The Sea-Wolf
“But have you thought of ordering the window-glass? Just call up the
firm,—Red, 4451, I think it is,—and tell them what size and kind of glass
you wish.”
“That means—” she began.
“No window.”
It was a dark and evil-appearing thing, that hut, not fit for aught
better than swine in a civilized land; but for us, who had known the
misery of the open boat, it was a snug little habitation. Following the
housewarming, which was accomplished by means of seal-oil and a wick made
from cotton calking, came the hunting for our winter’s meat and the
building of the second hut. It was a simple affair, now, to go forth in
the morning and return by noon with a boatload of seals. And then, while
I worked at building the hut, Maud tried out the oil from the blubber and
kept a slow fire under the frames of meat. I had heard of jerking beef
on the plains, and our seal-meat, cut in thin strips and hung in the
smoke, cured excellently.
The second hut was easier to erect, for I built it against the first, and
only three walls were required. But it was work, hard work, all of it.
Maud and I worked from dawn till dark, to the limit of our strength, so
that when night came we crawled stiffly to bed and slept the animal-like
sleep of exhaustion. And yet Maud declared that she had never felt better
or stronger in her life. I knew this was true of myself, but hers was
such a lily strength that I feared she would break down. Often and
often, her last-reserve force gone, I have seen her stretched flat on her
back on the sand in the way she had of resting and recuperating. And
then she would be up on her feet and toiling hard as ever. Where she
obtained this strength was the marvel to me.
“Think of the long rest this winter,” was her reply to my remonstrances.
“Why, we’ll be clamorous for something to do.”
We held a housewarming in my hut the night it was roofed. It was the end
of the third day of a fierce storm which had swung around the compass
from the south-east to the north-west, and which was then blowing
directly in upon us. The beaches of the outer cove were thundering with
the surf, and even in our land-locked inner cove a respectable sea was
breaking. No high backbone of island sheltered us from the wind, and it
whistled and bellowed about the hut till at times I feared for the
strength of the walls. The skin roof, stretched tightly as a drumhead, I
had thought, sagged and bellied with every gust; and innumerable
interstices in the walls, not so tightly stuffed with moss as Maud had
supposed, disclosed themselves. Yet the seal-oil burned brightly and we
were warm and comfortable.
It was a pleasant evening indeed, and we voted that as a social function
on Endeavour Island it had not yet been eclipsed. Our minds were at
ease. Not only had we resigned ourselves to the bitter winter, but we
were prepared for it. The seals could depart on their mysterious journey
into the south at any time, now, for all we cared; and the storms held no
terror for us. Not only were we sure of being dry and warm and sheltered
from the wind, but we had the softest and most luxurious mattresses that
could be made from moss. This had been Maud’s idea, and she had herself
jealously gathered all the moss. This was to be my first night on the
mattress, and I knew I should sleep the sweeter because she had made it.
As she rose to go she turned to me with the whimsical way she had, and
said:
“Something is going to happen—is happening, for that matter. I feel it.
Something is coming here, to us. It is coming now. I don’t know what,
but it is coming.”
“Good or bad?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, but it is there, somewhere.”
She pointed in the direction of the sea and wind.
“It’s a lee shore,” I laughed, “and I am sure I’d rather be here than
arriving, a night like this.”
“You are not frightened?” I asked, as I stepped to open the door for her.
Her eyes looked bravely into mine.
“And you feel well? perfectly well?”
“Never better,” was her answer.
We talked a little longer before she went.
“Good-night, Maud,” I said.
“Good-night, Humphrey,” she said.
This use of our given names had come about quite as a matter of course,
and was as unpremeditated as it was natural. In that moment I could have
put my arms around her and drawn her to me. I should certainly have done
so out in that world to which we belonged. As it was, the situation
stopped there in the only way it could; but I was left alone in my little
hut, glowing warmly through and through with a pleasant satisfaction; and
I knew that a tie, or a tacit something, existed between us which had not
existed before.
CHAPTER XXXII
I awoke, oppressed by a mysterious sensation. There seemed something
missing in my environment. But the mystery and oppressiveness vanished
after the first few seconds of waking, when I identified the missing
something as the wind. I had fallen asleep in that state of nerve
tension with which one meets the continuous shock of sound or movement,
and I had awakened, still tense, bracing myself to meet the pressure of
something which no longer bore upon me.
It was the first night I had spent under cover in several months, and I
lay luxuriously for some minutes under my blankets (for once not wet with
fog or spray), analysing, first, the effect produced upon me by the
cessation of the wind, and next, the joy which was mine from resting on
the mattress made by Maud’s hands. When I had dressed and opened the
door, I heard the waves still lapping on the beach, garrulously attesting
the fury of the night. It was a clear day, and the sun was shining. I
had slept late, and I stepped outside with sudden energy, bent upon
making up lost time as befitted a dweller on Endeavour Island.
And when outside, I stopped short. I believed my eyes without question,
and yet I was for the moment stunned by what they disclosed to me.
