom, but the boat-steerer laid across the guennel, half in and half out, his arms trailing in the water, and his head rolling from side to side. Don't look, Miss Brewster. Please don't look, I had begged of her. And I was glad that she had minded me and been spared the sight. Head right into the bunch, Mr. Van Wyden, who was Wolf Larson's command. As we drew nearer, the firing ceased, and we saw that the fight was over. The remaining two boats had been captured by our five, and the seven were grouped together, waiting to be picked up. Look at that, I cried involuntarily, pointing to the northeast. The blot of smoke, which indicated the Macedonias position, had reappeared. Yes, I've been watching it, was Wolf Larson's calm reply. He measured the distance away to the fog bank, and for an instant paused to feel the weight of the wind on his cheek. We'll make it, I think, but you can depend upon it that blessed brother of mine has twigged our little game and is just a humping for us. Ah, look at that. The blot of smoke had suddenly grown larger, and it was very black. I'll beat you out, though, brother of mine, he chuckled. I'll beat you out, and I hope you know worse than you rack your old engines into scrap. When we hoeved to, a hasty, though orderly, confusion rained. The boats came aboard from every side at once. As fast as the prisoners came over the rail, they were marshaled forward to the forecastle by our hunters. While our sailors hosted in the boats Palmel, dropping them anywhere on the deck and not stopping to lash them, we were already under way, all sails set and drying, and the sheets being slacked off for a wind to beam as the blast boat lifted clear of the water and swung in the tackles. There was need for haste. The Macedonia, belching the blackest of smoke from her funnel, was charging down upon us from out of the northeast. Neglecting the boats that remained to her, she had altered her course so as to anticipate ours. She was not running straight for us, but ahead of us. Our courses were converging like the sides of an angle, the vertex of which was at the edge of the fog bank. It was there, or not at all, that the Macedonia could hope to catch us. The hope for the ghost lie in that she should pass that point before the Macedonia arrived at it. Wolf Larson was staring, his eyes glistening and snapping as they dwelled upon and leaped from detail to detail of the chase. Now he studied the sea to windward for signs of the winds slackening or freshening. Now the Macedonia. And again his eyes roved over every sail, and he gave commands to slack his sheet here at trifle, to come in on one there at trifle, till he was drawing out of the ghost the last bit of speed she possessed. All feuds and grudges were forgotten, and I was surprised at the alacrity with which the men who had so long endured his brutality sprang to execute his orders. Strange to say, the unfortunate Johnson came into my mind as we lifted and surged and healed along, and I was aware of her regret that he was not alive and present. He had so loved the ghost and delighted inner sailing powers. Better get your rifles, you fellows, Wolf Larson called to her hunters, and the five men lined the lee rail, guns in hand, and waited. The Macedonia was now but a mile away, the black smoke pouring from her funnel at a right angle so madly she raced, pounding through the sea at a 17-knot gate. Sky hooding through the brine, as Wolf Larson quoted while gazing at her, we were not making more than nine knots, but the fog bank was very near. A puff of smoke broke from the Macedonia's deck. We heard a heavy report, and a round hole took form in the stretched canvas of our mainsail. They were shooting at us with one of the small cannons, which rumor had said they carried on board. Our men, clustering the midships, waved their hats and raised a derisive cheer. Again, there was a puff of smoke and a loud report. This time the cannonball, striking not more than 20 feet a stern, and glancing twice from sea to sea to windward, air had sank. But there was no rifle firing for the reason that all their hunters were out in the boats or our prisoners. When the two boats were half a mile apart, a third shot made another hole in our mainsail. Then we entered the fog. It was about us veiling and hiding us in its dense wet gauze. The sudden transition was startling. The moment before we had been leaping through the sunshine, the clear sky above us, the sea breaking and rolling wide to the horizon, and a ship vomiting smoke and fire and iron missiles, rushing madly upon us. And at once, as in an instant sleep, the sun was blotted out, there was no sky, even our mast heads were lost to view, and our horizon was such as tear blended eyes may see. The gray mist drove by us like a rain. Every woolen filament of our garments, every hair of our heads and faces, was jeweled with a crystal clobbule. The shrouds were wet with moisture. It dripped from our rigging overhead, and on the underside of our booms, drops of water took shape in long, swaying lines which were detached and flung to the deck and mimic showers at each surge of the schooner. I was aware of a pent, stifled feeling, as the sounds of the ship thrusting herself through the waves were hurled back upon us by the fog. So were one's thoughts. The mind recoiled from contemplation of a world beyond this wet veil which wrapped us around. This was the world, the universe itself. It's bound so near, one felt impelled to reach out both arms and push them back. It was impossible that the rest could be beyond these walls of gray. The rest was a dream, no more than the memory of a dream. It was weird, strangely weird. I looked at Mod Brewster and knew that she was similarly affected. Then I looked at Wolf Larson, but there was nothing subjective about his state of consciousness. His whole concern was with the immediate objective present. He still held the wheel, and I felt that he was timing time, reckoning the passage of the minutes with each forward lunge and leeward roll of the ghost. Go forward and hardly, without any noise, he said to me, in a low voice, clue up the top sails first. Set men at all the sheets, let there be no rattling of blocks, no sound of voices, no noise, understand, no noise. When all was ready, the word hardly was passed forward to me from man to man, and the ghost healed about on the port tack with practically no noise at all. And what little there was, the slapping of a few reef points, and the creaking of a sheath and a block or two, was ghostly under the whole echoing pole in which we were swathed. We had scarcely filled away, it seemed, when the fog thinned abruptly, and we were again in the sunshine, the wide-stretching sea breaking before us to the skyline. But the ocean was bare. No wrathful Macedonia broke its surface nor blackened the sky with her smoke. Wolf Larson at once squared away and ran down along the rim of the fog bank. His trick was obvious. He had entered the fog to the windward of the steamer, and while the steamer had driven blindly on into the fog and the chance of catching him, he had come about and out of his shelter and was now running down to re-enter to leeward. Successful in this, the old simile of a needle in the haystack would be mild indeed compared with his brother's chance of finding him. He did not run long. Jibing the fore and main sails and setting the top sails again, we headed back into the bank. As we entered, I could have sworn I saw a vague bulk emerging to windward. I looked quickly at Wolf Larson. Already we were ourselves buried in the fog, but he nodded his head. He too had seen it, the Macedonia guessing his maneuver and failing by a moment in anticipating it. There was no doubt that we had escaped unseen. He can't keep this up, Wolf Larson said. He'll have to go back for the rest of his boats. Send the man to the wheel, Mr. Van Wyden. Keep this course for the present, and you might as well set the watches, for we won't do any lingering tonight. I'd give him five hundred dollars, though, he added, just to be aboard the Macedonia for five minutes, listening to my brother curse. And now, Mr. Van Wyden, he said to me when he had been relieved from the wheel, we must make these newcomers welcome. Serve out plenty of whiskey to the hunters and see that a few bottles slip forward. I'll wager every man jack of them is over the side to mile. But once they escape, is Wainwright