by Osa Johnson
This is it! This is it! something in Martin shouted. I’m going with them! I’ll steer the boat! I’ll take pictures! I’ll scrub decks!—I’ll do anything—
The flame of excitement dimmed as quickly as it had lit. He was crazy even to think of such a thing. He, a small-town Kansas boy, without the slightest knowledge of navigation or of boats, a total stranger to the famous Jack London—how could he ever hope to share so great an adventure?
Martin got up. The magazine slid to the floor and, without even a thought for his supper, he went out into the street and walked rapidly and without direction until nearly midnight.
His stomach was hollow with a great desire.
Why not write Mr. London? he heard himself arguing. He can’t do any more than say ‘no.’ He probably won’t even answer, but at least you’ll have tried.
Martin ran all the way home. The folks were in bed. His mother had put some milk and sandwiches in his room. He bolted these as he got out his meager supply of writing materials, then sat for hours chewing his pen.
He began writing. He rewrote. He tore up page after page of the most careful writing to which he had ever applied himself. Finally, down to his last two sheets of paper, he cursed himself for not having paid stricter attention to composition when in school. Then, with something of both recklessness and despair, he just wrote what came. Briefly, he told Jack London how he had knocked and fought his way over a small part of the world, what he could do with photography, that he wasn’t afraid of work, and, finally, that he was as strong as an ox. And then, so that he wouldn’t tear up this final effort, he shoved it in an envelope, addressed it, and pounded the stamp into place with his fist. Dawn was just edging the horizon.
When the westbound train stopped at Independence a few hours later, Martin was waiting for it. He gave his letter into the hand of the mail clerk, watched the train from sight, and then sat down as suddenly as if his knees had had jelly in them instead of bones.
* * *
—
The mail carrier now became the most important person in Martin’s life. Each day the shrill whistle up the block brought him tingling to his feet, and each day as it went by it left him sick and cold. When a week had passed, he berated himself for writing in the first place. It just didn’t seem possible that he could have been such a fool. He’d simply forget the whole thing, that’s all.
Late one afternoon some ten days later, a Western Union boy delivered a telegram at the store. Martin’s father signed the book and was about to open it when he saw it was for Martin.
“A telegram for you, Martin,” he called to the back room.
“A telegram!”
Martin came to the doorway and gaped. Then he pounced. In his clumsy fingers the envelope seemed made of some indestructible material. Next, he was staring at the message. Altogether, there were just five words: “Can you cook? Jack London.”
Jack London. He didn’t believe it.
Can you cook? It sounded crazy. Can you cook? The words beat a sort of tattoo in his brain.
Canyoucookcanyoucookcanyoucookcanyoucook…
“What’s the matter, Martin?” his father asked anxiously.
“He wants to know if I can cook!” Martin shouted.
“Who wants to know?”
“Jack London!”
Martin leaped to the back room and looked at the wall calendar. It was Monday, November 12, 1906. The article had said December 15 was the sailing date.
There wasn’t time. Maybe there was! There wasn’t time. Maybe there was!
He ran out the back door, down the alley, and into the rear of Milton Cook’s White Front Quick Lunch Room.
Jess Utz, the lean, lank chef, was just sticking a fork into a pot roast.
“Listen, Jess,” Martin panted. “How long would it take a man to learn to cook?”
Jess deliberated.
“Me,” said Jess, finally. “Me, I bin cookin’ somepin’ like ten years and ain’t larned yit.”
“I don’t mean to be a first-class chef,” explained Martin. “How long will it take me to learn to cook enough to keep six people from starving, including me?”
Jess eyed him suspiciously. “Say, what are you up to?”
“Look, Jess,” pleaded Martin, shoving the telegram into the cook’s hand. “If I can cook, I’ve got a chance to go with Jack London on a trip around the world. And I can’t go with Jack London if I don’t learn to cook. Jess, I’ve just got to!” He was almost incoherent.
