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THREE DAYS OF REST, THREE blessed days of rest, are what I
had with Wolf Larsen, eating at the cabin table and doing nothing
but discuss life, literature, and the universe, the while Thomas
Mugridge fumed and raged and did my work as well as his own.
'Watch out for squalls, is all I can say to you,' was Louis's
warning, given during a spare half-hour on deck while Wolf Larsen
was engaged in straightening out a row among the hunters.
'Ye can't tell what'll be happenin',' Louis went on, in response
to my query for more definite information. 'The man's as contrary
as air-currents or water-currents. You can never guess the ways
iv him. 'T is just as you're thinkin' you know him an' are makin'
a favorable slant along him that he whirls around, dead ahead,
an' comes howlin' down upon you an' a-rippin' all iv your fine-weather
sails to rags.'
So I was not altogether surprised when the squall foretold
by Louis smote me. We had been having a heated discussion,- upon
life, of course,- and, grown overbold, I was passing stiff strictures
upon Wolf Larsen and the life of Wolf Larsen. In fact, I was vivisecting
him and turning over his soul-stuff as keenly and thoroughly as
it was his custom to do it to others. It may be a weakness of
mine that I have an incisive way of speech, but I threw all restraint
to the winds and cut and slashed until the whole man of him was
snarling. The dark sun-bronze of his face went black with wrath;
his eyes became ablaze. There was no clearness or sanity in them-
nothing but the terrific rage of a madman. It was the wolf in
him that I saw, and a mad wolf at that.
He sprang for me with a half-roar, gripping my arm. I had steeled
myself to brazen it out, though I was trembling inwardly; but
the enormous strength of the man was too much for my fortitude.
He had gripped me by the biceps with his single hand, and when
that grip tightened I wilted and shrieked aloud. My feet went
out from under me. I simply could not stand upright and endure
the agony. The muscles refused their duty. The pain was too great.
My biceps was being crushed to a pulp.
He seemed to recover himself, for a lurid gleam came into his
eyes, and he relaxed his hold with a short laugh that was more
like a growl. I fell to the floor, feeling very faint, while he
sat down, lighted a cigar, and watched me as a cat watches a mouse.
As I writhed about I could see in his eyes that curiosity I had
so often noted, that wonder and perplexity, that questing, that
everlasting query of his as to what it was all about.
I finally crawled to my feet and ascended the companion-stairs.
Fair weather was over, and there was nothing left but to return
to the galley. My left arm was numb, as though paralyzed, and
days passed before I could use it, while weeks went by before
the last stiffness and pain went out of it. And he had done nothing
but put his hand upon my arm and squeeze. There had been no wrenching
or jerking. He had just closed his hand with a steady pressure.
What he might have done I did not fully realize till next day,
when he put his head into the galley, and, as a sign of renewed
friendliness, asked me how my arm was getting on.
'It might have been worse,' he smiled.
I was peeling potatoes. He picked one up from the pan. It was
fair-sized, firm, and unpeeled. He closed his hand upon it, squeezed,
and the potato squirted out between his fingers in mushy streams.
The pulpy remnant he dropped back into the pan and turned away,
and I had a sharp vision of how it might have fared with me had
the monster put his strength upon me.
But the three days' rest was good, in spite of it all, for
it had given my knee the very chance it needed. It felt much better,
the swelling had materially decreased, and the cap seemed descending
into its proper place. Also, the three days' rest brought the
trouble I had foreseen. It was plainly Thomas Mugridge's intention
to make me pay for those three days. He treated me vilely, cursed
me continually, and heaped his own work upon me. He even ventured
to raise his fist to me, but I was becoming animal-like myself,
and I snarled in his face so terribly that it must have frightened
him back. It is no pleasant picture I can conjure up of myself,
Humphrey Van Weyden, in that noisome ship's galley, crouched in
a corner over my task, my face raised to the face of the creature
about to strike me, my lips lifted and snarling like a dog's,
my eyes gleaming with fear and helplessness and the courage that
comes of fear and helplessness. I do not like the picture. It
reminds me too strongly of a rat in a trap. I do not care to think
of it; but it was effective, for the threatened blow did not descend.
Thomas Mugridge backed away, glaring as hatefully and viciously
as I glared. A pair of beasts is what we were, penned together
and showing our teeth. He was a coward, afraid to strike me because
I had not quailed sufficiently in advance; so he chose a new way
to intimidate me. There was only one galley knife that as a knife
amounted to anything. This, through many years of service and
wear, had acquired a long, lean blade. It was unusually cruel-looking,
and at first I had shuddered every time I used it. The cook borrowed
a stone from Johansen and proceeded to sharpen the knife. He did
it with great ostentation, glancing significantly at me the while.
He whetted it up and down all day long. Every odd moment he could
find he had the knife and stone out and was whetting away. The
steel acquired a razor-edge. He tried it with the ball of his
thumb or across the nail, he shaved hairs from the back of his
hand, glanced along the edge with microscopic acuteness, and found,
or feigned that he found, always, a slight inequality in its edge
somewhere. Then he would put it on the stone again, and whet,
whet, whet, till I could have laughed aloud, it was so very ludicrous.