dead? I asked. He laughed shrewdly. Not as long as our old hunters have anything to say about it. I'm dividing amongst them a dollar a skin for all the skin shot by our new hunters. At least half their enthusiasm today was due to that. Oh no, there won't be any escaping if they have anything to say about it. And now you'd better get forward to your hospital duties. There must be a full ward waiting for you. End of Chapter 25. Chapter 26 of The Seawolf. This library of ox recording is in the public domain. The Seawolf by Jack London, Chapter 26. Wolflarsen took the distribution of the whiskey off my hands, and the bottles begin to make their appearance while I worked over the fresh batch of wounded men in the four castle. I had seen whiskey drunk, such as whiskey and soda, by the men of the clubs. But never as these men drank it, from panicans, and mugs, and from the bottles. Great brimming drinks, each one of which was in itself a debauch. But they did not stop at one or two. They drank and drank, and ever the bottles slipped forward, and they drank more. Everybody drank. The wounded drank. Ufti Ufti, who helped me, drank. Only Louis refrained, no more than cautiously wetting his lips with a liquor, though he joined in the revels with an abandon equal to that of most of them. It was a sadder to Nalia. In loud voices they shouted over the days fighting, wrangled about details, or waxed, affectionate, and made friends with the men whom they had fought. Prisoners and captors hiccuped on one another's shoulders and swore mighty oaths of respect and esteem. They wept over the miseries of the past and over the miseries yet to come under the iron rule of Wolf Larson, and all cursed him and told terrible tales of his brutality. It was a strange and frightful spectacle, the small bunk line space, the floors and walls leaping and lurching, the dim light, the swaying shadows lengthening and foreshortening monstrously, the thick air heavy with smoke and the smell of bodies and idoa form and the inflamed faces of the men, half-men I should call them. I noted Ufti Ufti holding the end of a bandage and looking upon the scene, his velvety and luminous eyes glistening in the light like a deer's eyes, and yet I knew the barbaric devil that lurked in his breast and belayed all the softness and tenderness almost womanly of his face and form. And I noticed the boyish face of Harrison, a good-faced once, but now a demon's, convulsed with passion as he told the newcomers of the hellship they were in and shrieked curses upon the head of Wolf Larson. Wolf Larson it was, always Wolf Larson, enslaver and tormenter of men, a male Cersei and these his swine, suffering brutes that groveled before him and re-holded only in drunkenness and in secrecy. And was I too one of his swine, I thought? And, Mod Brewster, no. I ground my teeth in my anger and determination till the man I was attending winced under my hand and Ufti Ufti looked at me with curiosity. I felt endowed with a sudden strength. What if my newfound love I was a giant? I feared nothing. I would work my will through it all in spite of Wolf Larson and of my own 35 bookish years. All would be well. I would make it well. And so, exalted, upborn by a sense of power, I turned my back on the howling inferno and climbed to the deck where the fog drifted ghostly through the night and the air was sweet and pure and quiet. The stirridge, where were two wounded hunters, was a repetition of the forecastle, except that Wolf Larson was not being cursed. And it was with a great relief that I again emerged on deck and went after the cabin. supper was ready, and Wolf Larson and Mod were waiting for me. While all his ship was getting drunk as fast as it could, he remained sober, not a drop of liquor past his lips. He did not dare it under the circumstances, for he had only Lewis and me to depend upon, and Lewis even now was at the wheel. We were sailing on through the fog without a lookout and without lights. That Wolf Larson had turned the liquor loose among his men surprised me, but he evidently knew their psychology and the best method of semening and cordiality what had begun in bloodshed. His victory over Death Larson seemed to have had a remarkable effect upon him. The previous evening he had reasoned himself into the blues, and I had been waiting momentarily for one of his characteristic outbursts. Yet nothing had occurred, and he was now in splendid trim. Possibly his success in capturing so many hunters and boats had counteracted the customary reaction. At any rate the blues were gone and the blue devils had not put in an appearance. So I thought at the time, but, ah, me, little I knew him, or knew that even then, perhaps, he was meditating an outbreak more terrible than any I had seen. As I say, he discovered himself in splendid trim when I entered the cabin. He had had no headaches for weeks. His eyes were clear blue as the sky. His bronze was beautiful with perfect health. Life swelled through his veins in full and magnificent flood. While waiting for me he had engaged mod in animated discussion. Temptation was the topic they had hit upon, and from the few words I heard I made out that he was contending that temptation was temptation only when a man was seduced by it and fell. For, look you, he was saying, as I see it, a man does things because of desire. He has many desires. He made desire to escape pain or to enjoy pleasure. But whatever he does, he does because he desires to do it. But suppose he desires to do two opposite things, neither of which will permit him to do the other, mod interrupted. The very thing I was coming to, he said, and between these two desires is just where the soul of the man is manifest. She went on, if it is a good soul it will desire and do the good action, and the contrary, if it is a bad soul. It is the soul that decides, Bosch and Nonsense, he exclaimed impatiently. It is the desire that decides. Here is a man who wants to, say, get drunk. Also, he doesn't want to get drunk. What does he do? How does he do it? He is a puppet. He is the creature of his desires, and of the two desires he obeys the strongest one. That is all. His soul hasn't anything to do with it. How can he be tempted to get drunk and refuse to get drunk? If the desire to remain sober prevails, it is because it is the strongest desire. Temptation plays no part unless he paused while grasping the new thought which had come into his mind. Unless he is tempted to remain sober, ha-ha, he laughed. What do you think of that, Mr. Van Wyden? That both of you are hair-splitting, I said. The man's soul is his desires. Or, if you will, the sum of his desires is his soul. Therein you are both wrong. You lay the stress upon the desire apart from the soul. Miss Brewster lays the stress of the soul apart from the desire, and in point of fact, soul and desire are the same thing. However, I continued, Miss Brewster is right in contending that temptation is temptation, whether the man yield or overcome. Fire is fanned by the wind until it leaps up fiercely. So is desire like fire. It is fanned as by a wind, by sight of the thing desired, or by a new and luring description or comprehension of the thing desired. There lies the temptation. It is the wind that fans the desire until it leaps up to mastery. That's temptation. It may not fans sufficiently to make the desire over-mastering, but in so far as it fans it all, that far as it temptation. And, as you say, it may tempt for good as well as for evil. I felt proud of myself as we sat down to the table. My words have been decisive. At least they had put an end to the discussion. But Wolf Larson seemed valuable, prone to speech, as I had never seen him before. It was as if he were bursting with pent-energy, which must find an outlet somehow. Almost immediately he launched into a discussion on love. As usual, his was the sheer materialistic side, and Maud's was the idealistic. For myself, beyond the word or so of suggestion, or correction now and again, I took no part. He was brilliant, but so was Maud. And for some time I lost the thread of the conversation through studying her face as she talked. It was a face that rarely displayed color, but tonight it was fleshed and vivacious. Her wit was plain keenly, and she was enjoying the tilt as much as Wolf Larson. And he was enjoying it hugely. For some reason, though I know not why in the argument so utterly had I lost