It was greed that saved him. Finn’s greed.
The sailor had lost his grip on Jack’s coat but must already have discovered the heavy bag in its pocket and realized what it contained. And so instead of attacking Jack directly, he tried to secure his prize, clutching at the jacket that had fallen onto the bunk beneath him. In doing so, he left himself vulnerable.
Jack grabbed the jacket and tugged, raising his right leg and stomping his heel into Finn’s groin. The man let out a bellow of pain and released the coat, and Jack was already running for the door. As he climbed three steps and exited the cabin, he heard the furious sailor scrambling in pursuit.
What’s he made of? Jack thought. He’d dealt him a cruel kick, and Finn should’ve needed time for such pain to subside. But even as Jack reached the stairs that led up to the deck, he heard the rumble of the man’s voice.
“Little bastard,” Finn growled. “I’ll have your eyes.”
On the second step, Jack knew he’d never make it. He turned, saw a flicker of surprise in the scruffy sailor’s face, and hurled himself back down. Finn caught him easily, one hand closing around Jack’s throat and the other holding his free hand at bay. He squeezed, and Jack felt himself sag, a stringless puppet hanging in that iron grip. Finn smashed him against the bulkhead at the base of the stairs, and smiled as he began to crush Jack’s throat.
Jack twisted his fist in the fabric of his coat, felt the weight of the little bag of gold, and swung it with all his strength. It struck Finn on the temple. The man’s eyes dilated and his grip loosened only slightly, but that was enough for Jack. He braced his feet against the wall behind him and thrust forward, dropping his shoulder and ramming Finn against the stairs. The sailor tripped and fell back, cracking his skull against a wooden step, and then Jack was clambering over him, swift as could be.
Finn grabbed at his leg, but Jack tore free and launched himself to the top of the stairs, sprawling on the deck. The night sky had cleared and the moon burned bright enough to cast a silver gleam across the ship. As Jack picked himself up, wondering where he could run and what that murderous pirate captain Ghost would make of the concept of justice, Finn crested the forecastle steps and hurled himself at Jack.
In the open, Jack had thought his speed would give him an advantage. Years living rough on the streets of Oakland and San Francisco, and then riding the railways in search of work and enlightenment, had mixed him in hundreds of fights, from the simplest scuffle to the most brutal brawl. At eighteen, he was stronger than most of the older men he’d met, and he knew how to fight dirty.
But Finn treated him like a toy, hoisting him into the air and pummeling his face with a stonelike fist. Twice. Three times. A fourth would have knocked Jack senseless. He grabbed a handful of Finn’s hair and yanked, stealing his balance for just a moment. He punched the sailor in the throat, and Finn staggered back. But he did not release Jack.
With a roar, he lifted Jack over his head and hurled him into the foremast. Something cracked inside, and Jack knew he’d fractured at least one rib. The wind knocked out of him, he struggled to drag in a single breath, chest burning for air. He tried to rise, but Finn was upon him.
Voices rose around them. The lookout called some rude observation from the crow’s nest. The ogre and the black man from earlier were among those who came to watch, but it was no longer a scuffle. In a moment it had turned from a fight into bloody punishment. Finn seemed to have forgotten all about the gold in the pocket of the coat that Jack still clutched in his hand. Instead, the sailor’s entire focus was on inflicting pain.
Jack felt the blows land. Tasted blood. Knew that he could expect no help, and without it he would surely die.
A shape darted in from the right, a dark silence that blotted out the moonlight, and then Finn flailed as he was yanked backward and flung across the deck. He tumbled end over end, thumping against the deck, and crashed against the railing. So swiftly that he seemed barely to move—appearing in one spot and then the next without passing between—Ghost stood over Finn, glaring down upon him with cold fury.
Finn began to rise, fumbling for words. But even as he opened his mouth, Ghost struck him such a powerful blow that Finn collapsed back against the rail, a boxer on the ropes in some pugilistic nightmare.
“Do not speak,” the captain ordered.
