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I SCARCELY KNOW WHERE to begin, though I sometimes facetiously
place the cause of it all to Charley Furuseth's credit. He kept
a summer cottage in Mill Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais,
and never occupied it except when he loafed through the winter
months and read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer to rest his brain.
When summer came on, he elected to sweat out a hot and dusty existence
in the city and to toil incessantly. Had it not been my custom
to run up to see him every Saturday afternoon and to stop over
till Monday morning, this particular January Monday morning would
not have found me afloat on San Francisco Bay.
Not but that I was afloat in a safe craft, for the Martinez
was a new ferry-steamer, making her fourth or fifth trip on the
run between Sausalito and San Francisco. The danger lay in the
heavy fog which blanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman,
I had little apprehension. In fact, I remember the placid exaltation
with which I took up my position on the forward upper deck, directly
beneath the pilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog to
lay hold of my imagination. A fresh breeze was blowing, and for
a time I was alone in the moist obscurity; yet not alone, for
I was dimly conscious of the presence of the pilot, and of what
I took to be the captain, in the glass house above my head.
I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division of
labor which made it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, tides,
and navigation in order to visit my friend who lived across an
arm of the sea. It was good that men should be specialists, I
mused. The peculiar knowledge of the pilot and captain sufficed
for many thousands of people who knew no more of the sea and navigation
than I knew. On the other hand, instead of having to devote my
energy to the learning of a multitude of things, I concentrated
it upon a few particular things, such as, for instance, the analysis
of Poe's place in American literature, an essay of mine, by the
way, in the current 'Atlantic.' Coming aboard, as I passed through
the cabin, I had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading
the 'Atlantic,' which was open at my very essay. And there it
was again, the division of labor, the special knowledge of the
pilot and captain which permitted the stout gentleman to read
my special knowledge on Poe while they carried him safely from
Sausalito to San Francisco.
A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping
out on the deck, interrupted my reflections, though I made a mental
note of the topic for use in a projected essay which I had thought
of calling 'The Necessity for Freedom: A Plea for the Artist.'
The red-faced man shot a glance up at the pilot-house, gazed around
at the fog, stumped across the deck and back (he evidently had
artificial legs), and stood still by my side, legs wide apart
and with an expression of keen enjoyment on his face. I was not
wrong when I decided that his days had been spent on the sea.
'It's nasty weather like this here that turns heads gray before
their time,' he said, with a nod toward the pilot-house.
'I had not thought there was any particular strain,' I answered.
'It seems as simple as a-b-c. They know the direction by compass,
the distance, and the speed. I should not call it anything more
than mathematical certainty.'
'Strain!' he snorted. 'Simple as a-b-c! Mathematical certainty!'
He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air
as he stared at me. 'How about this here tide that's rushin' out
through the Golden Gate?' he demanded, or bellowed, rather. 'How
fast is she ebbin'? What's the drift, eh? Listen to that, will
you! A bell-buoy, and we're atop of it! See 'em alterin' the course!'
From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and
I could see the pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity. The
bell, which had seemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the
side. Our own whistle was blowing hoarsely, and from time to time
the sound of other whistles came to us from out of the fog.
'That's a ferryboat of some sort,' the newcomer said, indicating
a whistle off to the right. 'And there! D'ye hear that? Blown
by mouth. Some scow schooner, most likely. Better watch out, Mr.
Schooner-man. Ah, I thought so.'
The unseen ferryboat was blowing blast after blast, and the
mouth-blown horn was tooting in terror-stricken fashion.
'And now they're payin' their respects to each other and tryin'
to get clear,' the red-faced man went on, as the hurried whistling
ceased.
His face was shining, his eyes flashing with excitement, as
he translated into articulate language the speech of the horns
and sirens. 'That's a steam-siren a-goin' it over there to the
left. And you hear that fellow with a frog in his throat- a steam-schooner,
as near as I can judge, crawlin' in from the Heads against the
tide.'
A shrill little whistle, piping as if gone mad, came from directly
ahead and from very near at hand. Gongs sounded on the Martinez.
Our paddlewheels stopped, their pulsing beat died away, and then
they started again. The shrill little whistle, like the chirping
of a cricket amid the cries of great beasts, shot through the
fog from more to the side and swiftly grew faint and fainter.
I looked to my companion for enlightenment.
'One of them daredevil launches,' he said. 'I almost wish we'd
sunk him, the little rip! They're the cause of more trouble. And
what good are they? Any jackass gets aboard one and thinks he
can run it, blowin' his whistle to beat the band and tellin' the
rest of the world to look out for him because he's comin' and
can't look out for himself. Because he's comin'! And you've got
to look out, too. Right of way! Common decency! They don't know
the meanin' of it!'
I felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler, and while he
stumped moodily up and down I fell to dwelling upon the romance
of the fog. And romantic it certainly was- the fog, like the gray
shadow of infinite mystery, brooding over the whirling speck of
earth; and men, mere motes of light and sparkle, cursed with an
insane relish for work, riding their steeds of wood and steel
through the heart of the mystery, groping their way blindly through
the unseen, and clamoring and clanging in confident speech the
while their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear.
The voice of my companion brought me back to myself with a
laugh. I, too, had been groping and floundering, the while I thought
I rode clear-eyed through the mystery.
'Hello! Somebody comin' our way,' he was saying. 'And d'ye
hear that? He's comin' fast. Walkin' right along. Guess he don't
hear us yet. Wind's in wrong direction.'
The fresh breeze was blowing right down upon us, and I could
hear the whistle plainly, off to one side and a little ahead.
'Ferryboat?' I asked.
He nodded, then added: 'Or he wouldn't be keepin' up such a
clip.' He gave a short chuckle. 'They're gettin' anxious up there.'
I glanced up. The captain had thrust his head and shoulders
out of the pilot-house and was staring intently into the fog,
as though by sheer force of will he could penetrate it. His face
was anxious, as was the face of my companion, who had stumped
over to the rail and was gazing with a like intentness in the
direction of the invisible danger.
Then everything happened, and with inconceivable rapidity.
The fog seemed to break away as though split by a wedge, and the
bow of a steamboat emerged, trailing fog-wreaths on each side
like seaweed on the snout of Leviathan. I could see the pilot-house
and a white-bearded man leaning partly out of it, on his elbows.
He was clad in a blue uniform, and I remember noting how trim
and quiet he was. His quietness, under the circumstances, was
terrible. He accepted Destiny, marched hand in hand with it, and
coolly measured the stroke. As he leaned there, he ran a calm
and speculative eye over us, as though to determine the precise
point of the collision, and took no notice whatever when our pilot,
white with rage, shouted, 'Now you've done it!'
'Grab hold of something and hang on!' the red-faced man said
to me. All his bluster had gone, and he seemed to have caught
the contagion of preternatural calm. 'And listen to the women
scream,' he said grimly, almost bitterly, I thought, as though
he had been through the experience before.
The vessels came together before I could follow his advice.
We must have been struck squarely amidships, for I saw nothing,
the strange steamboat having passed beyond my line of vision.
The Martinez heeled over sharply, and there was a crashing and
rending of timber. I was thrown flat on the wet deck, and before
I could scramble to my feet I heard the screams of the women.
This it was, I am certain,- the most indescribable of bloodcurdling
sounds,- that threw me into a panic. I remembered the life-preservers
stored in the cabin, but was met at the door and swept backward
by a wild rush of men and women. What happened in the next few
minutes I do not recollect, though I have a clear remembrance
of pulling down life-preservers from the overhead racks while
the red-faced man fastened them about the bodies of an hysterical
group of women. This memory is as distinct and sharp as that of
any picture I have seen. It is a picture, and I can see it now-
the jagged edges of the hole in the side of the cabin, through
which the gray fog swirled and eddied; the empty upholstered seats,
littered with all the evidences of sudden flight, such as packages,
hand-satchels, umbrellas, and wraps; the stout gentleman who had
been reading my essay, incased in cork and canvas, the magazine
still in his hand, and asking me with monotonous insistence if
I thought there was any danger; the red-faced man stumping gallantly
around on his artificial legs and buckling life-preservers on
all comers; and, finally, the screaming bedlam of women.
This it was, the screaming of the women, that most tried my
nerves. It must have tried, too, the nerves of the red-faced man,
for I have another picture which will never fade from my mind.
The stout gentleman is stuffing the magazine into his overcoat
pocket and looking on curiously. A tangled mass of women, with
drawn, white faces and open mouths, is shrieking like a chorus
of lost souls; and the red-faced man, his face now purplish with
wrath, and with arms extended overhead, as in the act of hurling
thunderbolts, is shouting, 'Shut up! Oh, shut up!'
I remember the scene impelled me to sudden laughter, and in
the next instant I realized that I was becoming hysterical myself;
for these were women, of my own kind, like my mother and sisters,
with the fear of death upon them and unwilling to die. And I remember
that the sounds they made reminded me of the squealing of pigs
under the knife of the butcher, and I was struck with horror at
the vividness of the analogy. These women, capable of the most
sublime emotions, of the tenderest sympathies, were open-mouthed
and screaming. They wanted to live; they were helpless, like rats
in a trap, and they screamed.