it in the contemplation of one stray brown lock of Maud's hair, he quoted from my soul at Tintangel, where she says, blessed am I beyond woman even herein that beyond all-born women is my sin and perfect my transgression. As he had read pessimism into Omar, so now he read triumph, stinging triumph and exhalation, and diswineburn slain's. And he read rightly, and he read well. He had hardly ceased reading when Lewis put his head into the companion way and whispered down, Be easy, will ye, the fogs lifted, and tis the port light of his steamer that's crossing our bow this blessed minute. Wolf Larson sprang on deck, and so swiftly that by the time we followed him he had pulled the steered slide over the drunken clamor and was on his way forward to close the four-castled scuttle. The fog, though it remained, had lifted high where it obscured the stars and made the night quite black. Directly ahead of us I could see a bright red light and a white light, and I could hear the pulsing of a steamer's engines. Beyond a doubt it was the Macedonia. Wolf Larson had returned to the poop, and we stood in the silent group, watching the lights rapidly cross our bow. Lucky for me she doesn't carry a search-white, Wolf Larson said. What if I should cry out loudly? I queried and whispered. It would be all up, he answered, but have you thought upon what would immediately happen? Before I had time to express any desire to know, he had me by the throat with his guerrilla grip, and by a faint quiver of the muscles, a hint, as it were. He suggested to me the twist that would surely have broken my neck. The next moment he had released me, and we were gazing at the Macedonia's lights. What if I should cry out? Maud asked. I like you too well to hurt you, he said softly. Nay, there was a tenderness and a caress in his voice that made me wince. But don't do it, just the same, for I'd promptly break Mr. Van Wyden's neck. Then she has my permission to cry out, I said defiantly. I hardly think you'd care to sacrifice the dean of American letters the second, he sneered. We spoke no more, though we had become too used to one another for the silence to be awkward. And when the red light and the white had disappeared, we returned to the cabin to finish the interrupted supper. Again they fell to quoting, and Maud gave Dawson's Impenetinia Ultima. She rendered it beautifully, but I watched not her, but Wolf Larson. I was fascinated by the fascinated look he bent upon Maud. He was quite out of himself, and I noticed the unconscious movement of his lips as he shaped word for word as fast as she uttered them. He interrupted her when she gave the lines, and her eyes should be my light, while the sun went up behind me, and the vials in her voice should be the last sound in my ear. There are vials in your voice, he said bluntly, and his eyes flashed their golden light. I could have shouted with joy at her control. She finished the concluding stanza without faltering, and then slowly guided the conversation into less perilous channels. And all the while I sat in a half-days, the drunken riot of the steerage breaking through the bulkhead, the man I feared and the woman I loved, talking on and on. The table was not cleared. The man who had taken Mugg Ridge's place had evidently joined his comrades in the forecastle. If ever Wolf Larson attained the summit of living, he attained it then. From time to time I foresook my own thoughts to follow him, and I followed in amaze, mastered for the moment by his remarkable intellect, under the spell of his passion, for he was preaching the passion of revolt. It was inevitable that Milton's Lucifer should be instanced, and the keenness with which Wolf Larson analyzed and depicted the character was a revelation of a stifled genius. It reminded me of Tain, yet I knew the man had never heard of that brilliant, though dangerous thinker. He led a lost cause, and he was not afraid of God's thunderbolts, Wolf Larson was saying. Hurled in the hell, he was unbeaten. A third of God's angels he had led with him, and straight away he incited man to rebel against God, and gain for himself in hell the major portion of all the generations of man. Why was he beaten out of heaven? Because he was less brave than God, less proud, less aspiring? No, a thousand times no. God was more powerful, as he said, whom thunder hath made greater. But Lucifer was a free spirit. To serve was to suffocate. He preferred suffering and freedom to all the happiness of a comfortable servility. He did not care to serve God, he cared to serve nothing. He was no figurehead. He stood on his own legs. He was an individual. The first anarchist, Maude laughed, rising and preparing to withdraw to her stateroom. Then it is good to be an anarchist, he cried. He too had risen, and he stood facing her, where she had paused at the door of her room as he went on. Here at least we shall be free. The almighty hath not built here for his envy will not drive us hence. Here we may reign secure, and in my choice to reign is worth ambition, though in hell. Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven. It was the defiant cry of a mighty spirit. The cabin still rang with his voice as he stood there, swaying, his bronze face shining, his head up in dominant, and his eyes golden and masculine, intensely masculine and intensely soft, flashing upon Maude at the door. Again, that unnameable and unmistakable terror was in her eyes, and she said, almost in a whisper, You are Lucifer. The door closed, and she was gone. He stood staring after her for a minute, then returned to himself and to me. I'll relieve Lewis at the wheel, he said shortly, and call upon you to relieve at midnight. Better turn in now and get some sleep. He pulled on a pair of mittens, put on his cap and ascended the companion's stairs, while I followed his suggestion by going to bed. For some unknown reason, prompt mysteriously, I did not undress but lay down fully clothed. For a time I listened to the clamor and the steerage and marveled upon the love which had come to me. But my sleep on the ghost had become most healthful and natural, and soon the songs and cries died away, my eyes closed, and my consciousness sank down into the half-death of slumber. I knew not what had aroused me, but I found myself out of my bunk, on my feet, wide awake, my soul vibrating to the warning of danger as it might have thrilled to a trumpet call. I threw open the door. The cabin light was burning low. I saw Maude, my Maude, straining and struggling and crushed in the embrace of Wolf Larson's arms. I could see the vein beat and flutter of her as she strove, pressing her face against his breast to escape from him. All this I saw in the very instant of seeing and as I sprang forward. I struck him with my fist on the face as he raised his head, but it was a puny blow. He roared in a ferocious animal-like way and gave me a shove with his hand. It was only a shove, a flirt of the risk. Yet so tremendous was his strength that I was hurled backwards as from a catapult. I struck the door of the state room which had formerly been mug ridges, splintering and smashing the panels with the impact of my body. I struggled to my feet, with difficulty dragging myself clear of the wreck door, unaware of any hurt, whatever. I was conscious only of an overmastering rage. I think I, too, cried aloud as I drew the knife at my hip and sprang forward a second time. But something had happened. They were reeling apart. I was close upon him. My knife uplifted, but I withheld the blow. I was puzzled by the strangeness of it. Maud was leaning against the wall, one hand out for support, but he was staggering. His left hand pressed against his forehead at covering his eyes, and with his right he was groping about him in a dazed sort of way. It struck against the wall, and his body seemed to express a muscular and physical relief at the contact, as though he had found his bearings, his location in space, as well as something against which to lean. Then I saw red again. All my rungs and humiliations flashed upon me with a dazzling brightness, all that I had suffered, and others had suffered at his hands, all the enormity of the man's very existence. I sprang upon him blindly, insanely, and drove the knife into his shoulder. I knew then that it was no more than a flesh wound. I had felt the steel grate on his shoulder blade, and I raised the knife to strike at a more vital