There, on the beach, not fifty feet away, bow on, dismasted, was a
black-hulled vessel. Masts and booms, tangled with shrouds, sheets, and
rent canvas, were rubbing gently alongside. I could have rubbed my eyes
as I looked. There was the home-made galley we had built, the familiar
break of the poop, the low yacht-cabin scarcely rising above the rail.
It was the _Ghost_.
What freak of fortune had brought it here—here of all spots? what chance
of chances? I looked at the bleak, inaccessible wall at my back and knew
the profundity of despair. Escape was hopeless, out of the question. I
thought of Maud, asleep there in the hut we had reared; I remembered her
“Good-night, Humphrey”; “my woman, my mate,” went ringing through my
brain, but now, alas, it was a knell that sounded. Then everything went
black before my eyes.
Possibly it was the fraction of a second, but I had no knowledge of how
long an interval had lapsed before I was myself again. There lay the
_Ghost_, bow on to the beach, her splintered bowsprit projecting over the
sand, her tangled spars rubbing against her side to the lift of the
crooning waves. Something must be done, must be done.
It came upon me suddenly, as strange, that nothing moved aboard. Wearied
from the night of struggle and wreck, all hands were yet asleep, I
thought. My next thought was that Maud and I might yet escape. If we
could take to the boat and make round the point before any one awoke? I
would call her and start. My hand was lifted at her door to knock, when
I recollected the smallness of the island. We could never hide ourselves
upon it. There was nothing for us but the wide raw ocean. I thought of
our snug little huts, our supplies of meat and oil and moss and firewood,
and I knew that we could never survive the wintry sea and the great
storms which were to come.
So I stood, with hesitant knuckle, without her door. It was impossible,
impossible. A wild thought of rushing in and killing her as she slept
rose in my mind. And then, in a flash, the better solution came to me.
All hands were asleep. Why not creep aboard the _Ghost_,—well I knew the
way to Wolf Larsen’s bunk,—and kill him in his sleep? After that—well,
we would see. But with him dead there was time and space in which to
prepare to do other things; and besides, whatever new situation arose, it
could not possibly be worse than the present one.
My knife was at my hip. I returned to my hut for the shot-gun, made sure
it was loaded, and went down to the _Ghost_. With some difficulty, and
at the expense of a wetting to the waist, I climbed aboard. The
forecastle scuttle was open. I paused to listen for the breathing of the
men, but there was no breathing. I almost gasped as the thought came to
me: What if the _Ghost_ is deserted? I listened more closely. There was
no sound. I cautiously descended the ladder. The place had the empty
and musty feel and smell usual to a dwelling no longer inhabited.
Everywhere was a thick litter of discarded and ragged garments, old
sea-boots, leaky oilskins—all the worthless forecastle dunnage of a long
voyage.
Abandoned hastily, was my conclusion, as I ascended to the deck. Hope
was alive again in my breast, and I looked about me with greater
coolness. I noted that the boats were missing. The steerage told the
same tale as the forecastle. The hunters had packed their belongings
with similar haste. The _Ghost_ was deserted. It was Maud’s and mine.
I thought of the ship’s stores and the lazarette beneath the cabin, and
the idea came to me of surprising Maud with something nice for breakfast.
The reaction from my fear, and the knowledge that the terrible deed I had
come to do was no longer necessary, made me boyish and eager. I went up
the steerage companion-way two steps at a time, with nothing distinct in
my mind except joy and the hope that Maud would sleep on until the
surprise breakfast was quite ready for her. As I rounded the galley, a
new satisfaction was mine at thought of all the splendid cooking utensils
inside. I sprang up the break of the poop, and saw—Wolf Larsen. What of
my impetus and the stunning surprise, I clattered three or four steps
along the deck before I could stop myself. He was standing in the
companion-way, only his head and shoulders visible, staring straight at
me. His arms were resting on the half-open slide. He made no movement
whatever—simply stood there, staring at me.
I began to tremble. The old stomach sickness clutched me. I put one
hand on the edge of the house to steady myself. My lips seemed suddenly
dry and I moistened them against the need of speech. Nor did I for an
instant take my eyes off him. Neither of us spoke. There was something
ominous in his silence, his immobility. All my old fear of him returned
and by my new fear was increased an hundred-fold. And still we stood, the
pair of us, staring at each other.
I was aware of the demand for action, and, my old helplessness strong
upon me, I was waiting for him to take the initiative. Then, as the
moments went by, it came to me that the situation was analogous to the
one in which I had approached the long-maned bull, my intention of
clubbing obscured by fear until it became a desire to make him run. So
it was at last impressed upon me that I was there, not to have Wolf
Larsen take the initiative, but to take it myself.
I cocked both barrels and levelled the shot-gun at him. Had he moved,
attempted to drop down the companion-way, I know I would have shot him.
But he stood motionless and staring as before. And as I faced him, with
levelled gun shaking in my hands, I had time to note the worn and haggard
appearance of his face. It was as if some strong anxiety had wasted it.
The cheeks were sunken, and there was a wearied, puckered expression on