Pacing back and forth the length of the hatchway, and savagely chewing the end of a cigar, was the man whose casual glance had rescued me from the sea.His height was probably five feet ten inches, or ten and a half;but my first impression, or feel of the man, was not of this, but of his strength.And yet, while he was of massive build, with broad shoulders and deep chest, I could not characterize his strength as massive.It was what might be termed a sinewy, knotty strength, of the kind we ascribe to lean and wiry men, but which, in him, because of his heavy build, partook more of the enlarged gorilla order.Not that in appearance he seemed in the least gorilla-like.What I am striving to express is this strength itself, more as a thing apart from his physical semblance.It was a strength we are wont to associate with things primitive, with wild animals, and the creatures we imagine our tree- dwelling prototypes to have been --a strength savage, ferocious, alive in itself, the essence of life in that it is the potency of motion, the elemental stuff itself out of which the many forms of life have been molded; in short, that which writhes in the body of a snake when the head is cut off, and the snake, as a snake, is dead, or which lingers in a shapeless lump of turtle-meat and recoils and quivers from the prod of a finger.
Such was the impression of strength I gathered from this man who paced up and down.He was firmly planted on his legs; his feet struck the deck squarely and with surety; every movement of a muscle, from the heave of the shoulders to the tightening of the lips about the cigar, was decisive, and seemed to come out of a strength that was excessive and overwhelming.
In fact, though this strength pervaded every action of his, it seemed but the advertisement of a greater strength that lurked within, that lay dormant and no more than stirred from time to time, but which might arouse, at any moment, terrible and compelling, like the rage of a lion or the wrath of a storm.
The cook stuck his head out of the galley door and grinned encouragingly at me, at the same time jerking his thumb in the direction of the man who paced up and down by the hatchway.Thus I was given to understand that he was the captain, the "Old Man," in the cook's vernacular, the individual whom I must interview and put to the trouble of somehow getting me ashore.
I had half started forward, to get over with what I was certain would be a stormy five minutes, when a more violent suffocating paroxy** seized the unfortunate person who was lying on his back.He wrenched and writhed about convulsively.The chin, with the damp black beard, pointed higher in the air as the back muscles stiffened and the chest swelled in an unconscious and instinctive effort to get more air.Under the whiskers, and all unseen, I knew that the skin was taking on a purplish hue.
The captain, or Wolf Larsen, as men called him, ceased pacing and gazed down at the dying man.So fierce had this final struggle become that the sailor paused in the act of flinging more water over him and stared curiously, the canvas bucket partly tilted and dripping its contents to the deck.
The dying man beat a tattoo on the hatch with his heels, straightened out his legs, and stiffened in one great tense effort, and rolled his head from side to side.Then the muscles relaxed, the head stopped rolling, and a sigh, as of profound relief, floated upward from his lips.The jaw dropped, the upper lip lifted, and two rows of tobacco-discolored teeth appeared.It seemed as though his features had frozen into a diabolical grin at the world he had left and outwitted.
Then a most surprising thing occurred.The captain broke loose upon the dead man like a thunderclap.Oaths rolled from his lips in a continuous stream.And they were not namby-pamby oaths, or mere expressions of indecency.
Each word was a blasphemy, and there were many words.They crisped and crackled like electric sparks.I had never heard anything like it in my life, nor could I have conceived it possible.With a turn for literary expression myself, and a penchant for forcible figures and phrases, I appreciated, as no other listener, dare say, the peculiar vividness and strength and absolute blasphemy of his metaphors.The cause of it all, as near as Icould make out, was that the man, who was mate, had gone on a debauch before leaving San Francisco, and then had the poor taste to die at the beginning of the voyage and leave Wolf Larsen short-handed.
It should be unnecessary to state, at least to my friends, that I was shocked.Oaths and vile language of any sort had always been repellent to me.I felt a wilting sensation, a sinking at the heart, and, I might just as well say, a giddiness.To me, death had always been invested with solemnity and dignity.It had been peaceful in its occurrence, sacred in its ceremonial.But death in its more sordid and terrible aspects was a thing with which I had been unacquainted till now.As I say, while I appreciated the power of the terrific denunciation that swept out of Wolf Larsen's mouth, I was inexpressibly shocked.The scorching torrent was enough to wither the face of the corpse.I should not have been surprised if the wet black beard had frizzled and curled and flared up in smoke and flame.
But the dead man was unconcerned.He continued to grin with a sardonic humor, with a cynical mockery and defiance.He was master of the situation.
