The Secret Journeys of Jack London, Book Two: The Sea Wolves Read online

  Someone cried out in his sleep, in a language that Jack could not understand. He moved cautiously to the foot of the steep staircase. To venture fully into the forecastle would be to put himself in too much danger—Sabine had saved him once, and now he owed it to her to return to his small bunk in the galley.

  He’d found out enough for one night. And in truth, Sabine’s appearance had distracted him. He scratched a fingernail across a bulkhead, banged his head on the staircase’s underside. His stealth and sensitivity had been disturbed.

  The man cried out again, a despairing noise.

  “He’s crying for home,” a voice said, and Jack gasped in shock.

  Ghost emerged from the shadows to Jack’s left, slipping through a doorway he had not even seen. He seemed to fill Jack’s whole field of vision, bordered by shadow as Sabine had been framed by moonlight.

  “All of them do, on occasion,” the captain continued. “I come here and listen. Men might be hard, but they’re all babies when they sleep.”

  “I…,” Jack began, but he had nothing to say. He didn’t want to offer an excuse for his nighttime excursion, or to beg.

  “I thought I smelled you prowling,” Ghost said. He glanced behind Jack at the closed doorway to the hold. “Found ’em, then?”

  “You must let them go.”

  “Must?” Ghost’s single word made Jack feel like a child again.

  “They’re not animals.”

  “Not animals, no. Less important than that.”

  “You’ve got to give them something more than bread and water,” Jack said.

  Ghost pondered for a moment and then gave an uncaring shrug. “You can bring them scraps from the kitchen tomorrow, if it pleases you.”

  Jack nodded. Perhaps if he had time alone with the other prisoners, they could conceive some plan of escape.

  “You’re not going to thank me?” Ghost asked curiously, studying Jack as he might some laboratory specimen.

  “I’ll thank you quite effusively when you’ve put us all ashore, alive and well.”

  Ghost smiled thinly. “You’re brave, young Jack. I’ll give you that.”

  The menace in his tone, and the malicious implications of his words, were unmistakable.

  What am I to do? Jack thought, panic descending. If it came to it, he would kill this man in order to survive. He had killed the Wendigo. Surely he could kill a pirate? Yet Ghost was more than just a pirate, that much was clear. And though the Wendigo had a savage, wild hunger and ferocity unlike anything Jack had ever encountered, the captain of the Larsen had all that and one thing more—cunning. Ghost exuded power and strength, and out here on the wild ocean, they were all alone.

  “Come,” Ghost said. “It’s the last night we can talk for a while. And I have a question.” He climbed the staircase to the deck, not doubting for an instant that Jack would follow.

  And Jack, confused and disturbed by the terrible man’s presence, could only climb up after him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NOBLEST OF ALL

  The moon was a sliver away from being full. Pale light washed over the Larsen’s deck, casting the ship in shades of silver. The night sky was clear, the stars infinite, lighting their way toward whatever fates and destinations awaited. The sails were full, and the vessel knifed through the Pacific as though it were some creature of myth, born to water instead of beaten together by the hands of men.

  “Your anger fascinates me,” Ghost said, drawing on his pipe and letting out a plume of smoke.

  Jack’s heart slammed and his temples throbbed to its pulse. Ghost had known he was down in the hold, knew that he had discovered the other prisoners from the Umatilla, and yet he had issued no punishment. Beneath the captain’s calm veneer, his savagery waited, dormant, and might erupt at any moment. Jack had seen it happen. But Ghost kept trying to draw him in, urging him to speak his mind.

  So be it, Jack thought. He had wearied of watching his tongue.

  “Is there some reason I should be anything but angry?” Jack asked.

  Ghost raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised and pleased that Jack had engaged him at last. He pressed the pipe stem between his lips, tobacco flaring orange in the night, and let the smoke curl slowly from his nostrils. Jack could not help but see Satan in this devil’s face.

  Careful, he thought. You’re sparring with Lucifer.

  “You believe you have some right to be treated as more than an animal—”

  “I am more than an animal,” Jack said.