“All right! Don’t get so excited! Don’t you understand that cooks are born, not made? Yer either a good cook or ye ain’t—and I don’t think ye are.”
Jess looked into the oven and shut the door with a bang.
“A’course,” he said, “efen ye want to come in here and work, I’ll show you what I kin, and Gawd have mercy on the stomicks of them as has to eat your vittles.”
Ten minutes later Martin was in the telegraph office composing his answer to London’s wire. It read: “Sure, just try me.”
Without waiting for London’s reply, Martin sat about learning to cook. All day long he hovered around the stove, blistering himself with hot grease and scalding liquids. As Jess initiated him into the secrets of good gravies and tender meats, Martin painstakingly wrote all the formulas in a notebook. At night, Mrs. Cook introduced him to the mysteries of bread, biscuits, and pastry. Whenever he had the opportunity, he questioned his mother about various dishes she had served at the family table, writing the recipes in his book. He bought a cookbook and practically memorized it.
About four days after the receipt of the telegram, Martin received a long and detailed letter from Mr. London to let him know what he was in for. After this, Martin worked all the harder. There were some doubts about his progress, however. Customers coming into the White Front Quick Lunch Room would ask Milton Cook, “Now, are you sure Mart didn’t cook any of this food?”
Martin insisted upon preparing the Thanksgiving dinner at home. Whether it was because he was leaving the next week or because the food was unsavory was never quite determined, but the fact remains that only a small portion of the dinner was eaten, and that by Martin, accompanied by much smacking of lips and other like sounds of enjoyment.
When Martin went to thank Jess for his help and instruction, he said, “Jess, I think I know enough about cooking now so I can make good, don’t you?”
“I ain’t sayin’.” Jess was dubious, even glum.
With his old canvas suitcase pressed into service and the latest-type camera (a parting gift from his father) as his only luggage, Martin boarded the California-bound Santa Fe. As he settled himself once more on the plush cushions, he heaved a sigh of relief. But as he listened, the click of the wheels seemed to say: Can-you-cook…can-you-cook…can-you-cook…? He opened his suitcase and fished out his notebook. A glance through its grease-stained pages dispelled all misgivings, and he answered the wheels, saying, Sure! Try me!
According to Martin, it was the slowest trip he ever took. The train seemed to stop every five minutes, and each stop seemed of several hours’ duration. Most of the time was spent wondering what kind of man London would be. What did he look like? Was he short? tall? dark?
Writing about his first meeting with Jack London, Martin said: “The article in the magazine, which had first drawn my attention to the proposed trip, had given me little knowledge of the man with whom in all probability I was to spend the next seven years of my life. The nearer I came to Oakland, the California city in which the Londons were then living, the more intense grew my curiosity. Worst of all, I was haunted by a fear that if I didn’t hustle and get there, Jack London would change his mind and I should be obliged to come back in humiliation to Independence.
“It was about nine o’clock in the evening when I arrived in Oakland. As soon as I was off the train, I hunted a telephone and called up Jack
London. It was London himself who came to the ’phone. When I told him who I was, I heard a pleasant voice say: ‘Hello, boy; come right along up;’ and then followed instructions as to how to find the house.
“They lived in a splendid section of the town. I had no difficulty in finding them. When I rapped at the door, a neat little woman opened it, and grabbing my hand, almost wrung it off.
“ ‘Come right in,’ cried Mrs. London. ‘Jack’s waiting for you.’
“At that moment a striking young man of thirty, with very broad shoulders, a mass of wavy auburn hair and a general atmosphere of boyishness, appeared in the doorway and shot a quick, inquisitive look at me from his wide, gray eyes. Inside, I could see all manner of oars, odd assortments of clothing, books, papers, charts, guns, cameras, and folding canoes, piled in great stacks upon the floor.
“ ‘Hello, Martin,’ he said, stretching out his hand.
“ ‘Hello, Mr. London,’ I answered. We gripped.
