south sea tales-第15部分

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gasping；　half…drowned；　and　half…stunned　wretches　were　rolling　about　or

attempting　to　crawl　into　safety。　They　went　by　the　board；　as　did　the　wreckage

of　the　two　remaining　boats。　The　other　pearl　buyers　and　myself；　between　seas；

managed　to　get　about　fifteen　women　and　children　into　the　cabin；　and　battened

down。　Little　good　it　did　the　poor　creatures　in　the　end。



Wind？　Out　of　all　my　experience　I　could　not　have　believed　it　possible　for　the

wind　to　blow　as　it　did。　There　is　no　describing　it。　How　can　one　describe　a

nightmare？　It　was　the　same　way　with　that　wind。　It　tore　the　clothes　off　our

bodies。　I　say　TORE　THEM　OFF；　and　I　mean　it。　I　am　not　asking　you　to　believe　it。

I　am　merely　telling　something　that　I　saw　and　felt。　There　are　times　when　I　do

not　believe　it　myself。　I　went　through　it；　and　that　is　enough。　One　could　not

face　that　wind　and　live。　It　was　a　monstrous　thing；　and　the　most　monstrous

thing　about　it　was　that　it　increased　and　continued　to　increase。



Imagine　countless　millions　and　billions　of　tons　of　sand。　Imagine　this　sand

tearing　along　at　ninety；　a　hundred；　a　hundred　and　twenty；　or　any　other　number

of　miles　per　hour。　Imagine；　further；　this　sand　to　be　invisible；　impalpable；

yet　to　retain　all　the　weight　and　density　of　sand。　Do　all　this；　and　you　may　get

a　vague　inkling　of　what　that　wind　was　like。



Perhaps　sand　is　not　the　right　comparison。　Consider　it　mud；　invisible；

impalpable；　but　heavy　as　mud。　Nay；　it　goes　beyond　that。　Consider　every

molecule　of　air　to　be　a　mudbank　in　itself。　　Then　try　to　imagine　the

multitudinous　impact　of　mudbanks。　No；　it　is　beyond　me。　Language　may　be

adequate　to　express　the　ordinary　conditions　of　life；　but　it　cannot　possibly

express　any　of　the　conditions　of　so　enormous　a　blast　of　wind。　It　would　have

been　better　had　I　stuck　by　my　original　intention　of　not　attempting　a

description。



I　will　say　this　much：　The　sea；　which　had　risen　at　first；　was　beaten　down　by

that　wind。　'more：　it　seemed　as　if　the　whole　ocean　had　been　sucked　up　in　the

maw　of　the　hurricane；　and　hurled　on　through　that　portion　of　space　which

previously　had　been　occupied　by　the　air。



Of　course；　our　canvas　had　gone　long　before。　But　Captain　Oudouse　had　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　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　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　forearm；　and　a　dislocated　shoulder　blade。　Otoo　knew　nothing　of

scientific　boxing。　He　was　merely　a　manhandler；　and　Bill　King　was　something

like　three　months　in　recovering　from　the　bit　of　manhandling　he　received　that

afternoon　on　Apia　beach。



But　I　am　running　ahead　of　my　yarn。　We　shared　the　hatch　cover　between　us。　We

took　turn　and　turn　about；　one　lying　flat　on　the　cover　and　resting；　while　the

other；　submerged　to　the　neck；　merely　held　on　with　his　hands。　For　two　days　and

nights；　spell　and　spell；　on　the　cover　and　in　the　water；　we　drifted　over　the

ocean。　　Towards　the　last　I　was　delirious　most　of　the　time；　and　there　were

times；　too；　when　I　heard　Otoo　babbling　and　raving　in　his　native　tongue。　Our

continuous　immersion　prevented　us　from　dying　of　thirst；　though　the　sea　water

and　the　sunshine　gave　us　the　prettiest　imaginable　combination　of　salt　pickle

and　sunburn。



In　the　end；　Otoo　saved　my　life；　for　I　came　to　lying　on　the　beach　twenty　f