第 三十三 章 · Chapter XXXIII

We waited all day for Wolf Larsen to come ashore. It was an intolerable

period of anxiety. Each moment one or the other of us cast expectant

glances toward the _Ghost_. But he did not come. He did not even appear

on deck.

“Perhaps it is his headache,” I said. “I left him lying on the poop. He

may lie there all night. I think I’ll go and see.”

Maud looked entreaty at me.

“It is all right,” I assured her. “I shall take the revolvers. You know

I collected every weapon on board.”

“But there are his arms, his hands, his terrible, terrible hands!” she

objected. And then she cried, “Oh, Humphrey, I am afraid of him! Don’t

go—please don’t go!”

She rested her hand appealingly on mine, and sent my pulse fluttering.

My heart was surely in my eyes for a moment. The dear and lovely woman!

And she was so much the woman, clinging and appealing, sunshine and dew

to my manhood, rooting it deeper and sending through it the sap of a new

strength. I was for putting my arm around her, as when in the midst of

the seal herd; but I considered, and refrained.

“I shall not take any risks,” I said. “I’ll merely peep over the bow and

see.”

She pressed my hand earnestly and let me go. But the space on deck where

I had left him lying was vacant. He had evidently gone below. That

night we stood alternate watches, one of us sleeping at a time; for there

was no telling what Wolf Larsen might do. He was certainly capable of

anything.

The next day we waited, and the next, and still he made no sign.

“These headaches of his, these attacks,” Maud said, on the afternoon of

the fourth day; “Perhaps he is ill, very ill. He may be dead.”

“Or dying,” was her afterthought when she had waited some time for me to

speak.

“Better so,” I answered.

“But think, Humphrey, a fellow-creature in his last lonely hour.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested.

“Yes, even perhaps,” she acknowledged. “But we do not know. It would be

terrible if he were. I could never forgive myself. We must do

something.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested again.

I waited, smiling inwardly at the woman of her which compelled a

solicitude for Wolf Larsen, of all creatures. Where was her solicitude

for me, I thought,—for me whom she had been afraid to have merely peep

aboard?

She was too subtle not to follow the trend of my silence. And she was as

direct as she was subtle.

“You must go aboard, Humphrey, and find out,” she said. “And if you want

to laugh at me, you have my consent and forgiveness.”

I arose obediently and went down the beach.

“Do be careful,” she called after me.

I waved my arm from the forecastle head and dropped down to the deck.

Aft I walked to the cabin companion, where I contented myself with

hailing below. Wolf Larsen answered, and as he started to ascend the

stairs I cocked my revolver. I displayed it openly during our

conversation, but he took no notice of it. He appeared the same,

physically, as when last I saw him, but he was gloomy and silent. In

fact, the few words we spoke could hardly be called a conversation. I

did not inquire why he had not been ashore, nor did he ask why I had not

come aboard. His head was all right again, he said, and so, without

further parley, I left him.

Maud received my report with obvious relief, and the sight of smoke which

later rose in the galley put her in a more cheerful mood. The next day,

and the next, we saw the galley smoke rising, and sometimes we caught

glimpses of him on the poop. But that was all. He made no attempt to

come ashore. This we knew, for we still maintained our night-watches.

We were waiting for him to do something, to show his hand, so to say, and

his inaction puzzled and worried us.

A week of this passed by. We had no other interest than Wolf Larsen, and

his presence weighed us down with an apprehension which prevented us from

doing any of the little things we had planned.

But at the end of the week the smoke ceased rising from the galley, and

he no longer showed himself on the poop. I could see Maud’s solicitude

again growing, though she timidly—and even proudly, I think—forbore a

repetition of her request. After all, what censure could be put upon

her? She was divinely altruistic, and she was a woman. Besides, I was

myself aware of hurt at thought of this man whom I had tried to kill,

dying alone with his fellow-creatures so near. He was right. The code

of my group was stronger than I. The fact that he had hands, feet, and a

body shaped somewhat like mine, constituted a claim which I could not

ignore.

So I did not wait a second time for Maud to send me. I discovered that

we stood in need of condensed milk and marmalade, and announced that I

was going aboard. I could see that she wavered. She even went so far as

to murmur that they were non-essentials and that my trip after them might

be inexpedient. And as she had followed the trend of my silence, she now

followed the trend of my speech, and she knew that I was going aboard,

not because of condensed milk and marmalade, but because of her and of

her anxiety, which she knew she had failed to hide.

I took off my shoes when I gained the forecastle head, and went

noiselessly aft in my stocking feet. Nor did I call this time from the

top of the companion-way. Cautiously descending, I found the cabin

deserted. The door to his state-room was closed. At first I thought of

knocking, then I remembered my ostensible errand and resolved to carry it

out. Carefully avoiding noise, I lifted the trap-door in the floor and

set it to one side. The slop-chest, as well as the provisions, was

stored in the lazarette, and I took advantage of the opportunity to lay

in a stock of underclothing.