Fear filled the sailor’s eyes, and he obeyed.
Wiping blood from his nose and mouth, Jack rose unsteadily, maintaining his balance with a hand upon the foremast. Other members of the crew had gathered around, and Jack felt sure that Ghost would command them to return to their duties. But it seemed he wanted an audience. The sailors looked on with hungry fascination, almost licking their chops in the hope of some further violence. Jack prayed they would be disappointed.
The captain turned from Finn and approached Jack, his footfalls on the deck almost silent.
“Young Jack,” Ghost began, studying him closely, as though appraising him anew. “An explanation is due, I think.”
“Simple enough,” Jack said, wincing at the pains in his jaw and face as he spoke. “I woke to find your man trying to rob me. I hoped to keep what was mine and so fought him for it.”
“Offered yourself up for a thrashing, more like,” Ghost replied, a sly smile lifting the edges of his mouth. Like the devil’s smile, Jack thought, it does not reach his eyes.
“What could you possibly have that would be worth such punishment?” the Larsen’s captain continued. “Or worth fighting for at all?”
In the haze of his pain and in the midst of trying to discern the captain’s intentions, he had nearly forgotten his jacket, which now lay on the deck a few feet away, as near to Ghost as it was to Jack himself. He racked his brain for a suitable lie to hang on to his hard-won prize, but his eyes gave him away.
Ghost plucked the jacket from the deck, one brow arching curiously as he felt the strange weight in one pocket. He hefted the bag in his hand, dropping the jacket back to the deck.
“Had I caught you with this on board your ship, I’d have killed you for it.”
“Finn meant to do just that.”
A brief, savage anger flickered in Ghost’s eyes as he glanced at the sailor, before he returned his attention to Jack.
“We’ve boarded half a dozen vessels returning from the Yukon,” the captain said. “Yours yielded the smallest amount of gold thus far.”
“There’s little to be found,” Jack said. “The gold rush is more of a trickle. Even what you’ve got there is just a few small nuggets and some dust.”
“Still worth quite a bit, I’d imagine.”
“And it’s mine,” Jack said.
Ghost took three steps until he stood directly before Jack, eyes still more curious than brutal, though Jack had seen the violence in the man.
“We own only what we can keep, Mr. London. It isn’t enough to have, nor even enough to take. All things pass into the hands of others, in time.” The captain tucked the small bag into his pocket. “If you want this back, you’re welcome at any time to attempt to retrieve it. But you’d best be prepared to kill me for it, as I will not hesitate to do the same to you.”
Hatred burned in Jack as he recalled the men who had died to acquire that meager bit of gold. Ghost watched to see if he would attack, but Jack London was no fool. Even at his best, without the pain in his ribs and face and the ringing in his head, he would need all of his cunning and a great deal of luck to best Ghost in a fight.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.
Ghost gave a curt nod and turned back toward Finn.
“My orders were clear, Finn. He was not to be touched. Worse yet, you hoped to rob him and keep the dust for yourself—”
“No, sir,” Finn began. “It weren’t my intention at all. I only—”
Ghost’s cruel smile alone was enough to silence the man.
“And now you’ve interrupted me,” the captain said.
The ship creaked, lines swaying, pulley blocks j
angling, but the crew was utterly silent. Jack had seen this before in the packs of sled dogs in the frozen north. He had watched as a member of the pack challenged the leader, as a bloody, snapping, snarling fight ensued, and as the rest of the pack loomed with dark purpose, waiting to savage the loser. These were men, not dogs, but their ominous silence bespoke the same malign intent.
“Do I not give my men a fair share of the spoils, Finn?”
“You do, sir,” Finn said, his voice faltering. “My word, you do.”
“And yet,” Ghost said, almost idly. “And yet.”
He turned and paced a bit, tapping his temple as if he were a stage actor performing the part of one deep in thought. Then he glanced at Jack and tipped him a wink, an amused twinkle in his eye.
“Mr. Johansen,” Ghost said.