It was also serious, for I learned that he was capable of using
it, that under all his cowardice there was a courage of cowardice,
like mine, that would impel him to do the very thing his whole
nature protested against doing and was afraid of doing. 'Cooky's
sharpening his knife for Hump,' was being whispered about among
the sailors, and some of them twitted him about it. This he took
in good part, and was really pleased, nodding his head with direful
foreknowledge and mystery, until George Leach, the erstwhile cabin-boy,
ventured some rough pleasantry on the subject.
Now it happened that Leach was one of the sailors told off
to douse Mugridge after his game of cards with the captain. Leach
had evidently done his task with a thoroughness that Mugridge
had not forgiven, for words followed, and evil names involving
smirched ancestries. Mugridge menaced with the knife he was sharpening
for me. Leach laughed and hurled more of his Telegraph Hill billingsgate,
and before either he or I knew what had happened, his right forearm
had been ripped open from elbow to wrist by a quick slash of the
knife. The cook backed away, a fiendish expression on his face,
the knife held before him in a position of defense. But Leach
took it quite calmly, though his blood was spouting upon the deck
as generously as water from a fountain.
'I'm goin' to get you, Cooky,' he said, 'and I'll get you hard.
And I won't be in no hurry about it. You'll be without that knife
when I come for you.'
So saying, he turned and walked quietly forward. Mugridge's
face was livid with fear at what he had done and at what he might
expect sooner or later from the man he had stabbed. But his demeanor
toward me was more ferocious than ever. In spite of his fear at
the reckoning he must expect to pay for what he had done, he could
see that it had been an object-lesson to me, and he became more
domineering and exultant. Also, there was a lust in him, akin
to madness, which had come with sight of the blood he had drawn.
He was beginning to see red in whatever direction he looked. The
psychology of it is sadly tangled, and yet I could read the workings
of his mind as clearly as though it were a printed book.
Several days went by, the Ghost still foaming down the trades,
and I could swear I saw madness growing in Thomas Mugridge's eyes.
And I confess that I became afraid, very much afraid. Whet, whet,
whet, it went, all day long. The look in his eyes as he felt the
keen edge and glared at me was positively carnivorous. I was afraid
to turn my shoulder to him, and when I left the galley I went
out backward- to the amusement of the sailors and hunters, who
made a point of gathering in groups to witness my exit. The strain
was too great. I sometimes thought my mind would give way under
it- a meet thing on this ship of madmen and brutes. Every hour,
every minute, of my existence was in jeopardy. I was a human soul
in distress, and yet no soul, fore or aft, betrayed sufficient
sympathy to come to my aid. At times I thought of throwing myself
on the mercy of Wolf Larsen; but the vision of the mocking devil
in his eyes that questioned life and sneered at it would come
strong upon me and compel me to refrain. At other times I seriously
contemplated suicide, and the whole force of my hopeful philosophy
was required to keep me from going over the side in the darkness
of night.
Several times Wolf Larsen tried to inveigle me into discussion,
but I gave him short answers and eluded him. Finally, he commanded
me to resume my seat at the cabin table for a time and let the
cook do my work. Then I spoke frankly, telling him what I was
enduring from Thomas Mugridge because of the three days of favoritism
which had been shown me. Wolf Larsen regarded me with smiling
eyes.
'So you're afraid, eh?' he sneered.
'Yes,' I said defiantly and honestly, 'I am afraid.'
'That's the way with you fellows,' he cried half angrily; 'sentimentalizing
about your immortal souls, and afraid to die. At sight of a sharp
knife and a cowardly Cockney, the clinging of life to life overcomes
all your fond foolishness. Why, my dear fellow, you will live
forever. You are a god, and a god cannot be killed. Cooky cannot
hurt you. You are sure of your resurrection. What's there to be
afraid of?
'You have eternal life before you. You are a millionaire in
immortality, a millionaire whose fortune cannot be lost, whose
fortune is less perishable than the stars and as lasting as space
or time. It is impossible for you to diminish your principal.
Immortality is a thing without beginning or end. Eternity is eternity,
and though you die here and now, you will go on living somewhere
else and hereafter. And it is all very beautiful, this shaking
off of the flesh and soaring of the imprisoned spirit. Cooky cannot
hurt you. He can only give you a boost on the path you eternally
must tread.
'Or, if you do not wish to be boosted just yet, why not boost
Cooky? According to your ideas, he too must be an immortal millionaire.
You cannot bankrupt him. His paper will always circulate at par.
You cannot diminish the length of his living by killing him, for
he is without beginning or end. He's bound to go on living, somewhere,
somehow. Then boost him. Stick a knife in him and let his spirit
free. As it is, it's in a nasty prison, and you'll do him only
a kindness by breaking down the door. And who knows? It may be
a very beautiful spirit that will go soaring up into the blue
from that ugly carcass. Boost him along, and I'll promote you
to his place, and he's getting forty-five dollars a month.'
