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THE LAST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS have witnessed a carnival of brutality.
From cabin to forecastle it seems to have broken out like a contagion.
I scarcely know where to begin. Wolf Larsen was really the cause
of it. The relations among the men, strained and made tense by
feuds, quarrels, and grudges, were in a state of unstable equilibrium.
Wolf Larsen disturbed the equilibrium, and evil passions flared
up like flame in prairie-grass.
Thomas Mugridge was proving himself a sneak, a spy, an informer.
He attempted to curry favor and reinstate himself in the good
graces of the captain by carrying tales of the men forward. He
it was, I know, that carried some of Johnson's hasty talk to Wolf
Larsen. Johnson, it seems, had bought a suit of oilskins from
the slop-chest and found them to be of greatly inferior quality.
Nor was he slow in advertising the fact. The slop-chest is a sort
of miniature dry-goods store which is carried by all sealing-schooners
and which is stocked with articles peculiar to the needs of the
sailors. Whatever a sailor purchases is taken from his subsequent
earnings on the sealing-grounds; for, as it is with the hunters,
so it is with the boat-pullers and steerers: in the place of wages,
they receive a 'lay,' a rate of so much per skin for every skin
captured in their particular boat.
But of Johnson's grumbling at the slop-chest I knew nothing,
so that what I witnessed came with the shock of sudden surprise.
I had just finished sweeping the cabin, and had been inveigled
by Wolf Larsen into a discussion of Hamlet, his favorite Shakespearean
character, when Johansen descended the companion-stairs, followed
by Johnson. The latter's cap came off, after the custom of the
sea, and he stood respectfully in the middle of the cabin, swaying
heavily and uneasily to the roll of the schooner, and facing the
captain.
'Shut the doors and draw the slide,' Wolf Larsen said to me.
I noticed an anxious light in Johnson's eyes, but mistook it
for the native shyness and embarrassment of the man. The mate,
Johansen, stood away several feet to the side of him, and fully
three yards in front of him sat Wolf Larsen on one of the revolving
cabin chairs. An appreciable pause fell after I had closed the
doors and drawn the slide- a pause that must have lasted fully
a minute. It was broken by Wolf Larsen.
'Yonson,' he began.
'My name is Johnson, sir,' the sailor boldly corrected.
'Well, Johnson, then,- you! Can you guess why I have sent for
you?'
'Yes, and no, sir,' was the slow reply. 'My work is done well.
The mate knows that, and you know it, sir. So there cannot be
any complaint.'
'And is that all?' Wolf Larsen queried, his voice soft and
low and purring.
'I know you have it in for me,' Johnson continued with his
unalterable and ponderous slowness. 'You do not like me. You-
you-'
'Go on,' Wolf Larsen prompted. 'Don't be afraid of my feelings.'
'I am not afraid,' the sailor retorted, a slight angry flush
rising through his sunburn. 'You do not like me because I am too
much of a man, that is why, sir.'
'You are too much of a man for ship discipline, if that is
what you mean, and if you know what I mean,' was Wolf Larsen's
retort.
'I know English, and I know what you mean, sir,' Johnson answered,
his flush deepening at the slur on his knowledge of the English
language.
'Johnson,' Wolf Larsen said, with an air of dismissing all
that had gone before as introductory to the main business in hand,
'I understand you're not quite satisfied with those oilskins.'
'No, I am not. They are no good, sir.'
'And you've been shooting off your mouth about them.'
'I say what I think, sir,' the sailor answered courageously,
not failing at the same time in ship courtesy, which demanded
that 'sir' be appended to each speech he made.
It was at this moment that I chanced to glance at Johansen.
His big fists were clenching and unclenching, and his face was
positively fiendish, so malignantly did he look at Johnson. I
noticed a black discoloration, still faintly visible, under Johansen's
eye, a mark of the thrashing he had received a few nights before
from the sailor. For the first time I began to divine that something
terrible was about to be enacted- what, I could not imagine.