Jack turned to see a sailor step forward, a lanky man with tiny beads for eyes and long, spidery fingers. This, he knew, must be the first mate, for the captain had called him Mister, and to him would be delivered the orders.
“Sir?”
No trace of a smile remained on the captain’s face.
“Keelhaul him.”
Finn screamed, lunged from his place at the railing, and drew out a wicked-looking knife as he hurled himself at the captain. Ghost slapped the blade from his hand and it stuck in the deck, quivering in the moonlight. So fierce and strong was the captain that he had the man on his back in the space between heartbeats. He raked a single fingernail along Finn’s jaw, drawing blood and causing the sailor to cry out in surrender.
“It’s the keel or your throat,” Ghost growled, his face bent so low that the two men were nose to nose. He almost whispered, but in the loaded silence the whole crew heard. “Pain or death. Those are your only choices.”
Finn went slack beneath him, and Ghost stood, turning his back on the defeated sailor. The captain paused and looked at Jack.
“They are forever our only choices, young Jack. As you will most assuredly learn.”
As a boy, Jack London had been something of a pirate himself. Desperate to escape the hellish drudgery of his work at Hickmott’s Cannery, he’d borrowed enough money from his foster mother to buy the sloop Razzle Dazzle. All his young life, he had been in the company of rough men, and he had been along with some of them as they raided the oyster beds in the mudflats off San Francisco Bay, stealing what they could by night and selling it off in Oakland the next morning. Oyster pirates, they called themselves, and with his new boat, he’d become a pirate captain. At the age of fourteen, it had seemed a glorious adventure.
Now he stood on the deck of the Larsen, the sails full of a gentle Pacific breeze as the ship kept a steady course westward, away from the California coast—away from home and safety, and the family who had already waited too long for his return, and the financial salvation they would be praying he had found in the Yukon. In a single night he had seen blood dripping from multiple blades, heard the dying sighs of innocents, witnessed the brutal abduction of fellow passengers, and been savagely assaulted by someone who seemed more beast than man. And he had the feeling that far worse horrors yet awaited him.
Oyster pirate? He had been a laughing boy, an imp, attempting to thwart the Fish Patrol and escape arrest. Here, now … these were pirates. They lived by the law of blade and club. Bloodletting seemed ordinary and righteous to them, violence the solution to all riddles. And until he could divine some manner of escape, which at this moment seemed impossible, he had to dedicate himself to a single principle: survival. It was a familiar instinct—he had survived a long, hungry winter stranded on the banks of a frozen river, the cruelty of slavers, the obsession of an insane forest spirit, and the wild fury of the dreadful Wendigo. This was a new challenge, but Jack would endure.
Finn, however, might well be dead in the next few minutes.
Jack did nothing to draw attention to himself. The crew was occupied with the punishment being meted out, and no one seemed at all concerned that he might attempt escape. The ship measured perhaps one hundred feet from bow to stern, and its beam couldn’t have been wider than twenty-five feet. This was the extent of his world, at least for now. There were four small boats on board—used, he supposed, for hunting and going ashore from deep anchorage—but it wasn’t as if he could lower one into the water and paddle away unnoticed.
Ghost, too, seemed almost to have forgotten about Jack’s presence.
Johansen barked orders and two men—Vukovich and Kelly—dragged a struggling Finn to the front of the ship and held him still as others tied ropes to his wrists and ankles.
“You bastards!” Finn screamed, trying to shake free as they stripped him. “Stand up to him!”
Vukovich grabbed him by the hair and forced Finn to meet his gaze. “For your greed? We should challenge ’im for that? No, Finn. You’ll take what’s coming.”
Jack stood on the raised foredeck slightly away from the Larsen’s crew, his own predicament almost forgotten as he watched the men force Finn toward the bow. He had heard of keelhauling—had read about it as a boy and included it in the pirate tales he shared with his chums—and so he knew what was to come. They would throw Finn overboard and drag him beneath the ship, right along the keel, where the hull would be caked with barnacles that would shred his skin to ribbons. The faster they dragged him, the tighter he would be held against the keel, and the worse his injuries. But if they went slowly, giving him slack to spare him the flaying, he could well drown.