It was plain that I could look for no help or mercy from Wolf
Larsen. Whatever was to be done I must do for myself; and out
of the courage of fear I evolved the plan of fighting Thomas Mugridge
with his own weapons. I borrowed a whetstone from Johansen. Louis,
the boat-steerer, had already begged me for condensed milk and
sugar. The lazaret, where such delicacies were stored, was situated
beneath the cabin floor. Watching my chance, I stole five cans
of the milk, and that night, when it was Louis's watch on deck,
I traded them with him for a dirk, as lean and cruel-looking as
Thomas Mugridge's vegetable-knife. It was rusty and dull, but
I turned the grindstone while Louis gave it an edge. I slept more
soundly than usual that night.
Next morning, after breakfast, Thomas Mugridge began his whet,
whet, whet. I glanced warily at him, for I was on my knees taking
the ashes from the stove. When I returned from throwing them overside,
he was talking to Harrison, whose honest yokel's face was filled
with fascination and wonder.
'Yes,' Mugridge was saying, 'an' wot does 'is worship do but
give me two years in Reading. But blimey if I cared. The other
mug was fixed plenty. Should 'a' seen 'im. Knife just like this.'
He shot a glance in my direction to see if I was taking it in,
and went on with a gory narrative of his prowess.
A call from the mate interrupted him, and Harrison went aft.
Mugridge sat down on the raised threshold to the galley and went
on with his knife-sharpening. I put the shovel away and calmly
sat down on the coal-box, facing him. He favored me with a vicious
stare. Still calmly, though my heart was going pit-a-pat, I pulled
out Louis's dirk and began to whet it on the stone. I had looked
for almost any sort of explosion on the Cockney's part, but, to
my surprise, he did not appear aware of what I was doing. He went
on whetting his knife; so did I; and for two hours we sat there,
face to face, whet, whet, the news of it spread abroad, and half
the ship's company was crowding the galley doors to see the sight.
Encouragement and advice were freely tendered, and Jock Horner,
the quiet, soft-spoken hunter who looked as though he would not
harm a mouse, advised me to leave the ribs alone and to thrust
upward, at the same time giving what he called the 'Spanish twist'
to the blade. Leach, his bandaged arm prominently to the fore,
begged me to leave a few remnants of the cook for him, and Wolf
Larsen paused once or twice at the break of the poop to glance
curiously at what must have been to him a stirring and crawling
of the yeasty thing he knew as life.
And I make free to say that for the time being life assumed
the same sordid values to me. There was nothing pretty about it,
nothing divine- only two cowardly moving things that sat whetting
steel upon stone, and a group of other moving things, cowardly
and otherwise, that looked on. Half of them, I am sure, were anxious
to see us shedding each other's blood. It would have been entertainment.
And I do not think there was one who would have interfered had
we closed in a death-struggle.
On the other hand, the whole thing was laughable and childish.
Whet, whet, whet- Humphrey Van Weyden sharpening his knife in
a ship's galley and trying its edge with his thumb. Of all situations
this was the most inconceivable. I know that my own kind could
not have believed it possible. I had not been called 'Sissy' Van
Weyden all my days without reason, and that 'Sissy' Van Weyden
should be capable of doing this thing was a revelation to Humphrey
Van Weyden, who knew not whether to be exultant or ashamed.
But nothing happened. At the end of two hours Thomas Mugridge
put away knife and stone and held out his hand.
'Wot's the good of mykin' a 'oly show of ourselves for them
mugs?' he demanded. 'They don't love us, an' bloody well glad
they'd be a-seein' us cuttin' our throats. Yer not 'arf bad, 'Ump.
You've got spunk, as you Yanks s'y, an' I like yer in a w'y. So
come on an' shyke.'
Coward that I might be, I was less a coward than he. It was
a distinct victory I had gained, and I refused to forego any of
it by shaking his detestable hand.
'All right,' he said pridelessly; 'tyke it or leave it. I'll
like yer none the less for it.' And, to save his face, he turned
fiercely upon the onlookers. 'Get outer my galley door, you bloomin'
swabs!'
This command was reinforced by a steaming kettle of water,
and at sight of it the sailors scrambled out of the way. This
was a sort of victory for Thomas Mugridge and enabled him to accept
more gracefully the defeat I had given him, though, of course,
he was too discreet to attempt to drive the hunters away.
'I see Cooky's finish,' I heard Smoke say to Horner.
'You bet,' was the reply. 'Hump runs the galley from now on,
and Cooky pulls in his horns.'
Mugridge heard and shot a swift glance at me, but I gave no
sign that the conversation had reached me. I had not thought my
victory was so far-reaching and complete, but I resolved to let
go nothing I had gained. As the days went by, Smoke's prophecy
was verified. The Cockney became more humble and slavish to me
than even to Wolf Larsen. I mistered him and sirred him no longer,
washed no more greasy pots, and peeled no more potatoes. I did
my own work, and my own work only, and when and in what fashion
I saw fit. Also, I carried the dirk in a sheath at my hip, sailor-fashion,
and maintained toward Thomas Mugridge a constant attitude which
was composed of equal parts of domineering, insult, and contempt.
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