  “You have been raised to believe in a morality that is a construct of those who wish to control the bestial nature of mankind, in order to protect themselves and what they own,” the captain said. “In your life, young Jack, you will encounter two sorts of people: those who are stronger than you, and those who are weaker. And I do not mean only physical strength and weakness. I am stronger, and if there is something you possess, why should I not take it from you?”

  Jack looked him full in the face for the first time, meeting him eye to eye. “Taking what does not belong to you is stealing. If you want something, you ought to earn it for yourself. The effort makes the reward much sweeter, and you will have accomplished something, instead of simply appropriating the accomplishments of others.”

  “I should not steal from you because it is ‘wrong’?” Ghost chuckled. “Surely you can do better than that.”

  But Jack found that he could not, and it troubled him.

  “If I am stronger,” Ghost continued, “and I take what you have earned, then have I not also earned it, but in my own fashion? We’re animals, young Jack. The strong eat the weak. It has always been that way, and always shall be.”

  “But you kill,” Jack said.

  Ghost considered this for a moment, the word hanging in the night air around them as he drew on the pipe again. Then he nodded.

  “Killing is expedient. Sometimes it’s necessary. I have never taken a life purely for amusement’s sake, but murder is a tool.”

  “How can you be so cold-blooded?” Jack asked, his voice rising.

  Ghost bristled and glanced around. Apparently it was one thing for Jack to challenge his philosophy privately, but quite another to do so within the crew’s earshot. The two Scandinavian sailors were close by, one at the wheel and the other in the crow’s nest. They seemed always to be near when Ghost walked the deck. The captain spoke softly, keeping their conversation private—perhaps so that the crew would not overhear his opinions challenged—but the presence of the bearded, blond twins did not seem to trouble him, reinforcing Jack’s suspicion that they spoke no English.

  “Your precious humanity is an illusion, boy,” Ghost growled. “Human nature is animal nature. The rest is nothing but putting on airs, feigning a tenderness that is little more than a mask. You would kill if circumstances forced your hand. You would steal if your belly gnawed at you long enough.”

  Jack glanced away, but too late to prevent Ghost from seeing the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  The captain laughed softly, almost a snarl. “Ah, well, that’s just delicious. You’re a thief yourself.”

  “Not by choice—”

  Ghost gripped his arm, forced Jack to meet his gaze again. “It’s all choice, Jack. Embrace the wildness inside you, or attempt to deny it.”

  “I have seen something of the wild,” Jack said. “More than you can know. I’ve fought for my life against a thing more monster than beast, and its blood stains my hands. I found the wild thing inside myself and embraced it. Mastered it.”

  Ghost regarded him anew, cocking his head to one side before nodding slowly.

  “I knew I saw something in you,” the captain said. He tapped the pipe out on the railing, and the ash was carried away on the wind. “But you say you’ve ‘mastered’ it? Impossible. You may have caged it, but that doesn’t make you its master. There’s only one way to make peace with your animal nature, and that’s to surrender to it.”

  Jack’s earlier observation that
Ghost was Lucifer now seemed so apt that he almost spoke it aloud. Lucifer’s curse was that he thought more than the other angels and did not understand the way in which heaven had defined morality. He’d had differing views and refused to bow to the beliefs of others.

  “Have you read Aristotle, Captain?” Jack asked.

  “Would it surprise you to learn that I have?”

  “It would not,” Jack replied. And now he realized for sure that this was why Ghost had kept him alive. Not as crew. Not as cook. The captain lorded over the demons of his hell ship, but they were minions, far beneath him in every way.

  He had kept Jack because he desired such conversation; he wanted someone to challenge his philosophy that humans were savage by nature. Jack wondered who, precisely, the captain was attempting to persuade—his prisoner or himself.

  “Go on,” Ghost urged.

  “The great philosopher wrote that ‘at his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst.’”

  Ghost smiled, a cruel glint in his eyes. He prodded Jack with a finger.

  “So you admit that you’re an animal,” the captain said.

  “You mistake my meaning—”

  “I understand your meaning perfectly,” Ghost interrupted. “You insist on confining your nature with concepts of justice and civility.”

  “Both of which are necessary for the survival of the species.”