“I don’t understand,” Jack said, stepping up between the ogre and Louis, the short black man whom he had first seen when Ghost dragged him aboard. “I’d thought a man would be thrown over one side and dragged to the other. If they haul him fore to aft on a ship this size…”
He glanced at them for answers. The ogre ignored him, scratching at his huge head. But Louis smiled to reveal an awful mouth: some teeth missing, some jagged as a shark’s, and that single upper canine made of gold.
“It’ll hurt, c’est vrai,” Louis said, in an island-lilted French accent. “But if he dies … c’est sa bonne fortune.”
Jack frowned in confusion. “I don’t—”
The ogre grunted and cleared his throat, tugging at his filthy beard. “If the captain lets him die, Finn’ll be lucky,” he said, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. “Fool wants to howl, thinks he can challenge Ghost, but he’s no match. If he lives, he’d best fall into line. You challenge Ghost and lose … better off in hell.”
Then there was shouting and the pounding of feet on the deck, and Jack whipped round to see he had missed the moment when they hurled Finn off the bow. Vukovich and Kelly and two other men were running along beside the railings, ropes held taut, slowing only to feed the ropes around rigging, and Jack tried not to visualize Finn beneath the ship, holding his breath as barnacles ripped his skin. Sickened, he watched the men run as the rest of the small crew followed.
A hand like an iron vise grabbed his arm and propelled him forward, slowly but far from gently.
“Come along, young Jack,” Ghost growled in his ear. “This is for all to see.”
Not quite all, Jack thought, remembering the others abducted from the Umatilla who must still be locked below. But he thought it best to hold his tongue for now. That was a question for another time.
With Ghost as his escort, he walked aft, watching as the crew gathered along the stern railing. Together, the four men who’d done the hauling pulled at the ropes, hoisting Finn from the water. Jack watched with dreadful anticipation, because he knew that what he was about to see would be awful.
What they dragged aboard was not at first recognizable as human. The skin had been flayed open on Finn’s back, arms and legs, flesh ripped way, so that he resembled little more than a pile of bloody meat. Only when he vomited seawater onto the blood-smeared deck, and tried to rise to his knees, could Jack be certain the creature before him was a man.
Then Finn collapsed, blood running freely from his wounds and flowing across the deck.
Yet though violence remained in the air, the crew glaring menacingly at Finn, none of them attacked. It was as if they awaited some word from their captain, but the word had not come.
“Take him below,” Ghost commanded at last. “Louis, doctor him as best you can. Then leave him. Everyone else, back to work. Mr. Johansen, check our course. If we lag, we’ll miss our chance.”
“Aye, sir!” Johansen snapped, and hurried off to obey.
Denied further retribution, the crew might have balked, but it was plain to see that none would challenge the commands of their captain. After the example Ghost had set with Finn, Jack could see why. They were loyal to Ghost, perhaps, but they feared him as well.
The crew busied themselves about the ship, though it seemed to Jack that in fair weather the Larsen practically sailed herself. Vukovich clambered into the rigging, and the others rushed about, and soon the only man standing with Jack by the aft railing was the captain.
Ghost did not look at him.
“Young Jack,” the captain said, the diminutive name a purposeful needling. “Can you cook?”
Jack stared at him, but his thoughts were racing. Survival.
“I’m a damn fine cook,” he replied.
Ghost nodded grimly. “A lad who thinks on his feet and isn’t afraid of a fight, bound from the Yukon to San Francisco? Aye, I had a feeling you might’ve learned to feed yourself. We lost our cook, Mr. Mugridge, in a scrape a few months back. We’ve been making do with Finn, but he’ll be in no condition to man the galley for a time.”
The Secret Journeys of Jack London, Book Two: The Sea Wolves Page 3