“And that’s how I met Jack London, traveler, novelist and social reformer; and that is how, for the first time, I really ran shoulder to shoulder with Adventure, which I had been pursuing all my days.”
The next morning, Martin met the other members of the crew. There was Herbert Stolz, a young man of about twenty-one, recently graduated from Stanford University. He was a lad of terrific strength and abounding energy. Then there was Paul H. Tochigi, a Japanese boy who had been in America about a year. He was to act as cabin boy. And last, but by no means least, was Mrs. London’s uncle, Captain Roscoe Eames, who was the designer and superintendent of construction of the boat, and who would be navigator when they got under way. These three, with Mr. and Mrs. Jack London and Martin as cook, comprised the jolly crew of the good ship christened the Snark.
To his surprise and disappointment, Martin discovered the Snark was far from complete. They had been working on her for several months, but it was apparent that it would be some little time before she put out to sea. They planned to sail October 1, 1906, but she was not finished. Next November 1 was the sailing date, but she was still incomplete. Then she was scheduled to sail on November 15, then December 15, but each date found her still in the process of construction.
During the next three months, nothing went right. Because of the very recent earthquake, it was almost impossible to hire carpenters or workmen of any kind, and London was compelled to pay exorbitant wages to get any at all. The vast amount of material being moved into an Francisco caused such confusion in the railroad freight yards that one car containing oak ribs for the boat was not found for more than a month. On top of this, a big strike closed down all the shipbuilders, cutting off supplies. The Snark was originally planned to cost around seven thousand dollars, but by the time she was finished the cost was nearer thirty thousand.
From the time he arrived in Oakland until they sailed, Martin made his home with the Londons. On bright days he would take a camera across the bay to San Francisco and photograph the construction of the new city rising out of the ashes of the old, or record the progress of the Snark.
Sometimes it seemed as if the Snark were breaking down faster than it could be built up, and about the first of March, Jack declared that they would sail her to Honolulu just as she was and finish her there. But the Snark sprang another leak, which had to be repaired before she could be moved. Finally, one bright Saturday in the middle of March, all got aboard at nine o’clock, and at the command of Captain Eames, the Snark slid down the ways without a quiver and was towed across the bay to the Oakland estuary to be fitted and rigged.
While the electricians were doing the wiring and the carpenters worked, Bert Stolz and Martin took turns sleeping on deck. Immediately the galley was finished, Martin tried out his ability as a chef. He caught fish and fried, baked, and boiled them with varying degrees of success. He made bread and pastry and fed it to the workmen. Martin insisted that they enjoyed every mouthful, and as none complained of indigestion, he felt quite satisfied. Jack bought him a bread-mixing machine which saved hours of labor.
Martin felt particularly fortunate in being chosen as one of the crew, but he never did find out just what prompted Jack to pick him in preference to the many other applicants. Jack showed Martin a few of the hundreds of letters which continued to pour in right up to the date of sailing. They were from men, and even women, of every class, color, and creed. Many even offered considerable sums toward the expenses in order to be taken along.
On the nights it was his turn to sleep on board, Martin lay in his bunk and wondered if it were all a dream. He wished nightly that they would get under way. His conscience stirred guiltily every now and then as he remembered his brash boast about he could cook.
One night he was awakened by a shuddering crash. He leapt to the deck to discover that the Snark was sandwiched between two lumber scows. In the morning it was found that the rail was flattened two inches on one side and bulged two inches on the other, and from then on the Snark was lopsided.
Another night when Martin was alone on board, he was awakened at three in the morning by the anchor chain paying out through the hawsepipe; the Snark was pitching and rolling in the teeth of a northeast gale. Rushing on deck, he made fast the chains. An hour later he was again awakened, and this time he found that the boat was within a hundred yards of a pile wharf! Martin was in a panic. The wind was blowing a frightening gale. The rain came down in torrents, hurling oblique walls of water against the unsheltered craft. The anchor had slipped. Martin could see that it was but a matter of moments before the Snark would be dashed on the piles. The gale lessened for a moment, and Martin ran to lower the kedge anchor. Just as it seemed that all was well, a tempestuous blast of wind swept the bay with diabolical fury, driving the Snark still nearer the piling.
