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- Джек Лондон
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- Стр. 118/210
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I
have
always
admired
old
Johannes
Maartens
.
Washed
and
rolled
off
the
high
poop
by
a
burst
of
sea
,
we
were
left
stranded
in
the
waist
of
the
ship
,
whence
we
fought
our
way
for
'
ard
to
the
steep-pitched
forecastle-head
.
Others
joined
us
.
We
lashed
ourselves
fast
and
counted
noses
.
We
were
eighteen
.
The
rest
had
perished
.
Johannes
Maartens
touched
me
and
pointed
upward
through
cascading
salt-water
from
the
back-fling
of
the
cliff
.
I
saw
what
he
desired
.
Twenty
feet
below
the
truck
the
foremast
ground
and
crunched
against
a
boss
of
the
cliff
.
Above
the
boss
was
a
cleft
.
He
wanted
to
know
if
I
would
dare
the
leap
from
the
mast-head
into
the
cleft
.
Sometimes
the
distance
was
a
scant
six
feet
.
At
other
times
it
was
a
score
,
for
the
mast
reeled
drunkenly
to
the
rolling
and
pounding
of
the
hull
on
which
rested
its
splintered
butt
.
I
began
the
climb
.
But
they
did
not
wait
.
One
by
one
they
unlashed
themselves
and
followed
me
up
the
perilous
mast
.
There
was
reason
for
haste
,
for
at
any
moment
the
Sparwehr
might
slip
off
into
deep
water
.
I
timed
my
leap
,
and
made
it
,
landing
in
the
cleft
in
a
scramble
and
ready
to
lend
a
hand
to
those
who
leaped
after
.
It
was
slow
work
.
We
were
wet
and
half
freezing
in
the
wind-drive
.
Besides
,
the
leaps
had
to
be
timed
to
the
roll
of
the
hull
and
the
sway
of
the
mast
.
The
cook
was
the
first
to
go
.
He
was
snapped
off
the
mast-end
,
and
his
body
performed
cart-wheels
in
its
fall
.
A
fling
of
sea
caught
him
and
crushed
him
to
a
pulp
against
the
cliff
.
The
cabin
boy
,
a
bearded
man
of
twenty-odd
,
lost
hold
,
slipped
,
swung
around
the
mast
,
and
was
pinched
against
the
boss
of
rock
.
Pinched
?
The
life
squeezed
from
him
on
the
instant
.
Two
others
followed
the
way
of
the
cook
.
Captain
Johannes
Maartens
was
the
last
,
completing
the
fourteen
of
us
that
clung
on
in
the
cleft
.
An
hour
afterward
the
Sparwehr
slipped
off
and
sank
in
deep
water
.
Two
days
and
nights
saw
us
near
to
perishing
on
that
cliff
,
for
there
was
way
neither
up
nor
down
.
The
third
morning
a
fishing-boat
found
us
.
The
men
were
clad
entirely
in
dirt
white
,
with
their
long
hair
done
up
in
a
curious
knot
on
their
pates
--
the
marriage
knot
,
as
I
was
afterward
to
learn
,
and
also
,
as
I
was
to
learn
,
a
handy
thing
to
clutch
hold
of
with
one
hand
whilst
you
clouted
with
the
other
when
an
argument
went
beyond
words
.
The
boat
went
back
to
the
village
for
help
,
and
most
of
the
villagers
,
most
of
their
gear
,
and
most
of
the
day
were
required
to
get
us
down
.
They
were
a
poor
and
wretched
folk
,
their
food
difficult
even
for
the
stomach
of
a
sea-cuny
to
countenance
.
Their
rice
was
brown
as
chocolate
.
Half
the
husks
remained
in
it
,
along
with
bits
of
chaff
,
splinters
,
and
unidentifiable
dirt
which
made
one
pause
often
in
the
chewing
in
order
to
stick
into
his
mouth
thumb
and
forefinger
and
pluck
out
the
offending
stuff
.
Also
,
they
ate
a
sort
of
millet
,
and
pickles
of
astounding
variety
and
ungodly
hot
.
Their
houses
were
earthen-walled
and
straw-thatched
.
Under
the
floors
ran
flues
through
which
the
kitchen
smoke
escaped
,
warming
the
sleeping-room
in
its
passage
.
Here
we
lay
and
rested
for
days
,
soothing
ourselves
with
their
mild
and
tasteless
tobacco
,
which
we
smoked
in
tiny
bowls
at
the
end
of
yard-long
pipes
.
Also
,
there
was
a
warm
,
sourish
,
milky-looking
drink
,
heady
only
when
taken
in
enormous
doses
.
After
guzzling
I
swear
gallons
of
it
,
I
got
singing
drunk
,
which
is
the
way
of
sea-cunies
the
world
over
.
Encouraged
by
my
success
,
the
others
persisted
,
and
soon
we
were
all
a-roaring
,
little
reeking
of
the
fresh
snow
gale
piping
up
outside
,
and
little
worrying
that
we
were
cast
away
in
an
uncharted
,
God-forgotten
land
.
Old
Johannes
Maartens
laughed
and
trumpeted
and
slapped
his
thighs
with
the
best
of
us
.
Hendrik
Hamel
,
a
cold-blooded
,
chilly-poised
dark
brunette
of
a
Dutchman
with
beady
black
eyes
,
was
as
rarely
devilish
as
the
rest
of
us
,
and
shelled
out
silver
like
any
drunken
sailor
for
the
purchase
of
more
of
the
milky
brew
.
Our
carrying-on
was
a
scandal
;
but
the
women
fetched
the
drink
while
all
the
village
that
could
crowd
in
jammed
the
room
to
witness
our
antics
.