part. But Maud has seen my first blow, and she cried, don't, please don't. I dropped my arm for a moment, in a moment only. Again the knife was raised, and Wolf Larson would have surely died had she not stepped between. Her arms were around me, her hair was brushing my face. My pulse rushed up in an unwanted manner, yet my rage mounted with it. She looked me bravely in the eyes. For my sake, she begged. I would kill him for your sake. I cried, trying to free my arm without hurting her. Hush, she said, and laid her fingers lightly on my lips. I could have kissed them had I dared, even then, in my rage. The touch of them was so sweet, so very sweet. Please, please, she pleaded, and she disarmed me by the words as I was to discover they would ever disarm me. I stepped back, separating from her, and replaced the knife in its sheath. I looked at Wolf Larson. He still pressed his left hand against his forehead. It covered his eyes. His head was bowed. He seemed to have grown limp. His body was sagging at the hips. His great shoulders were drooping and shrinking forward. Van Wyden, he called hoarsely, and with a note of fright in his voice. Oh, Van Wyden, where are you? I looked at Maude. She did not speak, but nodded her head. Here I am, I answered, stepping to his side. What is the matter? Help me to a seat, he said, in the same hoarse, frightened voice. I am a sick man, a very sick man, hump. He said as he left my sustaining grip and sank into a chair. His head dropped forward on the table and was buried in his hands. From time to time it rocked back and forward as with pain. Once, when he half-raised it, I saw the sweat standing and heavy drops on his forehead, about the roots of his hair. I am a sick man, a very sick man. He repeated again and yet once again. What is the matter? I asked, resting my hand on his shoulder. What can I do for you? But he shook my hand off with an irritated movement, and for a long time I stood by his side in silence. Maude was looking on, her face odd and frightened. What had happened to him we could not imagine. Hump, he said at last, I must get into my bunk. Lend me a hand. I'll be all right in a little while. It's these damned headaches, I believe. I was afraid of them. I had a feeling. No, I don't know what I'm talking about. Help me into my bunk. But when we got him into his bunk, he again buried his face in his hands, covering his eyes. And as I turned to go, I could hear him murmuring. I am a sick man, a very sick man. Maude looked at me inquiringly as I emerged. I shook my head, saying, something has happened to him. What? I don't know. He is helpless and frightened, I imagine, for the first time in his life. It must have occurred before he received the knife thrust, which made only a superficial wound. You must have seen what happened. She shook her head. I saw nothing. It is just as mysterious to me. He suddenly released me and staggered away. But what shall we do? What shall I do? If you will wait, please, until I come back, I answered. I went on deck. Lewis was at the wheel. You may go forward and turn in, I said, taking it from him. He was quick to obey, and I found myself alone on the deck of the ghost. As quietly as was possible, I clued up the top sails, lowered the flying jib, and stayed sail, backed the jib over, and flattened the main sail. Then I went below to Maud. I placed my finger on my lips for silence, and entered Wolf Larson's room. He was in the same position in which I had left him, and his head was rocking, almost writhing, from side to side. Anything I can do for you, I asked. He made no reply at first, but on my repeating the question he answered, no, no, I'm all right. Leave me alone till morning. But as I turned to go, I noted that his head had resumed its rocking motion. Maud was waiting patiently for me, and I took notice, with the thrill of joy, of the queenly poise of her head and her glorious calm eyes, calm and sure they were as her spirit itself. Will you trust yourself to me for a journey of 600 miles or so? I asked. You mean? She asked. And I knew she had yes to write. Yes, I mean just that. There is nothing left for us but the open boat. For me, you mean? She said. You are certainly as safe as you have been. No, there is nothing left for us but the open boat, I iterated stoutly. Will you please dress as warmly as you can, at once, and make into a bundle whatever you wish to bring with you? And make all haste, I added, as she turned toward her stateroom. The lazarette was directly beneath the cabin, and opening the trapdoor and the floor and carrying the candle with me, I dropped down and began overhauling the ship's doors. I selected mainly from the canned goods, and by the time I was ready, willing hands were extended from above to receive what I passed up. We worked in silence. I helped myself also to blankets, mittens, oil skins, caps, and such things from the slop chest. It was no light adventure, this trusting ourselves in a small boat to so braw and stormy a sea, and it was imperative that we should guard ourselves against the cold and wet. We worked feverishly at carrying our plunder, undack, and depositing the midships, so feverishly that Maude, whose strength was hardly a positive quantity, had to give over, exhausted, and sit on the steps at the break of the poop. This did not serve to recover her, and she lay on her back on the hard deck, arms stretched out, and whole body relaxed. It was a trick I remembered of my sister, and I knew she would soon be herself again. I knew also that weapons would not come in a mess, and I re-entered Wolf Larson's stateroom to get his rifle and shotgun. I spoke to him, but he made no answer. Though his head was still rocking from side to side, then he was not asleep. Good-bye, Lucifer. I whispered to myself as I softly closed the door. Next to obtain was a stock of ammunition, an easy matter, though I had to enter the storage companion-way to do it. Here the hunters stored the ammunition boxes they carried in the boats, and here, but a few feet from the noisy revels, I took possession of two boxes. Next, to lower a boat. Not so simple a task for one man. Having cast off the lashings, I hoisted first on the forward tackle, then on the aft, till the boat cleared the rail, when I lowered away one tackle and then the other, for a couple of feet till it hung snugly above the water against the schooner's side. I made certain that it contained the proper equipment of oars, rollox, and sail. Water was a consideration, and I robbed every boat aboard of its breaker. As there were nine boats all told, it meant that we should have plenty of water and ballast as well, though there was a chance that the boat would be overloaded, what of the generous supplies of other things I was taking. While Maud was passing me the provisions, and I was storing them in the boat, a sailor came on deck from the forecastle. He stood by the weather rail for a while, we were lowering over the lee rail, and then saundered slowly amid ships, before he again paused and stood facing the wind with his back toward us. I could hear my heart beating as I crouched low in the boat. Maud had sunk down upon the deck, and was, I knew, lying motionless, her body in the shadow of the bulwark. But the man never turned, and after stretching his arms above his head and yawning audibly, he retraced his steps to the forecastle's cuddle and disappeared. A few minutes suffice to finish the loading, and I lowered the boat into the water. As I helped Maud over the rail and felt her form close to mine, it was all I could do to keep from crying out, I love you, I love you. Truly Humphrey Van Wyden was at last in love, I thought, as her fingers clung to mine while I lowered her down to the boat. I held on to the rail with one hand and supported her weight with the other, and I was proud at the moment of the feat. It was a strength I had not possessed a few months before. On the day I said goodbye to Charlie Frewerseth and started for San Francisco on the old faded Martinez. As the boat ascended on a sea, her feet touched and I released her hands. I cast off the tackles and leaped after her. I had never rowed in my life, but I put out the oars and at the expense of much effort I got the boat clear of the ghost. Then I experimented with the sail. I had seen the boat-steers and hunters set their spritz sails many times, yet this was my first attempt. What took them possibly two minutes took me twenty, but in the end I succeeded in setting and trimming it and with the steering oar in my hand hauled on the wind. There lies Japan, I remarked, straight before us. Humphrey Van Wyden, she said, You are a brave man. Nay, I answered, it is you who are a brave woman. We turned our heads swayed by a common impulse to see the last of the ghost. Her low hull lifted and rolled to windward on the sea. Her canvas loomed darkly in the night. Her lashed wheel creaked as the rudder kicked. Then sight and sound of her faded away and we were alone on the dark sea. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 of The Seawolf This library box recording is in the public domain. The Seawolf by Jack London, Chapter 27 They broke gray and chill. The boat was close hauled on a fresh breeze and the compass indicated that we were just making the course which would bring us to Japan. Though stoutly mittened my fingers were cold and they pained from the grip on the steering oar. My feet were stinging from the bite of the frost and I helped fervorantly that the sun would shine. Before me, in the bottom of the boat, lay Maud. She, at least, was warm, for under her and over her were thick blankets. The top one I had drawn over her face to shelter it from the night so I could see nothing but the vague shape of her and her light brown hair escaped from the covering and jeweled with moisture from the air. Long I looked at her dwelling upon that one visible bit of her as only a man would who deemed it the most precious thing in the world. So insistent was my gaze that at last she stirred under the blankets, the top fold was thrown back and she smiled out on me, her eyes yet heavy with sleep. Good morning, Mr. Van Wyden, she said. Have you sighted the land yet? No, I said, but we are approaching it at a rate of six miles an hour. She made a move of disappointment, but that is equivalent to 144 miles and 24 hours, I added reassuringly. Her face brightened, and how far have we to go? Siberia lies off there, I said, pointing to the west, but to the southwest, some 600 miles is Japan. And if this wind should hold, we'll make it in five days. And if it storms, the boat could not live. She had a way of looking one in the eyes and demanding the truth, and thus she looked at me as she asked the question. It would have to storm very hard, I temporized. And if it storms very hard, I nodded my head. But we may be picked up any moment by a ceiling schooner. They are plentifully distributed over this part of the ocean. Why, you are chilled through, she cried. Look, you're shivering. Don't deny it, you are. And here I have been lying warm as toast. I don't see that what helped matters if you two sat up and were chilled, I laughed. It will, though, when I learn to steer, which I certainly shall. She sat up and began making her simple toilet. She shook down her hair, and it fell about her in a brown cloud, hiding her face and shoulders. Dear, damp, brown hair. I wanted to kiss it, to ripple it through my fingers, to bury my face in it. I gazed entranced till the boat ran into the wind, and the flapping sail warned me I was not attending to my duties. I dealest and romantic that I was and always have been in spite of my analytical nature. Yet I had failed till now in grasping much of the physical characteristics of love. The love of man and woman, I had always held, was a sublimated, something related to spirit, a spiritual bond that linked and drew their souls together. The bonds of the flesh had little part in my cosmos of love. But I was learning the sweet lesson for myself that the soul transmuted itself, expressed itself, through the flesh, that the sight and sense and touch of the loved one's hair was as much breath and voice in essence of the spirit as the light that shone from the eyes and the thoughts that fell from the lips. After all, pure spirit was unknowable, a thing to be sensed and divined only, nor could it express itself in terms of itself. Jehovah was anthropomorphic because he could address himself to the Jews only in terms of their understanding, so he was conceived as in their own image, as a cloud, a pillar of fire, a tangible physical something which the mind of the Israelites could grasp. And so I gazed upon Maud's light brown hair and loved it and learned more of love than all the poets and singers had taught me with all their songs and sonnets. She flung it back with a sudden adroit movement and her face emerged, smiling. Why don't women wear their hair down always? I asked. It is so much more beautiful. If it didn't tangle so dreadfully, she laughed. There, I've lost one of my precious hairpins. I neglected the boat and had the sail spilling the wind again and again, such was my delight in following her every movement as she searched through the blankets for the pin. I was surprised and joyfully that she was so much the woman and the display of each trait and mannerism that was characteristically feminine gave me keener joy. For I had been elevating her too highly in my concepts of her, removing her too far from the plane of the human and too far from me. I had been making of her a creature goddesslike and unapproachable. So I hailed with the delight the little traits that proclaimed her only woman after all, such as the toss of the head which flung back the cloud of hair and the search for the pin. She was woman, my kind on my plane, and the delightful intimacy of kind of man and woman was possible as well as the reverence and awe in which I knew I should always hold her. She found the pin with an adorable little cry and I turned my attention more fully to my steering. I proceeded to experiment lashing and wedging the steering or until the boat held up fairly well by the wind without my assistance. Occasionally it came up too close or fell off too freely, but it always recovered itself and in the main behaved satisfactorily. And now we shall have breakfast, I said, but first you must be more warmly clad. I got out a heavy shirt, new from the slop chest and made from blanket goods. I knew the kind, so thick and so close of texture that it could resist the rain and not be soaked through after hours of wedding. When she had slipped this on over her head, I exchanged the boy's cap she wore for a man's cap, large enough to cover her hair and when the flap was turned down to completely cover her neck and ears. The effect was charming. Her face was of the sort that could not but look well under all circumstances. Nothing could destroy its exquisite oval, its well-nigh classic lines, its delicately stenciled brows, its large brown eyes, clear-seeing and calm, gloriously calm. A puff slightly stronger than usual struck us just then. The boat was caught as it obliquely crossed the crest of a wave. It went over suddenly, burying its gentle level with the sea and shipping a bucket full or so of water. I was opening a can of tongue at the moment and I sprang to the sheet and cast it off just in time. The sail flapped and fluttered and the boat paid off. A few minutes of regulating suffice to put it on its course again when I returned to the preparation of breakfast. It does very well, it seemed, though I am not versed in things nautical, she said, knotting her head with grave approval at my steering contrivance. But it will serve only when we are sailing by the wind, I explained. When running more freely with the wind to stern, a beam, or on the quarter, it will be necessary for me to steer. I must say I don't understand your technicalities, she said, but I do your conclusion and I don't like it. You cannot steer night and day and forever, so I shall expect, after breakfast, to receive my first lesson. And then you shall lie down and sleep. We'll stand watches just as they do on ships. I don't see how I am to teach you, I made protest. I am just learning for myself. You little thought when you trusted yourself to me that I had had no experience whatsoever with small boats. This is the first time I have ever been in one. Then we'll learn together, sir, and since you've had a night start, you shall teach me what you have learned. And now, breakfast. My, this air does give one an appetite. No coffee, I said regretfully, passing her buttered sea biscuits in a slice of can-tongue. And there will be no tea, no soups, nothing hot till we have made land somewhere somehow. After the simple breakfast, capped with a cup of cold water, Maude