'Do you know what happens to men who say what you've said about
my slop-chest and me?' Wolf Larsen was demanding.
'I know, sir,' was the answer.
'What?' Wolf Larsen demanded sharply and imperatively.
'What you and the mate there are going to do to me, sir.'
At this Larsen sprang from the sitting posture like a wild
animal, a tiger, and like a tiger covered the intervening space
in an avalanche of fury that Johnson strove vainly to fend off.
He threw one arm down to protect the stomach, the other arm up
to protect the head; but Wolf Larsen's fist drove midway between,
on the chest, with a crushing, resounding impact. Johnson's breath,
suddenly expelled, shot from his mouth, and as suddenly checked,
with the forced, audible expiration of a man wielding an ax. He
almost fell backward, and swayed from side to side in an effort
to recover his balance.
Johnson fought bravely enough, but he was no match for Wolf
Larsen, much less for Wolf Larsen and the mate. It was frightful.
I had not imagined a human being could endure so much and still
live and struggle on. And struggle on Johnson did. Of course there
was no hope for him, not the slightest, and he knew it as well
as I, but by the manhood that was in him he could not cease from
fighting for that manhood.
It was too much for me to witness. I felt that I should lose
my mind, and I ran up the companion-stairs to open the doors and
escape on deck. But Wolf Larsen, leaving his victim for the moment,
and with one of his tremendous springs, gained my side, and flung
me into the far corner of the cabin.
'The phenomenon of life, Hump,' he girded at me. 'Stay and
watch it. You may gather data on the immortality of the soul.
Besides, you know, we can't hurt Johnson's soul. It's only the
fleeting form we may demolish.'
It seemed centuries, possibly it was no more than ten minutes,
that the beating continued. And when Johnson could no longer rise,
they still continued to beat and kick him where he lay.
'Easy, Johansen; easy as she goes,' Wolf Larsen finally said.
But the beast in the mate was up and rampant, and Wolf Larsen
was compelled to brush him away with a back-handed sweep of the
arm, gentle enough, apparently, but which hurled Johansen back
like a cork, driving his head against the wall with a crash. He
fell to the floor, half stunned for the moment, breathing heavily
and blinking his eyes in a stupid sort of way.
'Jerk open the doors, Hump,' Larsen commanded.
I obeyed, and the two brutes picked up the senseless man like
a sack of rubbish and hove him clear up the companion-stairs,
through the narrow doors, and out on deck. Louis, his boat-mate,
gave a turn of the wheel and gazed imperturbably into the binnacle.
Not so George Leach, the erstwhile cabin-boy. Fore and aft
there was nothing that could have surprised us more than his consequent
behavior. He it was that came up on the poop, without orders,
and dragged Johnson forward, where he set about dressing his wounds
as well as he could and making him comfortable.
I had come up on deck for a breath of fresh air and to try
to get some repose for my overwrought nerves. Wolf Larsen was
smoking a cigar and examining the patent log which the Ghost usually
towed astern, but which had been hauled in for some purpose. Suddenly
Leach's voice came to my ears. It was tense and hoarse with an
overmastering rage. I turned and saw him standing just beneath
the break of the poop on the port side of the galley. His face
was convulsed and white, his eyes were flashing, his clenched
fists raised overhead, as the boy hurled his imprecations recklessly
full in the face of the captain, who had sauntered slowly forward
to the break of the poop, and leaning his elbow on the corner
of the cabin, gazed down thoughtfully and curiously at the excited
boy.
Leach went on, indicting Wolf Larsen as he had never been indicted
before. The sailors assembled in a fearful group just outside
the forecastle scuttle, and watched and listened. The hunters
piled pell-mell out of the steerage, but as Leach's tirade continued
I saw that there was no levity in their faces. Even they were
frightened, not at the boy's terrible words, but at his terrible
audacity. It did not seem possible that any living creature could
thus beard Wolf Larsen to his teeth. I know for myself that I
was shocked into admiration of the boy, and I saw in him the splendid
invincibleness of immortality rising above the flesh and the fears
of the flesh, as in the prophets of old, to condemn unrighteousness.