As I emerged from the lazarette I heard sounds in Wolf Larsen’s

state-room. I crouched and listened. The door-knob rattled. Furtively,

instinctively, I slunk back behind the table and drew and cocked my

revolver. The door swung open and he came forth. Never had I seen so

profound a despair as that which I saw on his face,—the face of Wolf

Larsen the fighter, the strong man, the indomitable one. For all the

world like a woman wringing her hands, he raised his clenched fists and

groaned. One fist unclosed, and the open palm swept across his eyes as

though brushing away cobwebs.

“God! God!” he groaned, and the clenched fists were raised again to the

infinite despair with which his throat vibrated.

It was horrible. I was trembling all over, and I could feel the shivers

running up and down my spine and the sweat standing out on my forehead.

Surely there can be little in this world more awful than the spectacle of

a strong man in the moment when he is utterly weak and broken.

But Wolf Larsen regained control of himself by an exertion of his

remarkable will. And it was exertion. His whole frame shook with the

struggle. He resembled a man on the verge of a fit. His face strove to

compose itself, writhing and twisting in the effort till he broke down

again. Once more the clenched fists went upward and he groaned. He

caught his breath once or twice and sobbed. Then he was successful. I

could have thought him the old Wolf Larsen, and yet there was in his

movements a vague suggestion of weakness and indecision. He started for

the companion-way, and stepped forward quite as I had been accustomed to

see him do; and yet again, in his very walk, there seemed that suggestion

of weakness and indecision.

I was now concerned with fear for myself. The open trap lay directly in

his path, and his discovery of it would lead instantly to his discovery

of me. I was angry with myself for being caught in so cowardly a

position, crouching on the floor. There was yet time. I rose swiftly to

my feet, and, I know, quite unconsciously assumed a defiant attitude. He

took no notice of me. Nor did he notice the open trap. Before I could

grasp the situation, or act, he had walked right into the trap. One foot

was descending into the opening, while the other foot was just on the

verge of beginning the uplift. But when the descending foot missed the

solid flooring and felt vacancy beneath, it was the old Wolf Larsen and

the tiger muscles that made the falling body spring across the opening,

even as it fell, so that he struck on his chest and stomach, with arms

outstretched, on the floor of the opposite side. The next instant he had

drawn up his legs and rolled clear. But he rolled into my marmalade and

underclothes and against the trap-door.

The expression on his face was one of complete comprehension. But before

I could guess what he had comprehended, he had dropped the trap-door into

place, closing the lazarette. Then I understood. He thought he had me

inside. Also, he was blind, blind as a bat. I watched him, breathing

carefully so that he should not hear me. He stepped quickly to his

state-room. I saw his hand miss the door-knob by an inch, quickly fumble

for it, and find it. This was my chance. I tiptoed across the cabin and

to the top of the stairs. He came back, dragging a heavy sea-chest,

which he deposited on top of the trap. Not content with this he fetched

a second chest and placed it on top of the first. Then he gathered up

the marmalade and underclothes and put them on the table. When he

started up the companion-way, I retreated, silently rolling over on top

of the cabin.

He shoved the slide part way back and rested his arms on it, his body

still in the companion-way. His attitude was of one looking forward the

length of the schooner, or staring, rather, for his eyes were fixed and

unblinking. I was only five feet away and directly in what should have

been his line of vision. It was uncanny. I felt myself a ghost, what of

my invisibility. I waved my hand back and forth, of course without

effect; but when the moving shadow fell across his face I saw at once

that he was susceptible to the impression. His face became more

expectant and tense as he tried to analyze and identify the impression.

He knew that he had responded to something from without, that his

sensibility had been touched by a changing something in his environment;

but what it was he could not discover. I ceased waving my hand, so that

the shadow remained stationary. He slowly moved his head back and forth

under it and turned from side to side, now in the sunshine, now in the

shade, feeling the shadow, as it were, testing it by sensation.

I, too, was busy, trying to reason out how he was aware of the existence

of so intangible a thing as a shadow. If it were his eyeballs only that

were affected, or if his optic nerve were not wholly destroyed, the

explanation was simple. If otherwise, then the only conclusion I could

reach was that the sensitive skin recognized the difference of

temperature between shade and sunshine. Or, perhaps,—who can tell?—it

was that fabled sixth sense which conveyed to him the loom and feel of an

object close at hand.

Giving over his attempt to determine the shadow, he stepped on deck and

started forward, walking with a swiftness and confidence which surprised

me. And still there was that hint of the feebleness of the blind in his

walk. I knew it now for what it was.

To my amused chagrin, he discovered my shoes on the forecastle head and

brought them back with him into the galley. I watched him build the fire

and set about cooking food for himself; then I stole into the cabin for

my marmalade and underclothes, slipped back past the galley, and climbed

down to the beach to deliver my barefoot report.