took her lesson in steering. In teaching her, I learned quite a deal myself, though I was applying the knowledge already acquired by sailing the ghost, and by watching the boat steers sail the small boats. She was an apt pupil, and soon learned to keep the course, to laugh in the puffs, and to cast off the sheet and end an emergency. Having grown tired, apparently, of the task, she relinquished the oar to me. I had folded up the blankets, but she now proceeded to spread them out on the bottom. When all was arranged snugly, she said. And now, sir, to bed, and you shall sleep until luncheon, till dinnertime, she corrected, remembering the arrangement on the ghost. What could I do? She insisted and said, please, please, or upon I turned the oar over to her and obeyed. I experienced a positive, senuous delight as I crawled into the bed she had made with her hands. The calm and control which were so much a part of her seemed to have been communicated to the blankets, so that I was aware of a soft dreaminess and content, and of an oval face and brown eyes framed in a fisherman's cap and tossing against a background now of gray cloud, now of gray sea, and then I was aware that I had been asleep. I looked at my watch. It was one o'clock. I had slept seven hours, and she had been stirring seven hours. When I took the stirring oar, I had first to unbend her cramped fingers. Her modicum of strength had been exhausted, and she was unable even to move from her position. I was compelled to let go of the sheet while I helped her to the nest of blankets and shaved her hands and arms. I am so tired, she said, with a quick intake of the breath, and a sigh drooping her head warily. But she straightened at the next moment. Now don't scold, don't you dare scold, she cried with mock defiance. I hope my face does not appear angry, I answered seriously, for I assure you I am not in the least angry. No, no, she considered. It looks only reproachful. Then it is an honest face, for it looks what I feel. You were not fair to yourself, nor to me. How can I ever trust you again? She looked penitent. I'll be good, she said, as a naughty child might say it. I promise. To obey, as a sailor, would obey as captain. Yes, she answered. It was stupid of me, I know. Then you must promise something else, I ventured. Readily, that you must not say, please, please, too often, for when you do, you are sure to override my authority. She laughed with amused appreciation. She, too, had noticed the power of the repeated please. It is a good word, I began. But I must not overwork it, she broke in. But she laughed weakly, and her head drooped again. I left the oar long enough to tuck the blankets about her feet, and to pull a single fold across her face. Alas, she was not strong. I looked with misgiving toward the southwest and thought of the 600 miles of hardship before us. A, if it were no worse than a hardship. On this sea, a storm might blow up at any moment and destroy us, and yet I was unafraid. I was without confidence in the future, extremely doubtful, and yet I felt no underlying fear. It must come right, it must come right, I repeated to myself over and over again. The wind freshened in the afternoon, raising a stiffer sea and trying the boat and me severely. But the supply of food and the nine breakers of water enabled the boat to stand up to the sea and wind, and I held on as long as I dared. Then I removed the sprit, tightly hauling down the beak of the sail, and we raced along under what sailors call a leg of mutton. Late in the afternoon, I sighted a steamer's smoke on the horizon to Leeward, and I knew it either for a Russian cruiser or, more likely, the Macedonian is still seeking the ghost. The sun had not shone all day and it had been bitter cold. As night drew on, the clouds darkened and the wind freshened so that when Maude and I ate supper, it was with our mittens on and with me still steering and needing morsels between puffs. By the time it was dark, wind and sea had become too strong for the boat, and I reluctantly took in the sail and set about making a drag or sea anchor. I had learned the device from the talk of the hunters, and it was a simple thing to manufacture. Furling the sail and lishing it securely about the mast, boom, spread, and two pairs of spare oars, I threw it overboard. A line connected it with the bow, and as it floated low in the water, practically unexposed to the wind, it drifted less rapidly than the boat. In consequence, it held the boat bow on to the sea and wind, the safest position in which to escape being swamped when the sea is breaking in the whitecaps. And now, Maude asked cheerfully when the task was accomplished and I pulled on my mittens, and now we are no longer traveling toward Japan, I answered. Our drift is to the southeast or south-southeast at the rate of at least two miles an hour. That will be only 24 miles, she urged, if the wind remains high all night. Yes, and only 140 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 in Sexton, 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 result in which dead reckoning can never calculate. Before long we won't know where we are by 500 miles. Then I begged her pardon and promised I should not be disheartened anymore. 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 oil-skin about her before I lay down. I slept on the catnaps. The boat was sleeping 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'm used. Nothing of the nights I had been through on the ghost. Nothing, perhaps, of 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 avered it and I avered again. I was unafraid. The death which Wolf Larson and even Thomas Mugridge had made me fear I no longer feared. The coming of Mod Brewster into my life seemed to have transformed me. After all I thought it is better than finer to love than to be loved if it makes something in life so worthwhile that one is not loath to die for it. I forget my own life and the love of another life and yet such is the paradox. I never wanted so much to live as right now when I placed the least value on my own life. I never had so much reason for living was my concluding thought. And after that, until I dozed, I contended myself with trying to pierce the darkness to where I knew Mod crouched low in the stone sheets, watchful of the forming sea and ready to call me on an instant notice. End of Chapter 27. Chapter 28 of The Seawolf. This library of ox recording is in the public domain. The Seawolf by Jack London. Chapter 28. 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 northwest for 24 hours when it fell calm and in the night sprang up from the southwest. 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 the south-southeast early direction. It was an even choice between this and the northwest early 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 blowing still out of the southwest rose furiously and once again I was compelled to set the sea anchor. Day broke and found me one-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 mud and she and oil skins, rubber boots and saw wester was dry. All but her face and hands and a spray 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, mod was falling asleep from exhaustion. I covered her with oil skins and a tarpon. 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 48 hours. I was wet and chilled to the marrow till I felt more dead than alive. My body was stiff with 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 northeast, directly away from Japan 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 gray 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 stone 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 70 and odd hours of the storm we had been driven at least 150 miles to the northeast. But was such a calculated drift correct? For all I knew it might have been four miles per hour instead of two. In which case we were another 150 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 ceiling schooner at any time. We did sight one in the afternoon when the northwest breeze had sprung up freshly once more. But the strange schooner lost itself on the skyline and we alone occupied the circle of the sea. It came days of fog, when even mod spirit drooped and there were no merry words upon our lips. Days of calm, when we floated on the lonely immensity of the sea, oppressed by its greatness and yet marveling at the miracle of tiny life, for we still lived and struggled to live. Days of sweet 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 mod with an increasing love. She was so many-sighted, so many-mooted, protean-mooted, 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, and not alone in this but 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 that frail both 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 a life only in its most sheltered and constantly 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 in 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, a 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 the titan's buffets, and ever we were flung off farther and farther to the northeast. It wasn't 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 Maude 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 coastline running towards the southeast and fringed with a tremendous scarf of white. Maude, I said, Maude. 