第 一 章 · Chapter I

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 months 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.

Not but that I was afloat in a safe craft, for the _Martinez_ was a new

ferry-steamer, making her fourth or fifth trip on the run between

Sausalito and San Francisco. The danger lay in the heavy fog which

blanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman, I had little

apprehension. In fact, I remember the placid exaltation with which I

took up my position on the forward upper deck, directly beneath the

pilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog to lay hold of my

imagination. A fresh breeze was blowing, and for a time I was alone in

the moist obscurity—yet not alone, for I was dimly conscious of the

presence of the pilot, and of what I took to be the captain, in the glass

house above my head.

I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division of labour which

made it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, tides, and navigation,

in order to visit my friend who lived across an arm of the sea. It was

good that men should be specialists, I mused. The peculiar knowledge of

the pilot and captain sufficed for many thousands of people who knew no

more of the sea and navigation than I knew. On the other hand, instead

of having to devote my energy to the learning of a multitude of things, I

concentrated it upon a few particular things, such as, for instance, the

analysis of Poe’s place in American literature—an essay of mine, by the

way, in the current _Atlantic_. Coming aboard, as I passed through the

cabin, I had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the

_Atlantic_, which was open at my very essay. And there it was again, the

division of labour, the special knowledge of the pilot and captain which

permitted the stout gentleman to read my special knowledge on Poe while

they carried him safely from Sausalito to San Francisco.

A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out on

the deck, interrupted my reflections, though I made a mental note of the

topic for use in a projected essay which I had thought of calling “The

Necessity for Freedom: A Plea for the Artist.” The red-faced man shot a

glance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped across the

deck and back (he evidently had artificial legs), and stood still by my

side, legs wide apart, and with an expression of keen enjoyment on his

face. I was not wrong when I decided that his days had been spent on the

sea.

“It’s nasty weather like this here that turns heads grey before their

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 more than

mathematical certainty.”

“Strain!” he snorted. “Simple as A, B, C! Mathematical certainty!”

He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as he

stared at me. “How about this here tide that’s rushin’ out through the

Golden Gate?” he demanded, or bellowed, rather. “How fast 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’ the course!”

From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could see

the pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity. The bell, which had

seemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side. Our own whistle

was blowing hoarsely, and from time to time the 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’ for somebody!”

The unseen ferry-boat was blowing blast after blast, and the mouth-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 whistling ceased.

His face was shining, his eyes flashing with excitement as he translated

into articulate language the speech of the horns and sirens. “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 schooner as near as I can judge,

crawlin’ in from the Heads against the tide.”

A shrill little whistle, piping as if gone mad, came from directly ahead

and from very near at hand. Gongs sounded on the _Martinez_. Our

paddle-wheels stopped, their pulsing beat died away, and then they

started again. The shrill little whistle, like the chirping of a cricket

amid the cries of great beasts, shot through the fog from more to the

side and swiftly grew faint and fainter. I looked to my companion for

enlightenment.

“One of them dare-devil launches,” he said. “I almost wish we’d sunk

him, the little rip! They’re the cause of more trouble. And what good

are they? Any jackass gets aboard one and runs it from hell 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’ and can’t look out for

himself! Because he’s comin’! And you’ve got to look out, too! Right

of way! Common decency! They don’t know the meanin’ of it!”

I felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler, and while he stumped

indignantly up and down I fell to dwelling upon the romance of the fog.

And romantic it certainly was—the fog, like the grey shadow of infinite

mystery, brooding over the whirling speck of earth; and men, mere motes

of light and sparkle, cursed with an insane relish for work, riding their

steeds of wood and steel through the heart of the mystery, groping their

way blindly through the Unseen, and clamouring and clanging in confident

speech the while their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear.

The voice of my companion brought me back to myself with a laugh. I too

had been groping and floundering, the while I thought I rode clear-eyed

through the mystery.

“Hello! somebody comin’ our way,” he was saying. “And d’ye hear that?

He’s comin’ fast. Walking right along. Guess he don’t hear us yet.

Wind’s in wrong direction.”

The fresh breeze was blowing right down upon us, and I could hear 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 a clip.” He

gave a short chuckle. “They’re gettin’ anxious up there.”

