I cannot say that the position of mate carried with it anything
more joyful than that there were no more dishes to wash. I was
ignorant of the simplest duties of mate, and would have fared badly
indeed, had the sailors not sympathized with me. I knew nothing of
the minutiae of ropes and rigging, of the trimming and setting of
sails; but the sailors took pains to put me to rights,--Louis
proving an especially good teacher,--and I had little trouble with
those under me.

With the hunters it was otherwise. Familiar in varying degree with
the sea, they took me as a sort of joke. In truth, it was a joke
to me, that I, the veriest landsman, should be filling the office
of mate; but to be taken as a joke by others was a different
matter. I made no complaint, but Wolf Larsen demanded the most
punctilious sea etiquette in my case,--far more than poor Johansen
had ever received; and at the expense of several rows, threats, and
much grumbling, he brought the hunters to time. I was "Mr. Van
Weyden" fore and aft, and it was only unofficially that Wolf Larsen
himself ever addressed me as "Hump."

It was amusing. Perhaps the wind would haul a few points while we
were at dinner, and as I left the table he would say, "Mr. Van
Weyden, will you kindly put about on the port tack." And I would
go on deck, beckon Louis to me, and learn from him what was to be
done. Then, a few minutes later, having digested his instructions
and thoroughly mastered the manoeuvre, I would proceed to issue my
orders. I remember an early instance of this kind, when Wolf
Larsen appeared on the scene just as I had begun to give orders.
He smoked his cigar and looked on quietly till the thing was
accomplished, and then paced aft by my side along the weather poop.

"Hump," he said, "I beg pardon, Mr. Van Weyden, I congratulate you.
I think you can now fire your father's legs back into the grave to
him. You've discovered your own and learned to stand on them. A
little rope-work, sail-making, and experience with storms and such
things, and by the end of the voyage you could ship on any coasting
schooner."

It was during this period, between the death of Johansen and the
arrival on the sealing grounds, that I passed my pleasantest hours
on the Ghost. Wolf Larsen was quite considerate, the sailors
helped me, and I was no longer in irritating contact with Thomas
Mugridge. And I make free to say, as the days went by, that I
found I was taking a certain secret pride in myself. Fantastic as
the situation was,--a land-lubber second in command,--I was,
nevertheless, carrying it off well; and during that brief time I
was proud of myself, and I grew to love the heave and roll of the
Ghost under my feet as she wallowed north and west through the
tropic sea to the islet where we filled our water-casks.

But my happiness was not unalloyed. It was comparative, a period
of less misery slipped in between a past of great miseries and a
future of great miseries. For the Ghost, so far as the seamen were
concerned, was a hell-ship of the worst description. They never
had a moment's rest or peace. Wolf Larsen treasured against them
the attempt on his life and the drubbing he had received in the
forecastle; and morning, noon, and night, and all night as well, he
devoted himself to making life unlivable for them.

He knew well the psychology of the little thing, and it was the
little things by which he kept the crew worked up to the verge of
madness. I have seen Harrison called from his bunk to put properly
away a misplaced paintbrush, and the two watches below haled from
their tired sleep to accompany him and see him do it. A little
thing, truly, but when multiplied by the thousand ingenious devices
of such a mind, the mental state of the men in the forecastle may
be slightly comprehended.

Of course much grumbling went on, and little outbursts were
continually occurring. Blows were struck, and there were always
two or three men nursing injuries at the hands of the human beast
who was their master. Concerted action was impossible in face of
the heavy arsenal of weapons carried in the steerage and cabin.
Leach and Johnson were the two particular victims of Wolf Larsen's
diabolic temper, and the look of profound melancholy which had
settled on Johnson's face and in his eyes made my heart bleed.

With Leach it was different. There was too much of the fighting
beast in him. He seemed possessed by an insatiable fury which gave
no time for grief. His lips had become distorted into a permanent
snarl, which at mere sight of Wolf Larsen broke out in sound,
horrible and menacing and, I do believe, unconsciously. I have
seen him follow Wolf Larsen about with his eyes, like an animal its
keeper, the while the animal-like snarl sounded deep in his throat
and vibrated forth between his teeth.

I remember once, on deck, in bright day, touching him on the
shoulder as preliminary to giving an order. His back was toward
me, and at the first feel of my hand he leaped upright in the air
and away from me, snarling and turning his head as he leaped. He
had for the moment mistaken me for the man he hated.

