south sea tales(南海传说)-第22章
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SOUTH SEA TALES
on the Petite Jeanne something I had never before seen on a South Sea
schoonera sea anchor。 It was a conical canvas bag； the mouth of which
was kept open by a huge loop of iron。 The sea anchor was bridled
something like a kite； so that it bit into the water as a kite bites into the air；
but with a difference。 The sea anchor remained just under the surface of
the ocean in a perpendicular position。 A long line； in turn； connected it
with the schooner。 As a result； the Petite Jeanne rode bow on to the wind
and to what sea there was。
The situation really would have been favorable had we not been in the
path of the storm。 True； the wind itself tore our canvas out of the gaskets；
jerked out our topmasts； and made a raffle of our running gear； but still we
would have come through nicely had we not been square in front of the
advancing storm center。 That was what fixed us。 I was in a state of stunned；
numbed； paralyzed collapse from enduring the impact of the wind； and I
think I was just about ready to give up and die when the center smote us。
The blow we received was an absolute lull。 There was not a breath of air。
The effect on one was sickening。
Remember that for hours we had been at terrific muscular tension；
withstanding the awful pressure of that wind。 And then； suddenly； the
pressure was removed。 I know that I felt as though I was about to expand；
to fly apart in all directions。 It seemed as if every atom composing my
body was repelling every other atom and was on the verge of rushing off
irresistibly into space。 But that lasted only for a moment。 Destruction was
upon us。
In the absence of the wind and pressure the sea rose。 It jumped； it
leaped； it soared straight toward the clouds。 Remember； from every point
of the compass that inconceivable wind was blowing in toward the center
of calm。 The result was that the seas sprang up from every point of the
compass。 There was no wind to check them。 They popped up like corks
released from the bottom of a pail of water。 There was no system to them；
no stability。 They were hollow； maniacal seas。 They were eighty feet high
at the least。 They were not seas at all。 They resembled no sea a man had
ever seen。
They were splashes； monstrous splashesthat is all。 Splashes that were
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SOUTH SEA TALES
eighty feet high。 Eighty！ They were more than eighty。 They went over
our mastheads。 They were spouts； explosions。 They were drunken。 They
fell anywhere； anyhow。 They jostled one another； they collided。 They
rushed together and collapsed upon one another； or fell apart like a
thousand waterfalls all at once。 It was no ocean any man had ever dreamed
of； that hurricane center。 It was confusion thrice confounded。 It was
anarchy。 It was a hell pit of sea water gone mad。
The Petite Jeanne？ I don't know。 The heathen told me afterwards that
he did not know。 She was literally torn apart； ripped wide open； beaten
into a pulp； smashed into kindling wood； annihilated。 When I came to I
was in the water； swimming automatically； though I was about two…thirds
drowned。 How I got there I had no recollection。 I remembered seeing the
Petite Jeanne fly to pieces at what must have been the instant that my own
consciousness was buffeted out of me。 But there I was； with nothing to do
but make the best of it； and in that best there was little promise。 The wind
was blowing again； the sea was much smaller and more regular； and I
knew that I had passed through the center。 Fortunately； there were no
sharks about。 The hurricane had dissipated the ravenous horde that had
surrounded the death ship and fed off the dead。
It was about midday when the Petite Jeanne went to pieces； and it must
have been two hours afterwards when I picked up with one of her hatch
covers。 Thick rain was driving at the time； and it was the merest chance
that flung me and the hatch cover together。 A short length of line was
trailing from the rope handle； and I knew that I was good for a day； at least；
if the sharks did not return。 Three hours later； possibly a little longer；
sticking close to the cover； and with closed eyes； concentrating my whole
soul upon the task of breathing in enough air to keep me going and at the
same time of avoiding breathing in enough water to drown me； it seemed
to me that I heard voices。 The rain had ceased； and wind and sea were
easing marvelously。 Not twenty feet away from me； on another hatch
cover were Captain Oudouse and the heathen。 They were fighting over the
possession of the coverat least； the Frenchman was。 〃Paien noir！〃 I heard
him scream； and at the same time I saw him kick the kanaka。
Now； Captain Oudouse had lost all his clothes； except his shoes； and
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they were heavy brogans。 It was a cruel blow； for it caught the heathen on
the mouth and the point of the chin； half stunning him。 I looked for him to
retaliate； but he contented himself with swimming about forlornly a safe
ten feet away。 Whenever a fling of the sea threw him closer； the
Frenchman； hanging on with his hands； kicked out at him with both feet。
Also； at the moment of delivering each kick； he called the kanaka a black
heathen。
〃For two centimes I'd come over there and drown you； you white
beast！〃 I yelled。
The only reason I did not go was that I felt too tired。 The very thought
of the effort to swim over was nauseating。 So I called to the kanaka to
come to me； and proceeded to share the hatch cover with him。 Otoo； he
told me his name was （pronounced o…to…o ）； also； he told me that he was a
native of Bora Bora； the most westerly of the Society Group。 As I learned
afterward； he had got the hatch cover first； and； after some time；
encountering Captain Oudouse； had offered to share it with him； and had
been kicked off for his pains。
And that was how Otoo and I first came together。 He was no fighter。
He was all sweetness and gentleness； a love creature； though he stood
nearly six feet tall and was muscled like a gladiator。 He was no fighter； but
he was also no coward。 He had the heart of a lion； and in the years that
followed I have seen him run risks that I would never dream of taking。
What I mean is that while he was no fighter； and while he always avoided
precipitating a row； he never ran away from trouble when it started。 And it
was 〃Ware shoal！〃 when once Otoo went into action。 I shall never forget
what he did to Bill King。 It occurred in German Samoa。 Bill King was
hailed the champion heavyweight of the American Navy。 He was a big
brute of a man； a veritable gorilla； one of those hard…hitting； rough…
housing chaps； and clever with his fists as well。 He picked the quarrel； and
he kicked Otoo twice and struck him once before Otoo felt it to be
necessary to fight。 I don't think it lasted four minutes； at the end of which
time Bill King was the unhappy possessor of four broken ribs； a broken