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 and 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 for me, but she hesitated as if in doubt how best to word her gratitude. Well, I said brutally, for I was not quite pleased with her thanking me. You might help me, she smiled. To acknowledge your obligations before you die? Not at all. We are not going to die. We shall land on that island and we shall be snug and sheltered before the day is done. I spoke stoutly, but I did not believe a word. Nor was I prompted to lie through fear. I felt no fear, though I was sure of death in that boiling surge amongst the rocks that was rapidly growing nearer. It was impossible to haste sail and claw off that shore. The wind would instantly capsize the boat, the seas would swamp it the moment it fell into the trough, and besides the sail, wash to the spare oars dragged in the sea ahead of us. As I said, I was not afraid to meet my own death there, a few hundred yards to leeward, but I was appalled at the thought that Maude must die. My cursed imagination saw her beaten and mangled against the rocks and it was too terrible. I strove to compel myself to think we would make the landing safely, and so I spoke, not what I believed, but what I preferred to believe. I recoiled before contemplation of that frightful death, and for a moment I entertained the wild idea of seizing Maude in my arms and leaping overboard. Then I resolved to wait, and at the last moment, when we entered on the final stretch, to take her in my arms and proclaim my love and with her in my embrace to make the desperate struggle and die. Instinctively we drew closer in the bottom of the boat. I felt her mitten hand come out to mine, and thus without speech we waited for the end. We were not far off the line the wind made with the western edge of the promontory, and I watched in the hope that some set of the current or send of the sea would drift us past before we reached the surf. We shall go clear, I said, with the confidence which I knew deceived neither of us. By God we will go clear, I cried five minutes later. The oath left my lips in my excitement, the first I do believe in my life, and lest trouble it and expletive of my youth be accounted in oath. I beg your pardon, I said. You have convinced me of your sincerity, she said with a faint smile. I do know now that we shall go clear. I had seen a distant headland past the extreme edge of the promontory, and as we looked I could see the intervening coastline of what was evidently a deep cove. At the same time there broke upon our ears a continuous and mighty bellowing. It partook of the magnitude and volume of distant thunder, and it came to us directly from Leeward, rising above the crash of the surf and traveling directly in the teeth of the storm. As we passed the point the whole cove burst upon our view a half-moon of white sandy beach upon which broke a huge surf, and which was covered with myriads of seals. It was from them that the great bellowing went up. A rookery, I cried, now we are indeed saved. There must be men and cruisers to protect them from the seal hunters. Perhaps there is a station ashore. But as I studied the surf which beat upon the beach I said, still bad but not so bad, and now if the gods be truly kind, we shall drift by that next headland and come upon a perfectly sheltered beach where we may land without wetting our feet. And the gods were kind. The first and second headlands were directly in line with the southwest wind, but once around the second, and we went perilously near. We picked up the third headland, still in line with the wind and with the other two. But the cove that intervened, it penetrated deep into the land and the tide setting in drifted as under the shelter of the point. Here the sea was calm, safe for a heavy but smooth ground swell, and I took in the sea anchor and began to row. From the point the shore curved away, more and more to the south and west, till at last it disclosed a cove within the cove, a little landlocked harbor, the water level as upon broken only by tiny ripples where vagrant breaths and wisps of the storm hurled down from over the frowning wall of rock that backed the beach a hundred yards in shore. Here were no seals, whatever. The boat stern touched the hard shingle. I sprang out extending my hand to mod. The next moment she was beside me. As my fingers released hers, she clutched for my arm hastily. At the same moment I swayed as about to fall on the sand, this was the startling effect of the cessation of motion. We had been so long upon the moving rocking sea that the stable land was a shock to us. We expected the beach to lift up this way and that and the rocky walls to swing back and forth like the sides of a ship. And when we braced ourselves automatically for those various expected movements, their non-occurrence quite overcame our equilibrium. I really must sit down, mod said with a nervous laugh in the dizzy gesture. And forthwith she sat down on the sand. I attended to making the boat secure and joined her. Thus we landed on Endeavour Island as we came to it. Land sick from long custom of the sea. End of Chapter 28. Chapter 29 of the Seawolf. This library of ox recording is in the public domain. The Seawolf by Jack London. Chapter 29. Fool, I cried aloud in my vexation. I had unloaded the boat and carried its contents high upon the beach where I had set about making a camp. There was driftwood, though not much, on the beach, and the side of a coffee-tin I had taken from the ghost's larder had given me the idea of a fire. Blithering idiot, I was continuing. But mod said, ta-ta, in gentle reproval, and then asked why I was a blithering idiot. No matches, I groaned. Not a match did I bring. And now we shall have no hot coffee, soup, tea, or anything. Wasn't it or crew so who rub sticks together? She drawled. But I have read the personal narratives of a scorer of ship-directed men who tried and tried in vain, I answered. I remember Winters, a newspaper fellow with an Alaskan and Siberian reputation, met him at the Bibelot once, and he was telling us how he attempted to make a fire with a couple of sticks. It was most amusing. He told it inimitable, but it was the story of a failure. I remember his conclusion, his black-eyed fly sheen, as he said, gentlemen, the South Sea Islanders may do it, the Mele may do it, but take my word it's beyond the white man. Oh well, we've managed so far without it, she said, cheerfully. And there's no reason we cannot still manage without it. But think of the coffee, I cried. It's good coffee too, I know. I took it from Larson's private stores, and look at that good wood. I confess, I wanted the coffee badly, and I learned, not long afterward, that the berry was likewise a little weakness of mods. Besides, we had been so long on a cold diet that we were numb inside as well as out. Anything warm would have been most gratifying. But I complained no more and said about making a tent of the sail for mod. I had looked upon it as a simple task, what are the oars, mast, boom, and sprit to say nothing of plenty of lines. But as I was without experience, and as every detail was an experiment and every successful detail and invention, the day was well gone before her shoulder was an accomplished fact. And then, that night, it rained, and she was flooded out and driven back into the boat. The next morning I dug a shallow ditch around the tent, and an hour later, a sudden gust of wind, whipping