The kedge anchor arrested the progress of the ship, but Martin knew it would not hold fast for long. He knew that unless he could do something, the brave craft would be dashed to splinters. He clung to the rail desperately.
But what could he do? All the fine, strong oak, the shining metals, the efficient instruments and engines—were they all to be destroyed with never a chance to fulfill their destinies? He thought of the money, the hours of labor, the anxieties! And—most hideous of all—his dreams, which were being destroyed! His dreams, his hopes, his half-answered prayers were being blown to certain destruction. And Jack London too—his hopes and dreams of months.
Hardly knowing what he was doing, Martin screamed a defiant curse into the raging storm and dashed below to the engine room. He tried desperately to start the motor, but there was no sign of life in it. Precious minutes went by as he checked the machine. He made a delicate adjustment, and after another heartbreaking struggle, the engine roared.
Running to the cockpit, Martin turned on the propeller and fought his way back into the bay with anchors dragging. There was but little gas in the tank, and as soon as he had put a safe distance between the Snark and the pier, he turned off the engine to conserve fuel.
Again the storm carried him into danger and yet again, but each time Martin fought his way to safety with the engine. Hour after hour he battled the wind and water, not knowing when the fuel would give out or the engine become flooded. In either event nothing could save the ship.
As the morning came, the storm subsided and the Snark was made fast again. During the night, more than twenty-five vessels, many of them larger than the Snark, had been wrecked.
Week followed week of misfortune and delay (the many causes of which I shall not attempt to put down here), until on April 23, 1907, the gallant little Snark sailed perkily out of the Golden Gate, leaving behind a group of well-wishers who were certain they would never again set eyes on the crew.
Chapter 5
Martin hadn’t the remotest idea of how to provision a ship. He had crates of cabbages, lemons, apples, carrots, and other perishables piled high on deck, most of which had to be tossed over
the side before many days had passed. He had enough spices on hand to supply several large restaurants for years.
The size of the galley was negligible. It would have been considered small for a clothes closet. Martin said that here the old saw about having to go outside to turn around was literally true—if he had a dish in his hand.
For the first meal on the trip, he decided to prepare a nice roast with dressing, vegetables—including fried onions, of all things—and pudding. He got out a half peck of onions, and by the time he had them peeled in that wee galley, he decided nothing more was needed for that meal. The onions burned his nose and throat and watered his eyes so badly he could neither talk nor see. That night the crew had to like onions.
The record of the twenty-seven-day sail to Honolulu in the Snark is the record of the most wild and chaotic period six human beings ever spent. To quote Martin: “It was hell on the high seas.” They had not been out more than a day or so before they became aware of the fact that they had no navigator. Captain Eames was supposed to keep the ship on its course, but his meager knowledge was pitifully inadequate, and before they had reached Honolulu everybody on the boat was navigating, some with astonishing results. Once, after taking their bearings and consulting the chart, Martin amazed everyone by establishing their position somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. I often wonder how they ever found the Hawaiian Islands.
They had bad weather from the start, mounting to the proportions of heavy storms. The light boat pitched like a cork. It leaked like the proverbial sieve. The sides leaked, the bottom leaked; water poured in, ruining the tools in the engine room and spoiling a good part of three months’ provisions. The coal had been delivered in rotten potato sacks and was washing through the scuppers into the sea. The floors of the galley and cabins were ankle-deep in water.
Everyone was tossed about violently. Martin was covered with burns and bruises trying to cook in the tiny kitchen. More often than not, he was on the stove and the food was on the floor. Never for a moment was it possible to let go of one hold unless assured of another. Mrs. London would have been the envy of all acrobats had they witnessed a double handspring she turned one day after missing her hold on the railing. She soared down the companionway and landed on top of a dinner being served by Tochigi.