I glanced up. The captain had thrust his head and shoulders out of the

pilot-house, and was staring intently into the fog as though by 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 rail and was gazing

with a like intentness in the direction of the invisible danger.

Then everything happened, and with inconceivable rapidity. The fog

seemed to break away as though split by a wedge, and the bow of a

steamboat emerged, trailing fog-wreaths on either side like seaweed on

the snout of Leviathan. I could see the pilot-house and a white-bearded

man leaning partly out of it, on his elbows. He was clad in a blue

uniform, and I remember noting how trim and quiet he was. His quietness,

under the circumstances, was terrible. He accepted Destiny, marched hand

in hand with it, and coolly measured the stroke. As he leaned there, he

ran a calm and speculative eye over 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 to make

rejoinder necessary.

“Grab hold of something and hang on,” the red-faced man said to me. All

his bluster had gone, and he seemed to have caught the contagion of

preternatural calm. “And listen to the women scream,” he said

grimly—almost bitterly, I thought, as though he had been through the

experience before.

The vessels came together before I could follow his advice. We must have

been struck squarely amidships, for I saw nothing, the strange steamboat

having passed beyond my line of vision. The _Martinez_ heeled over,

sharply, and there was a crashing and rending of timber. I was thrown

flat on the wet deck, and before I could scramble to my feet I heard the

scream of the women. This it was, I am certain,—the most indescribable

of blood-curdling sounds,—that threw me into a panic. I remembered the

life-preservers stored in the cabin, but was met at the door and swept

backward by a wild rush of men and women. What happened in the next few

minutes I do not recollect, though I have a clear remembrance of pulling

down life-preservers from the overhead racks, while the red-faced man

fastened them about the bodies of an hysterical group of women. This

memory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture I have seen. It

is a picture, and I can see it now,—the jagged edges of the hole in the

side of the cabin, through which the grey fog swirled and eddied; the

empty upholstered seats, littered with all the evidences of sudden

flight, such as packages, hand satchels, umbrellas, and wraps; the stout

gentleman who had been reading my essay, encased in cork and canvas, the

magazine still in his hand, and asking me with monotonous insistence if I

thought there was any danger; the red-faced man, stumping gallantly

around on his artificial legs and buckling life-preservers on all comers;

and finally, the screaming bedlam of women.

This it was, the screaming of the women, that most tried my nerves. It

must have tried, too, the nerves of the red-faced man, for I have another

picture which will never fade from my mind. The stout gentleman is

stuffing the magazine into his overcoat pocket and looking on curiously.

A tangled mass of women, with drawn, white faces and open mouths, is

shrieking like a chorus of lost souls; and the red-faced man, his face

now purplish with wrath, and with arms extended overhead as in the act of

hurling thunderbolts, is shouting, “Shut up! Oh, shut up!”

I remember the scene impelled me to sudden laughter, and in the next

instant I realized I was becoming hysterical myself; for these were women

of my own kind, like my mother and sisters, with the fear of death upon

them and unwilling to die. And I remember that the sounds they made

reminded me of the squealing of pigs under the knife of the butcher, and

I was struck with horror at the vividness of the analogy. These women,

capable of the most sublime emotions, of the tenderest sympathies, were

open-mouthed and screaming. They wanted to live, they were helpless,

like rats in a trap, and they screamed.

The horror of it drove me out on deck. I was feeling sick and squeamish,

and sat down on a bench. In a hazy way I saw and heard men rushing and

shouting as they strove to lower the boats. It was just as I had read

descriptions of such scenes in books. The tackles jammed. Nothing

worked. One boat lowered away with the plugs out, filled with women and

children and then with water, and capsized. Another boat had been

lowered by one end, and still hung in the tackle by the other end, where

it had been abandoned. Nothing was to be seen of the strange steamboat

which had caused the disaster, though I heard men saying that she would

undoubtedly send boats to our assistance.

I descended to the lower deck. The _Martinez_ was sinking fast, for the

water was very near. Numbers of the passengers were leaping overboard.