The horror of it drove me out on deck. I was feeling sick and
squeamish, and sat down on a bench. In a hazy way I saw and heard
men rushing and shouting as they strove to lower the boats. It
was just as I had read descriptions of such scenes in books. The
tackles jammed. Nothing worked. One boat lowered away with the
plugs out, filled with women and children and then with water,
and capsized. Another boat had been lowered by one end and still
hung in the tackle by the other end where it had been abandoned.
Nothing was to be seen of the strange steamboat which had caused
the disaster, though I heard men saying that she would undoubtedly
send boats to our assistance.
I descended to the lower deck. The Martinez was sinking fast,
for the water was very near. Numbers of the passengers were leaping
overboard. Others, in the water, were clamoring to be taken aboard
again. No one heeded them. A cry arose that we were sinking. I
was seized by the consequent panic, and went over the side in
a surge of bodies. How I went over I do not know, though I did
know, and instantly, why those in the water were so desirous of
getting back on the steamer. The water was cold- so cold that
it was painful. The pang, as I plunged into it, was as quick and
sharp as that of fire. It bit to the marrow. It was like the grip
of death. I gasped with the anguish and shock of it, filling my
lungs before the life-preserver popped me to the surface. The
taste of the salt was strong in my mouth, and I was strangling
with the acrid stuff in my throat and lungs.
But it was the cold that was most distressing. I felt that
I could survive but a few minutes. People were struggling and
floundering in the water about me. I could hear them crying out
to one another. And I heard, also, the sound of oars. Evidently
the strange steamboat had lowered its boats. As the time went
by I marveled that I was still alive. I had no sensation whatever
in my lower limbs, while a chilling numbness was wrapping about
my heart and creeping into it. Small waves, with spiteful foaming
crests, continually broke over me and into my mouth, sending me
off into more strangling paroxysms.
The noises grew indistinct, though I heard a final and despairing
chorus of screams in the distance and knew that the Martinez had
gone down. Later,- how much later I have no knowledge,- I came
to myself with a start of fear. I was alone, I could hear no calls
or cries- only the sound of the waves, made weirdly hollow and
reverberant by the fog. A panic in a crowd, which partakes of
a sort of community of interest, is not so terrible as a panic
when one is by oneself; and such a panic I now suffered. Whither
was I drifting? The red-faced man had said that the tide was ebbing
through the Golden Gate. Was I, then, being carried out to sea?
And the life-preserver in which I floated? was it not liable to
go to pieces at any moment? I had heard of such things being made
of paper and hollow rushes, which quickly became saturated and
lost all buoyancy. I could not swim a stroke, and I was alone,
floating, apparently, in the midst of a gray primordial vastness.
I confess that a madness seized me, that I shrieked aloud as the
women had shrieked, and beat the water with my numb hands.
How long this lasted I have no conception, for a blankness
intervened, of which I remember no more than one remembers of
troubled and painful sleep. When I aroused, it was as after centuries
of time, and I saw, almost above me and emerging from the fog,
the bow of a vessel and three triangular sails, each shrewdly
lapping the other and filled with wind. Where the bow cut the
water there was a great foaming and gurgling, and I seemed directly
in its path. I tried to cry out, but was too exhausted. The bow
plunged down, just missing me and sending a swash of water clear
over my head. Then the long black side of the vessel began slipping
past, so near that I could have touched it with my hands. I tried
to reach it, in a mad resolve to claw into the wood with my nails;
but my arms were heavy and lifeless. Again I strove to call out,
but made no sound.
The stern of the vessel shot by, dropping, as it did so, into
a hollow between the waves; and I caught a glimpse of a man standing
at a wheel, and of another man who seemed to be doing little else
than smoke a cigar. I saw the smoke issuing from his lips as he
slowly turned his head and glanced out over the water in my direction.
It was a careless, unpremeditated glance, one of those haphazard
things men do when they have no immediate call to do anything
in particular, but act because they are alive and must do something.
But life and death were in that glance. I could see the vessel
being swallowed up in the fog; I saw the back of the man at the
wheel, and the head of the other man turning, slowly turning,
as his gaze struck the water and casually lifted along it toward
me. His face wore an absent expression, as of deep thought, and
I became afraid that if his eyes did light upon me he would nevertheless
not see me. But his eyes did light upon me, and looked squarely
into mine; and he did see me, for he sprang to the wheel, thrusting
the other man aside, and whirled it round and round, hand over
hand, at the same time shouting orders of some sort. The vessel
seemed to go off at a tangent to its former course and to leap
almost instantly from view into the fog.
I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, and tried with
all the power of my will to fight above the suffocating blankness
and darkness that was rising around me. A little later I heard
the stroke of oars, growing nearer and nearer, and the calls of
a man. When he was very near I heard him crying, in vexed fashion:
'Why in- don't you sing out?'
This meant me, I thought, and then the blankness and darkness
rose over me.
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