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Pub One Info - Jack London

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189 pages

English

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I scarcely know where to begin, though I sometimes facetiously place the cause of it all to Charley Furuseth's credit. He kept a summer cottage in Mill Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, and never occupied it except when he loafed through the winter mouths and read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer to rest his brain. When summer came on, he elected to sweat out a hot and dusty existence in the city and to toil incessantly. Had it not been my custom to run up to see him every Saturday afternoon and to stop over till Monday morning, this particular January Monday morning would not have found me afloat on San Francisco Bay

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Short story

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	27 septembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819920236
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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CHAPTER I
I scarcely know where to begin, though I sometimes facetiouslyplace the cause of it all to Charley Furuseth's credit. He kept asummer cottage in Mill Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais,and never occupied it except when he loafed through the wintermouths and read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer to rest his brain. Whensummer came on, he elected to sweat out a hot and dusty existencein the city and to toil incessantly. Had it not been my custom torun up to see him every Saturday afternoon and to stop over tillMonday morning, this particular January Monday morning would nothave found me afloat on San Francisco Bay.
Not but that I was afloat in a safe craft, for the Martinez wasa new ferry–steamer, making her fourth or fifth trip on the runbetween Sausalito and San Francisco. The danger lay in the heavyfog which blanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman, I hadlittle apprehension. In fact, I remember the placid exaltation withwhich I took up my position on the forward upper deck, directlybeneath the pilot–house, and allowed the mystery of the fog to layhold of my imagination. A fresh breeze was blowing, and for a timeI was alone in the moist obscurity—yet not alone, for I was dimlyconscious of the presence of the pilot, and of what I took to bethe captain, in the glass house above my head.
I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division oflabour which made it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds,tides, and navigation, in order to visit my friend who lived acrossan arm of the sea. It was good that men should be specialists, Imused. The peculiar knowledge of the pilot and captain sufficed formany thousands of people who knew no more of the sea and navigationthan I knew. On the other hand, instead of having to devote myenergy to the learning of a multitude of things, I concentrated itupon a few particular things, such as, for instance, the analysisof Poe's place in American literature—an essay of mine, by the way,in the current Atlantic. Coming aboard, as I passed through thecabin, I had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading theAtlantic, which was open at my very essay. And there it was again,the division of labour, the special knowledge of the pilot andcaptain which permitted the stout gentleman to read my specialknowledge on Poe while they carried him safely from Sausalito toSan Francisco.
A red–faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumpingout on the deck, interrupted my reflections, though I made a mentalnote of the topic for use in a projected essay which I had thoughtof calling "The Necessity for Freedom: A Plea for the Artist." Thered–faced man shot a glance up at the pilot–house, gazed around atthe fog, stumped across the deck and back (he evidently hadartificial legs), and stood still by my side, legs wide apart, andwith an expression of keen enjoyment on his face. I was not wrongwhen I decided that his days had been spent on the sea.
"It's nasty weather like this here that turns heads grey beforetheir time," he said, with a nod toward the pilot–house.
"I had not thought there was any particular strain," I answered."It seems as simple as A, B, C. They know the direction by compass,the distance, and the speed. I should not call it anything morethan mathematical certainty."
"Strain!" he snorted. "Simple as A, B, C! Mathematicalcertainty!"
He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the airas he stared at me. "How about this here tide that's rushin' outthrough the Golden Gate?" he demanded, or bellowed, rather. "Howfast is she ebbin'? What's the drift, eh? Listen to that, will you?A bell–buoy, and we're a–top of it! See 'em alterin' thecourse!"
From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and Icould see the pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity. Thebell, which had seemed straight ahead, was now sounding from theside. Our own whistle was blowing hoarsely, and from time to timethe sound of other whistles came to us from out of the fog.
"That's a ferry–boat of some sort," the new–comer said,indicating a whistle off to the right. "And there! D'ye hear that?Blown by mouth. Some scow schooner, most likely. Better watch out,Mr. Schooner–man. Ah, I thought so. Now hell's a poppin' forsomebody!"
The unseen ferry–boat was blowing blast after blast, and themouth–blown horn was tooting in terror–stricken fashion.