  Ghost snorted. “What of Darwin’s concept of ‘survival of the fittest’?”

  Jack knew then that the conversation could never end. It was a circle of dueling philosophies, and perhaps Ghost enjoyed the debate so much that he would never allow it to end.

  “Stripped of conscience, ‘survival of the fittest’ will make any man a monster.”

  “Ah, now we get down to the crux of the matter,” Ghost said, savoring the argument. “Am I a monster? Or am I simply an animal? Let me ask you, Jack, what separates man from the animals?”

  “The ability to reason,” Jack said instantly. “Self-awareness. Faith.”

  “Faith,” Ghost snarled, dismissing the concept with a shake of his head. He held up his hands and waggled his thumbs. “What of these, Jack? Are these what separate us from animals? They make us far more efficient killers, for sure. But apes have them.” He touched his fingers to his lips. “And what of this? The complexity of language? Though perhaps all we need to know we can learn from one another without words. No. We deceive ourselves with the idea that we are anything but beasts.”

  A lull in the wind caused the sails to sag. The guylines swayed and the blocks clanked, and Ghost stepped away from the railing and barked orders. The Scandinavians moved to obey, even as Maurilio and Tree appeared nearby to lend a hand. Jack studied them, and for the first time he noticed how edgy and skittish they seemed, like dogs sensing an oncoming storm.

  What do they know that I don’t? he wondered.

  “You’d best go below and get some sleep, young Jack,” Ghost said. “You’ve only a few hours before you need to begin preparing breakfast. And you don’t want to see this crew if they’re not fed properly. They’re absolutely ravenous.”

  The captain’s eyes lit up with some private amusement and he turned away, watching his crew at work. Jack had given him the intellectual stimulation he wanted, and now he was dismissed. It was frustrating—he’d wanted to reason with Ghost to put the Umatilla prisoners ashore the next time the ship made port, him included. But the opportunity had not arisen. Ghost’s philosophy made clear that no logic would convince him to release them unless there was some benefit to himself. Jack had to figure out a way to persuade Ghost that it was in his best interests to set them free.

  He was beginning to think that escape would never be easy. For now, he needed rest. There’s time yet, he thought. Days, at least, before we make port anywhere.

  He would think of something.

  The fight broke out shortly after breakfast. The whole crew saw it start—heard shouting as the fat Demetrius dressed someone down for his sloppy reefing of the mizzen sail—and coming up from the galley, Jack turned aft to see what it was about. The sight of Finn brought him up short, and he stared in astonishment at the man.

  Finn had been keelhauled less than two days ago; much of his skin was torn and ragged, some of it stripped away entirely. He’d looked as though he might not survive the night. Now, the marks were still there, an angry pink, but his wounds had closed. He looked as though he’d been on the mend for weeks, not just a day and a half.

  Jack stared openmouthed, ignoring the men’s raucous shouting. He had compared Ghost to Lucifer, considered the Larsen a hell ship, the devil’s ship. Now he wondered if that might be more true than he could ever have guessed. That Finn should have healed so fully—that he could even be walking on his own two feet—was not possible. But Jack had encountered the impossible before.

  The rest of the crew finished reefing the sails to make the most of the diminishing wind, then drew into a circle around the fighting men. Finn had six inches on the fat Greek sailor and much longer arms. But despite his miraculous recovery, Finn had lost a step. As they faced each other across the blood-spattered deck, both men already bleeding freely, Finn feinted with a left and then swung with his right, a punishing blow that might have shattered Demetrius’s jaw if it had connected. But the fat man ducked low and rolled inside the punch, delivering a trio of thunderous thumps to Finn’s abdomen that doubled the taller man over.

  Finn grabbed a fistful of Demetrius’s greasy hair and yanked sideways. The Greek clawed at him, but Finn tripped him up, driving them both to the deck, where the fight became more vicious than ever. As the ship gave a gentle roll, they scrabbled for superior position, and the sailors began to cheer. Finn punched Demetrius in the throat. Choking, the fat man gouged at Finn’s left eye, driving his thumb in so hard that Jack expected the eye to splurt from its socket.

