The Sea Wolf by Jack London (free novels to read .TXT) 📕

As I obeyed I noticed an anxious light come into Johnson’s eyes, but I did not dream of its cause.  I did not dream of what was to occur until it did occur, but he knew from the very first what was coming and awaited it bravely.  And in his action I found complete refutation of all Wolf Larsen’s materialism.  The sailor Johnson was swayed by idea, by principle, and truth, and sincerity.  He was right, he knew he was right, and he was unafraid.  He would die for the right if needs be, he would be true to himself, sincere with his soul.  And in this was portrayed the victory of the spirit over the flesh, the indomitability and moral grandeur of the soul that knows no restriction and rises above time and space and matter with a surety and invincibleness born of nothing else than eternity and immortality.

But to return.  I noticed the 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 pivotal 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, damn 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.  “If I speak not fast, it is because I have not been from the old country as long as you.  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.”

“Look at him, Hump,” Wolf Larsen said to me, “look at this bit of animated dust, this aggregation of matter that moves and breathes and defies me and thoroughly believes itself to be compounded of something good; that is impressed with certain human fictions such as righteousness and honesty, and that will live up to them in spite of all personal discomforts and menaces.  What do you think of him, Hump?  What do you think of him?”

“I think that he is a better man than you are,” I answered, impelled, somehow, with a desire to draw upon myself a portion of the wrath I felt was about to break upon his head.  “His human fictions, as you choose to call them, make for nobility and manhood.  You have no fictions, no dreams, no ideals.  You are a pauper.”

He nodded his head with a savage pleasantness.  “Quite true, Hump, quite true.  I have no fictions that make for nobility and manhood.  A living dog is better than a dead lion, say I with the Preacher.  My only doctrine is the doctrine of expediency, and it makes for surviving.  This bit of the ferment we call ‘Johnson,’ when he is no longer a bit of the ferment, only dust and ashes, will have no more nobility than any dust and ashes, while I shall still be alive and roaring.”

“Do you know what I am going to do?” he questioned.

I shook my head.

“Well, I am going to exercise my prerogative of roaring and show you how fares nobility.  Watch me.”

Three yards away from Johnson he was, and sitting down.  Nine feet!  And yet he left the chair in full leap, without first gaining a standing position.  He left the chair, just as he sat in it, squarely, springing from the sitting posture like a wild animal, a tiger, and like a tiger covered the intervening space.  It was 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 axe.  He almost fell backward, and swayed from side to side in an effort to recover his balance.

I cannot give the further particulars of the horrible scene that followed.  It was too revolting.  It turns me sick even now when I think of it.  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 phenomena 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.  Wolf Larsen and Johansen were all about the poor fellow.  They struck him with their fists, kicked him with their heavy shoes, knocked him down, and dragged him to his feet to knock him down again.  His eyes were blinded so that he could not see, and the blood running from ears and nose and mouth turned the cabin into a shambles.  And when he 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,” I was 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 doorway, and out on deck.  The blood from his nose gushed in a scarlet stream over the feet of the helmsman, who was none other than Louis, his boat-mate.  But Louis took and gave a spoke and gazed imperturbably into the binnacle.

Not so was the conduct of George Leach, the erstwhile cabin-boy.  Fore and aft there was nothing that could have surprised us more than his consequent behaviour.  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.  Johnson, as Johnson, was unrecognizable; and not only that, for his features, as human features at all, were unrecognizable, so discoloured and swollen had they become in the few minutes which had elapsed between the beginning of the beating and the dragging forward of the body.

But of Leach’s behaviour—By the time I had finished cleansing the cabin he had taken care of Johnson.  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.

“May God damn your soul to hell, Wolf Larsen, only hell’s too good for you, you coward, you murderer, you pig!” was his opening salutation.

I was thunderstruck.  I looked for his instant annihilation.  But it was not Wolf Larsen’s whim to annihilate him.  He 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.

And the boy indicted 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 in 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 savoured of a mediæval excommunication of the Catholic Church.  He ran the gamut of denunciation, rising to heights of wrath that were sublime and almost Godlike, and from sheer exhaustion sinking to the vilest and most indecent abuse.

His rage was a madness.  His lips were flecked with a soapy froth, and sometimes he choked and gurgled and became inarticulate.  And through it all, calm and impassive, leaning on his elbow and gazing down, Wolf Larsen seemed lost in