"And now they're payin' their respects to each other and tryin'to get clear," the red–faced man went on, as the hurried whistlingceased.
His face was shining, his eyes flashing with excitement as hetranslated into articulate language the speech of the horns andsirens. "That's a steam–siren a–goin' it over there to the left.And you hear that fellow with a frog in his throat—a steam schooneras near as I can judge, crawlin' in from the Heads against thetide."
A shrill little whistle, piping as if gone mad, came fromdirectly ahead and from very near at hand. Gongs sounded on theMartinez. Our paddle–wheels stopped, their pulsing beat died away,and then they started again. The shrill little whistle, like thechirping of a cricket amid the cries of great beasts, shot throughthe fog from more to the side and swiftly grew faint and fainter. Ilooked to my companion for enlightenment.
"One of them dare–devil launches," he said. "I almost wish we'dsunk him, the little rip! They're the cause of more trouble. Andwhat good are they? Any jackass gets aboard one and runs it fromhell to breakfast, blowin' his whistle to beat the band and tellin'the rest of the world to look out for him, because he's comin' andcan't look out for himself! Because he's comin'! And you've got tolook out, too! Right of way! Common decency! They don't know themeanin' of it!"
I felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler, and while hestumped indignantly up and down I fell to dwelling upon the romanceof the fog. And romantic it certainly was—the fog, like the greyshadow of infinite mystery, brooding over the whirling speck ofearth; and men, mere motes of light and sparkle, cursed with aninsane relish for work, riding their steeds of wood and steelthrough the heart of the mystery, groping their way blindly throughthe Unseen, and clamouring and clanging in confident speech thewhile their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear.
The voice of my companion brought me back to myself with alaugh. I too had been groping and floundering, the while I thoughtI rode clear–eyed through the mystery.
"Hello! somebody comin' our way," he was saying. "And d'ye hearthat? He's comin' fast. Walking right along. Guess he don't hear usyet. Wind's in wrong direction."
The fresh breeze was blowing right down upon us, and I couldhear the whistle plainly, off to one side and a little ahead.
"Ferry–boat?" I asked.
He nodded, then added, "Or he wouldn't be keepin' up such aclip." He gave a short chuckle. "They're gettin' anxious upthere."
I glanced up. The captain had thrust his head and shoulders outof the pilot–house, and was staring intently into the fog as thoughby sheer force of will he could penetrate it. His face was anxious,as was the face of my companion, who had stumped over to the railand was gazing with a like intentness in the direction of theinvisible danger.
Then everything happened, and with inconceivable rapidity. Thefog seemed to break away as though split by a wedge, and the bow ofa steamboat emerged, trailing fog–wreaths on either side likeseaweed on the snout of Leviathan. I could see the pilot–house anda white–bearded man leaning partly out of it, on his elbows. He wasclad in a blue uniform, and I remember noting how trim and quiet hewas. His quietness, under the circumstances, was terrible. Heaccepted Destiny, marched hand in hand with it, and coolly measuredthe stroke. As he leaned there, he ran a calm and speculative eyeover us, as though to determine the precise point of the collision,and took no notice whatever when our pilot, white with rage,shouted, "Now you've done it!"
On looking back, I realize that the remark was too obvious tomake rejoinder necessary.
"Grab hold of something and hang on," the red–faced man said tome. All his bluster had gone, and he seemed to have caught thecontagion of preternatural calm. "And listen to the women scream,"he said grimly—almost bitterly, I thought, as though he had beenthrough the experience before.
The vessels came together before I could follow his advice. Wemust have been struck squarely amidships, for I saw nothing, thestrange steamboat having passed beyond my line of vision. TheMartinez heeled over, sharply, and there was a crashing and rendingof timber. I was thrown flat on the wet deck, and before I couldscramble to my feet I heard the scream of the women. This it was, Iam certain,—the most indescribable of blood–curdling sounds,— thatthrew me into a panic. I remembered the life–preservers stored inthe cabin, but was met at the door and swept backward by a wildrush of men and women. What happened in the next few minutes I donot recollect, though I have a clear remembrance of pulling downlife–preservers from the overhead racks, while the red–faced manfastened them about the bodies of an hysterical group of women.This memory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture I haveseen. It is a picture, and I can see it now,—the jagged edges ofthe hole in the side of the cabin, through which the grey fogswirled and eddied; the empty upholstered seats, littered with allthe evidences of sudden flight, such as packages, hand satchels,umbrellas, and wraps; the stout gentleman who had been reading myessay, encased in cork and canvas, the magazine still in his hand,and asking me with monotonous insistence if I thought there was anydanger; the red–faced man, stumping gallantly around on hisartificial legs and buckling life–preservers on all corners; andfinally, the screaming bedlam of women.
This it was, the screaming of the women, that most tried mynerves. It must have tried, too, the nerves of the red–faced