  The crew was enjoying the spectacle. Vukovich and Maurilio were partially crouched, as though they might leap into the fray at any moment. Louis, Ogre, and Tree were grinning, Louis’s gold tooth glinting in the sun. The circle tightened around the vicious scrap.

  “It’s hideous,” someone whispered behind him, and he shivered with pleasure, for he knew that voice.

  Jack turned. Sabine had emerged from the aft cabin, and now her sad eyes came to rest on the bloody melee. Like a single lily growing in ugly, war-ravaged ground, she brought an incongruous and unearthly beauty to the moment. Clad in a bone-white dress, her hair pinned back in a simple sweep that cast the shadows of secrets on her eyes, she simply did not belong.

  “You shouldn’t be seeing this,” Jack said, taking her by the elbow and trying to turn her back toward the cabin.

  But Sabine refused to be turned. Lips pressed tight, she watched the vicious brawl as though it had been her purpose for coming on deck.

  “I knew it would come,” she said softly. “I’m only surprised it happened so quickly.”

  “Right,” Jack said. “You have the sight, or so Louis tells me.”

  “I do,” she agreed. “And it is an albatross. But this has nothing to do with my sight. Finn has grown restless and put himself in disfavor with the captain. Demetrius is at the bottom of the pack, but with Finn weak, this is a chance for him to rise in the hierarchy.”

  The pack, Jack thought. He had already mentally compared the crew to trail dogs or wolves.

  “You talk like they’re animals,” he said.

  Sabine gave him a glance that might have been pity.

  A roar of pain drew their attention back to the fight. Demetrius had taken Finn’s genitals in his fist and now squeezed and twisted. Finn screamed. His lips drew back from startlingly sharp, jagged teeth, and for a moment he was more animal than man. Then he darted his head forward, jaws snapping down, head shaking … and tore off the fat Greek’s left ear. Blood spurted, Demetrius cried out, and the tables had turned.

  “My God,” Jack whispered, turning away.


  But he saw that Sabine had not looked away. She looked sickened but continued watching the fight as if she were a great queen and one of the sailors fought for her honor. Jack felt a tremor of jealousy in him, and he looked around to see if any of the crew had even noticed her. Who was she trying to impress? But, of course, he knew the answer: the captain.

  Jack saw him, then, partially hidden by the mizzen. Ghost, watching the barbaric proceedings with his hands behind his back. His eyes were slitted and his face betrayed no emotion. Had he had robes and a gavel, he could have been there as a judge.

  The Scandinavians stood flanking him, and when they began to approach the circle of observers, the rest of the crew scuttled aside. Jack imagined Ghost would call a halt to the fight and punish both men. Instead, the captain only nodded and gave a small wave of his hand, as if giving his permission for the crew to continue. Watching, and waiting for the terrible outcome.

  Jack glanced at Sabine. Was she right? Had Demetrius picked a fight while Finn was weak, so that he could move up in the pecking order of Ghost’s crew? Observing the crew’s expectant faces and the ferocity with which Finn and Demetrius fought, he found it clear that something more than pride was at stake here.

  Where do I fit into the hierarchy? Jack wondered. A prisoner, but also a member of the crew, at least for now. Given the choice, he thought the captives locked down in the hold might be better off. They were hungry, but Jack thought they might be safer down there than he was, up here in the pirates’ midst.

  Johansen had been watching just as eagerly as the rest. He might be the first mate, but Jack had realized that he was not the member of the crew that Ghost trusted most. That role belonged to the Scandinavians, who seemed always to be with him or at least nearby.

  Now Johansen caught sight of Jack and Sabine. He gave them a wicked smile and winked perversely, as if inviting them to enjoy the bloodbath unfolding on deck with him.

  Finn staggered to his feet. One of his arms hung limply at his side, broken and misshapen. Jack thought he could see yellow bone jutting from torn flesh. He felt sick, wanted to rage at them all to stop this madness. How could Ghost let it continue, knowing that one or both of the men could be useless to him as sailors for weeks to come, or forever, should one of them be killed? Jack turned to look at Sabine. A tear traced a path down her cheek, but she refused to look away. Johansen kept glancing at them, as if equally entranced by their reaction as by the barbarism before them.