Others, in the water, were clamouring to be taken aboard again. No one

heeded them. A cry arose that we were sinking. I was seized by the

consequent panic, and went over the side in a surge of bodies. How I

went over I do not know, though I did know, and instantly, why those in

the water were so desirous of getting back on the steamer. The water was

cold—so cold that it was painful. The pang, as I plunged into it, was as

quick and sharp as that of fire. It bit to the marrow. It was like the

grip of death. I gasped with the anguish and shock of it, filling my

lungs before the life-preserver popped me to the surface. The taste of

the salt was strong in my mouth, and I was strangling with the acrid

stuff in my throat and lungs.

But it was the cold that was most distressing. I felt that I could

survive but a few minutes. People were struggling and floundering in the

water about me. I could hear them crying out to one another. And I

heard, also, the sound of oars. Evidently the strange steamboat had

lowered its boats. As the time went by I marvelled that I was still

alive. I had no sensation whatever in my lower limbs, while a chilling

numbness was wrapping about my heart and creeping into it. Small waves,

with spiteful foaming crests, continually broke over me and into my

mouth, sending me off into more strangling paroxysms.

The noises grew indistinct, though I heard a final and despairing chorus

of screams in the distance, and knew that the _Martinez_ had gone down.

Later,—how much later I have no knowledge,—I came to myself with a start

of fear. I was alone. I could hear no calls or cries—only the sound of

the waves, made weirdly hollow and reverberant by the fog. A panic in a

crowd, which partakes of a sort of community of interest, is not so

terrible as a panic when one is by oneself; and such a panic I now

suffered. Whither was I drifting? The red-faced man had said that the

tide was ebbing through the Golden Gate. Was I, then, being carried out

to sea? And the life-preserver in which I floated? Was it not liable to

go to pieces at any moment? I had heard of such things being made of

paper and hollow rushes which quickly became saturated and lost all

buoyancy. And I could not swim a stroke. And I was alone, floating,

apparently, in the midst of a grey primordial vastness. I confess that a

madness seized me, that I shrieked aloud as the women had shrieked, and

beat the water with my numb hands.

How long this lasted I have no conception, for a blankness intervened, of

which I remember no more than one remembers of troubled and painful

sleep. When I aroused, it was as after centuries of time; and I saw,

almost above me and emerging from the fog, the bow of a vessel, and three

triangular sails, each shrewdly lapping the other and filled with wind.

Where the bow cut the water there was a great foaming and gurgling, and I

seemed directly in its path. I tried to cry out, but was too exhausted.

The bow plunged down, just missing me and sending a swash of water clear

over my head. Then the long, black side of the vessel began slipping

past, so near that I could have touched it with my hands. I tried to

reach it, in a mad resolve to claw into the wood with my nails, but my

arms were heavy and lifeless. Again I strove to call out, but made no

sound.

The stern of the vessel shot by, dropping, as it did so, into a hollow

between the waves; and I caught a glimpse of a man standing at the wheel,

and of another man who seemed to be doing little else than smoke a cigar.

I saw the smoke issuing from his lips as he slowly turned his head and

glanced out over the water in my direction. It was a careless,

unpremeditated glance, one of those haphazard things men do when they

have no immediate call to do anything in particular, but act because they

are alive and must do something.

But life and death were in that glance. I could see the vessel being

swallowed up in the fog; I saw the back of the man at the wheel, and the

head of the other man turning, slowly turning, as his gaze struck the

water and casually lifted along it toward me. His face wore an absent

expression, as of deep thought, and I became afraid that if his eyes did

light upon me he would nevertheless not see me. But his eyes did light

upon me, and looked squarely into mine; and he did see me, for he sprang

to the wheel, thrusting the other man aside, and whirled it round and

round, hand over hand, at the same time shouting orders of some sort.

The vessel seemed to go off at a tangent to its former course and leapt

almost instantly from view into the fog.

I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, and tried with all the power

of my will to fight above the suffocating blankness and darkness that was

rising around me. A little later I heard the stroke of oars, growing

nearer and nearer, and the calls of a man. When he was very near I heard

him crying, in vexed fashion, “Why in hell don’t you sing out?” This

meant me, I thought, and then the blankness and darkness rose over me.