over the rocky wall behind us, picked up the tent, and smashed it down on the sand, 30 yards away. Mod laughed at my crestfallen expression, and I said, as soon as the wind abates, I intend going in the boat to explore the island. There must be a station somewhere, and men, and ships must visit the station. Some government must protect all these seals, but I wish to have you comfortable before I start. I should like to go with you, was all she said. It would be better if you remained. You have had enough of hardship. It is a miracle that you have survived, and it won't be comfortable in the boat rowing and sailing in this rainy weather. What you need is rest, and I should like you to remain and get it. Something suspiciously akin to moistness dimmed her beautiful eyes before she dropped them and partly turned away her hat. I should prefer going with you, she said in a low voice, in which there was just a hint of appeal. I might be able to help you, her voice broke a little, and if anything should happen to you, think of me left here alone. Oh, I intend being very careful, I answered, and I shall not go so far but what I can get back before night. Yes, all said and done, I think it vastly better for you to remain and sleep and rest and do nothing. She turned and looked me in the eyes. Her gaze was unfaltering but soft. Please, please, she said, oh, so softly. I stiffened myself to refuse and shook my head. Still she waited and looked at me. I tried to word my refusal but wavered. I saw the glad light spring into her eyes and knew that I had lost. It was impossible to say no after that. The wind died down in the afternoon and we were preparing to start the following morning. There was no way of penetrating the island from our cove for the walls rose perpendicularly from the beach and on either side of the cove rose from the deep water. Morning broke dull and gray but calm and I was awake early and had the boat in readiness. Fool, imbecile, yahoo, I shouted when I thought it was me to arouse mod but this time I shouted in merriment as I danced about the beach bareheaded and mocked despair. Her head appeared under the flap of the sail. What now, she asked sleepily and withal curiously. Coffee, I cried. What do you say to a cup of coffee? Hot coffee, piping hot. My, she murmured. You startled me and you were cruel. Here I have been composing my soul to do without it and here you are vexing me with your vain suggestions. Watch me, I said. From under cliffs among the rocks I gathered a few dry sticks and chips. These I whittled into shavings or split into kindling. From my notebook I tore out a page and from the ammunition box took a shotgun shell. Removing the wads from the ladder with my knife I emptied the powder on a flat rock. Next I pried the primer or cap from the shell and laid it on the rock in the midst of the scattered powder. All was ready. Mod still watched from the tent. Holding the paper in my left hand I smashed down upon the cap with a rock held in my right. There was a puff of white smoke, a burst of flame, and a rough edge of the paper was alight. Mod clapped her hands gleefully. Prometheus, she cried. But I was too occupied to acknowledge her delight. The feeble flame must be cherished tenderly if it were to gather strength and live. I fed it, shaving by shaving, and sliver by sliver, till at last it was snapping and crackling as it laid hold to the smaller chips and sticks. To be cast away on an island had not entered into my calculation so we were without a kettle or cooking utensil of any sort. But I made shift with the tin used for bailing the boat and later, as we consumed our supply of canned goods, we accumulated quite an imposing array of cooking vessels. I boiled the water, but it was Mod who made the coffee, and how good it was. My contribution was canned beef fried with crumbled sea biscuit and water. The breakfast was a success and we sat about to fire much longer than enterprising explorers should have done, sipping the hot black coffee and talking over our situation. I was confident that we should find the station in some of the coves, for I knew that the rookeries of the Bering Sea were thus guarded. But Mod advanced the theory to prepare me for disappointment, I do believe, if disappointment were to come, that we had discovered an unknown rookerie. She was in very good spirits, however, and made quite merry in accepting our plight as a grave one. If you are right, I said, then we must prepare to winter here. Our food will not last, but there are the seals. They go away in the fall, so I must soon begin to lay in a supply of meat. Then there will be huts to build and driftwood to gather. Also, we shall try out seal fat for lighting purposes. All together we'll have our hands full if we find the island uninhabited, which we shall not, I know. But she was right. We sailed with a beam wind along the shore, searching the coves with our glasses and landing occasionally, without finding a sign of human life. Yet we learned that we were not the first to have landed on Endeavour Island. High up on the beach of the second cove from ours, we discovered the splintered wreck of a boat, a sealer's boat, for the rollox were bound in senate, a gun wreck was on the starboard side of the bow, and then white letters was faintly visible, gazelle number two. The boat had lain there for a long time for it was half filled with sand, and the splintered wood had that weather-worn appearance due to long exposure to the elements. In the stern sheets I found a rusty 10-gauge shotgun and the sailor's sheath knife broken short across and so rusted as to be almost unrecognizable. They got away, I said, cheerfully, but I felt a sinking at the heart and seemed to divine the presence of bleached bones somewhere on that beach. I did not wish mod spirits to be dampened by such a fine, so I turned seaward again with our boat and skirted the northeastern point of the island. There were no beaches on the southern shore, and by early afternoon we rounded the black promontory and completed the circumnavigation of the island. I estimated its circumference at 25 miles, its width is varying from two to five miles, while my most conservative calculation placed on its beach is 200,000 seals. The island was highest at its extreme southwestern point, the headlands and backbone diminishing regularly until the northeastern portion was only a few feet above the sea. With the exception of our little cove, the other beaches slope gently back for a distance of half a mile or so into what I might call rocky meadows with here and there patches of moss and tundra grass. Here the seals hauled out and the old bulls guarded their herms while the young bulls hauled out by themselves. This brief description is all that endeavor island merits. Damp and soggy were, was not sharp and rocky, buffeted by storm winds and lashed by the sea. With the air continually a tremble with the bellowing of 200,000 amphibians, it was a melancholy and miserable sojourning place. Maude, who had prepared me for disappointment and who had been sprightly and vivacious all day, broke down as we landed in our own little cove. She strove bravely to hide it from me, but while I was kindling another fire, I knew she was stifling her sobs in the blanket under the sail tent. It was my turn to be cheerful and I played the part to the best of my ability and with such success that I brought the laughter back into her dear eyes and song on her lips for she sang to me before she went to an early bed. It was the first time I had heard her sing and I lay by the fire listening and transported for she was nothing if not an artist and everything she did. And her voice though not strong was wonderfully sweet and expressive. I still slept in the boat and I lay awake long that night gazing up at the first stars I had seen in many nights and pondering the situation. Responsibility of this sort was a new thing to me. Wolf Larson had been quite right. I had stood on my father's legs. My lawyers and agents had taken care of my money for me. I had had no responsibilities at all. Then on the ghost I had learned to be responsible for myself. And now for the first time in my life I found myself responsible for someone else. And it was required of me that this should be the gravest of responsibilities for she was the one woman in the world. The one small woman as I love to think of her. End of chapter 29.