And such condemnation! He haled forth Wolf Larsen's soul naked
to the scorn of men. He rained upon it curses from God and high
heaven, and withered it with a heat of invective that savored
of a medieval excommunication of the Catholic Church. He ran the
gamut of denunciation, rising to heights of wrath, and from sheer
exhaustion sinking to the most indecent abuse.
Everybody looked for Larsen to leap upon the boy and destroy
him. But it was not his whim. His cigar went out, and he continued
to gaze silently and curiously.
Leach had worked himself into an ecstasy of impotent rage.
'Pig! Pig! Pig!' he was reiterating at the top of his lungs.
'Why don't you come down and kill me, you murderer? You can do
it. I ain't afraid. There's no one to stop you! Come on, you coward!
Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!'
It was at this stage that Thomas Mugridge's erratic soul brought
him into the scene. He had been listening at the galley door,
but he now came out, ostensibly to fling some scraps over the
side, but obviously to see the killing he was certain would take
place. He smirked greasily up into the face of Wolf Larsen, who
seemed not to see him. But the Cockney was unabashed, and turned
to Leach, saying:
'Such language! Shockin'!'
Leach's rage was no longer impotent. Here at last was something
ready to hand, and for the first time since the stabbing the Cockney
had appeared outside the galley without his knife. The words had
barely left his mouth when he was knocked down by Leach. Three
times he struggled to his feet, striving to gain the galley, and
each time was knocked down.
'Oh, Lord!' he cried. ''Elp! 'Elp! Tyke 'im aw'y, carn't yer?
Tyke 'im aw'y!'
The hunters laughed from sheer relief. Tragedy had dwindled,
the farce had begun. The sailors now crowded boldly aft, grinning
and shuffling, to watch the pommeling of the hated Cockney. And
even I felt a great joy surge up within me. I confess that I delighted
in this beating Leach was giving to Thomas Mugridge, though it
was as terrible, almost, as the one Mugridge had caused to be
given to Johnson. But the expression of Wolf Larsen's face did
not change,- nor did his position. For all his pragmatic certitude,
it seemed as if he watched the play and movement of life in the
hope of discovering something more about it. And no one interfered.
Leach could have killed the Cockney, but, having evidently filled
the measure of his vengeance, he drew away from his prostrate
foe, who was whimpering and wailing in a puppyish sort of way,
and walked forward.
But these two affairs were only the opening events of the day's
program. In the afternoon Smoke and Henderson fell foul of each
other, and a fusillade of shots came up from the steerage, followed
by a stampede of the other four hunters for the deck. A column
of thick, acrid smoke, the kind always made by black powder, was
arising through the open companion-way, and down through it leaped
Wolf Larsen. The sound of blows and scuffling came to our ears.
Both men were wounded, and he was thrashing them both for having
disobeyed his orders and crippled themselves in advance of the
hunting season. In fact, they were badly wounded, and, having
thrashed them, he proceeded to operate upon them in a rough surgical
fashion and to dress their wounds. I served as assistant while
he probed and cleansed the passages made by the bullets, and I
saw the two men endure his crude surgery without anesthetics and
with no more to uphold them than a stiff tumbler of whiskey.
Then, in the first dog-watch, trouble came to a head in the
forecastle. It took its rise out of the tittle-tattle and tale-bearing
that had been the cause of Johnson's beating, and from the noise
we heard, and from the sight of the bruised men next day, it was
patent that half the forecastle had soundly drubbed the other
half.
The second dog-watch and the day wound up with a fight between
Johansen and the lean, Yankee-looking hunter, Latimer. It was
caused by some remarks of Latimer's concerning the noises made
by the mate in his sleep, and though Johansen was whipped, he
kept the steerage awake for the rest of the night while he blissfully
slumbered and fought the fight over and over again.
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