Both he and Johnson would have killed Wolf Larsen at the slightest
opportunity, but the opportunity never came. Wolf Larsen was too
wise for that, and, besides, they had no adequate weapons. With
their fists alone they had no chance whatever. Time and again he
fought it out with Leach who fought back always, like a wildcat,
tooth and nail and fist, until stretched, exhausted or unconscious,
on the deck. And he was never averse to another encounter. All
the devil that was in him challenged the devil in Wolf Larsen.
They had but to appear on deck at the same time, when they would be
at it, cursing, snarling, striking; and I have seen Leach fling
himself upon Wolf Larsen without warning or provocation. Once he
threw his heavy sheath-knife, missing Wolf Larsen's throat by an
inch. Another time he dropped a steel marlinspike from the mizzen
crosstree. It was a difficult cast to make on a rolling ship, but
the sharp point of the spike, whistling seventy-five feet through
the air, barely missed Wolf Larsen's head as he emerged from the
cabin companion-way and drove its length two inches and over into
the solid deck-planking. Still another time, he stole into the
steerage, possessed himself of a loaded shot-gun, and was making a
rush for the deck with it when caught by Kerfoot and disarmed.

I often wondered why Wolf Larsen did not kill him and make an end
of it. But he only laughed and seemed to enjoy it. There seemed a
certain spice about it, such as men must feel who take delight in
making pets of ferocious animals.

"It gives a thrill to life," he explained to me, "when life is
carried in one's hand. Man is a natural gambler, and life is the
biggest stake he can lay. The greater the odds, the greater the
thrill. Why should I deny myself the joy of exciting Leach's soul
to fever-pitch? For that matter, I do him a kindness. The
greatness of sensation is mutual. He is living more royally than
any man for'ard, though he does not know it. For he has what they
have not--purpose, something to do and be done, an all-absorbing
end to strive to attain, the desire to kill me, the hope that he
may kill me. Really, Hump, he is living deep and high. I doubt
that he has ever lived so swiftly and keenly before, and I honestly
envy him, sometimes, when I see him raging at the summit of passion
and sensibility."

"Ah, but it is cowardly, cowardly!" I cried. "You have all the
advantage."

"Of the two of us, you and I, who is the greater coward?" he asked
seriously. "If the situation is unpleasing, you compromise with
your conscience when you make yourself a party to it. If you were
really great, really true to yourself, you would join forces with
Leach and Johnson. But you are afraid, you are afraid. You want
to live. The life that is in you cries out that it must live, no
matter what the cost; so you live ignominiously, untrue to the best
you dream of, sinning against your whole pitiful little code, and,
if there were a hell, heading your soul straight for it. Bah! I
play the braver part. I do no sin, for I am true to the promptings
of the life that is in me. I am sincere with my soul at least, and
that is what you are not."

There was a sting in what he said. Perhaps, after all, I was
playing a cowardly part. And the more I thought about it the more
it appeared that my duty to myself lay in doing what he had
advised, lay in joining forces with Johnson and Leach and working
for his death. Right here, I think, entered the austere conscience
of my Puritan ancestry, impelling me toward lurid deeds and
sanctioning even murder as right conduct. I dwelt upon the idea.
It would be a most moral act to rid the world of such a monster.
Humanity would be better and happier for it, life fairer and
sweeter.

I pondered it long, lying sleepless in my bunk and reviewing in
endless procession the facts of the situation. I talked with
Johnson and Leach, during the night watches when Wolf Larsen was
below. Both men had lost hope--Johnson, because of temperamental
despondency; Leach, because he had beaten himself out in the vain
struggle and was exhausted. But he caught my hand in a passionate
grip one night, saying:

"I think yer square, Mr. Van Weyden. But stay where you are and
keep yer mouth shut. Say nothin' but saw wood. We're dead men, I
know it; but all the same you might be able to do us a favour some
time when we need it damn bad."

It was only next day, when Wainwright Island loomed to windward,
close abeam, that Wolf Larsen opened his mouth in prophecy. He had
attacked Johnson, been attacked by Leach, and had just finished
whipping the pair of them.

"Leach," he said, "you know I'm going to kill you some time or
other, don't you?"

A snarl was the answer.

