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AT LAST, AFTER THREE DAYS of variable winds, we caught the
northeast trades. I came on deck, after a good night's rest in
spite of my poor knee, to find the Ghost foaming along, wing-and-wing
and with every sail drawing except the jibs, with a fresh breeze
astern. Oh, the wonder of the great trade-wind! All day we sailed,
and all night, and the next day, and the next, day after day,
the wind always astern and blowing steadily and strong. The schooner
sailed herself. There was no pulling and hauling on sheets and
tackles, no shifting of topsails, no work at all for the sailors
to do except to steer. At night, when the sun went down, the sheets
were slackened; in the morning, when they yielded up the damp
of the dew and relaxed, they were pulled tight again- and that
was all.
Ten knots, twelve knots, eleven knots, varying from time to
time, was the speed we were making; and ever out of the northeast
the brave wind blew, driving us on our course two hundred and
fifty miles between the dawns. It saddened me and gladdened me,
the gait with which we were leaving San Francisco behind and with
which we were foaming down upon the tropics. Each day grew perceptibly
warmer. In the second dog-watch the sailors came on deck, stripped,
and threw buckets of water upon one another from overside. Flying-fish
were beginning to be seen, and during the night the watch above
scrambled over the deck in pursuit of those that fell aboard.
In the morning, Thomas Mugridge being duly bribed, the galley
was pleasantly areek with the odor of their frying, while dolphin
meat was served fore and aft on such occasions as Johnson caught
the blazing beauties from the bowsprit end.
Johnson seemed to spend all his spare time there, or aloft
at the cross-trees, watching the Ghost cleaving the water under
her press of sail. There was passion, adoration, in his eyes,
and he went about in a sort of trance, gazing in ecstasy at the
swelling sails, the foaming wake, and the heave and the run of
her over the liquid mountains that were moving with us in stately
procession.
The days and nights were all 'a wonder and a wild delight,'
and though I had little time from my dreary work, I stole odd
moments to gaze and gaze at the unending glory of what I never
dreamed the world possessed. Above, the sky was stainless blue-
blue as the sea itself, which, under the forefoot, was of the
color and sheen of azure satin. All around the horizon were pale,
fleecy clouds, never changing, never moving, like a silver setting
for the flawless turquoise sky.
I do not forget one night, when I should have been asleep,
of lying on the forecastle-head and gazing down at the spectral
ripple of foam thrust aside by the Ghost's forefoot. It sounded
like the gurgling of a brook over mossy stones in some quiet dell,
and the crooning song of it lured me away and out of myself till
I was no longer Hump the cabin-boy, or Van Weyden the man who
had dreamed away thirty-five years among books. But a voice behind
me, the unmistakable voice of Wolf Larsen, strong with the invincible
certitude of the man and mellow with appreciation of the words
he was quoting, aroused me.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light
That holds the hot sky tame,
And the steady forefoot snores through the planet-powdered
floors
Where the scared whale flukes in flame.
Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
And her ropes are taut with the dew,
For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the
out
trail,
We're sagging south on the Long Trail- the trail that is always
new.
'Eh, Hump? How's it strike you?' he asked, after the due pause
which words and setting demanded.
I looked into his face. It was aglow with light, as the sea
itself, and the eyes were flashing in the starshine.
'It strikes me as remarkable, to say the least, that you should
show enthusiasm,' I answered coldly.
'Why, man, it's living; it's life!' he cried.
'Which is a cheap thing and without value.' I flung his words
at him.
He laughed, and it was the first time I had heard honest mirth
in his voice.
'Ah, I cannot get you to understand, cannot drive it into your
head, what a thing this life is. Of course life is valueless,
except to itself. And I can tell you that my life is pretty valuable
just now- to myself. It is beyond price, which you will acknowledge
is a terrific overrating, but which I cannot help, for it is the
life that is in me that makes the rating.'
He appeared waiting for the words with which to express the
thought that was in him, and finally went on:
'Do you know, I am filled with a strange uplift; I feel as
if all time were echoing through me, as though all powers were
mine. I know truth, divine good from evil, right from wrong. My
vision is clear and far. I could almost believe in God. But'-
and his voice changed, and the light went out of his face- 'what
is this condition in which I find myself- this joy of living,
this exultation of life, this inspiration, I may well call it?
It is what comes when there is nothing wrong with one's digestion,
when his stomach is in trim, and his appetite has an edge, and
all goes well. It is the bribe for living, the champagne of the
blood, the effervescence of the ferment, that makes some men think
holy thoughts, and other men to see God or to create him when
they cannot see him. That is all- the drunkenness of life, the
stirring and crawling of the yeast, the babbling of the life that
is insane with consciousness that it is alive. And- bah! Tomorrow
I shall pay for it as the drunkard pays, as the miser clutching
for a pot of gold pays on waking to penury. And I shall know that
I must die, at sea most likely; cease crawling of myself, to be
all acrawl with the corruption of the sea; to be fed upon, to
yield up all the strength and movement of my muscles, that they
may become strength and movement in fin and scale and the guts
of fishes. Bah! And bah! again. The champagne is already flat.
The sparkle and bubble have gone out, and it is a tasteless drink.'
He left me as suddenly as he had come, springing to the deck
with the weight and softness of a tiger. The Ghost plowed on her
way. I noted that the gurgling forefoot was very like a snore,
and as I listened to it the effect of Wolf Larsen's swift rush
from sublime exultation to despair slowly left me. Then some deepwater
sailor, from the waist of the ship, lifted a rich tenor voice
in the 'Song of the Trade-wind':
Oh, I am the wind the seamen love-
I am steady, and strong, and true;
They follow my track by the clouds above,
O'er the fathomless tropic blue.
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