"And as for you, Johnson, you'll get so tired of life before I'm
through with you that you'll fling yourself over the side. See if
you don't."

"That's a suggestion," he added, in an aside to me. "I'll bet you
a month's pay he acts upon it."

I had cherished a hope that his victims would find an opportunity
to escape while filling our water-barrels, but Wolf Larsen had
selected his spot well. The Ghost lay half-a-mile beyond the surf-
line of a lonely beach. Here debauched a deep gorge, with
precipitous, volcanic walls which no man could scale. And here,
under his direct supervision--for he went ashore himself--Leach and
Johnson filled the small casks and rolled them down to the beach.
They had no chance to make a break for liberty in one of the boats.

Harrison and Kelly, however, made such an attempt. They composed
one of the boats' crews, and their task was to ply between the
schooner and the shore, carrying a single cask each trip. Just
before dinner, starting for the beach with an empty barrel, they
altered their course and bore away to the left to round the
promontory which jutted into the sea between them and liberty.
Beyond its foaming base lay the pretty villages of the Japanese
colonists and smiling valleys which penetrated deep into the
interior. Once in the fastnesses they promised, and the two men
could defy Wolf Larsen.

I had observed Henderson and Smoke loitering about the deck all
morning, and I now learned why they were there. Procuring their
rifles, they opened fire in a leisurely manner, upon the deserters.
It was a cold-blooded exhibition of marksmanship. At first their
bullets zipped harmlessly along the surface of the water on either
side the boat; but, as the men continued to pull lustily, they
struck closer and closer.

"Now, watch me take Kelly's right oar," Smoke said, drawing a more
careful aim.

I was looking through the glasses, and I saw the oar-blade shatter
as he shot. Henderson duplicated it, selecting Harrison's right
oar. The boat slewed around. The two remaining oars were quickly
broken. The men tried to row with the splinters, and had them shot
out of their hands. Kelly ripped up a bottom board and began
paddling, but dropped it with a cry of pain as its splinters drove
into his hands. Then they gave up, letting the boat drift till a
second boat, sent from the shore by Wolf Larsen, took them in tow
and brought them aboard.

Late that afternoon we hove up anchor and got away. Nothing was
before us but the three or four months' hunting on the sealing
grounds. The outlook was black indeed, and I went about my work
with a heavy heart. An almost funereal gloom seemed to have
descended upon the Ghost. Wolf Larsen had taken to his bunk with
one of his strange, splitting headaches. Harrison stood listlessly
at the wheel, half supporting himself by it, as though wearied by
the weight of his flesh. The rest of the men were morose and
silent. I came upon Kelly crouching to the lee of the forecastle
scuttle, his head on his knees, his arms about his head, in an
attitude of unutterable despondency.

Johnson I found lying full length on the forecastle head, staring
at the troubled churn of the forefoot, and I remembered with horror
the suggestion Wolf Larsen had made. It seemed likely to bear
fruit. I tried to break in on the man's morbid thoughts by calling
him away, but he smiled sadly at me and refused to obey.

Leach approached me as I returned aft.

"I want to ask a favour, Mr. Van Weyden," he said. "If it's yer
luck to ever make 'Frisco once more, will you hunt up Matt
McCarthy? He's my old man. He lives on the Hill, back of the
Mayfair bakery, runnin' a cobbler's shop that everybody knows, and
you'll have no trouble. Tell him I lived to be sorry for the
trouble I brought him and the things I done, and--and just tell him
'God bless him,' for me."

I nodded my head, but said, "We'll all win back to San Francisco,
Leach, and you'll be with me when I go to see Matt McCarthy."

"I'd like to believe you," he answered, shaking my hand, "but I
can't. Wolf Larsen 'll do for me, I know it; and all I can hope
is, he'll do it quick."

And as he left me I was aware of the same desire at my heart.
Since it was to be done, let it be done with despatch. The general
gloom had gathered me into its folds. The worst appeared
inevitable; and as I paced the deck, hour after hour, I found
myself afflicted with Wolf Larsen's repulsive ideas. What was it
all about? Where was the grandeur of life that it should permit
such wanton destruction of human souls? It was a cheap and sordid
thing after all, this life, and the sooner over the better. Over
and done with! I, too, leaned upon the rail and gazed longingly
into the sea, with the certainty that sooner or later I should be
sinking down, down, through the cool green depths of its oblivion.