The "Francis Spaight" Page #2

"The Francis Spaight" is a novella by Jack London that follows a gripping maritime adventure. The story centers around the eponymous ship, the Francis Spaight, and explores themes of survival, human resilience, and the relentless forces of nature. As the crew faces the challenges of the sea, London vividly depicts their struggles against both the elements and their own fears, highlighting the harsh realities of maritime life during that era. With his characteristic prose, London immerses readers in an intense and thrilling narrative that showcases his deep understanding of the ocean and the human spirit.

• Novel

								

weeks and two days it is, though it seems more like two years and two
months. We can't hang out much longer. It is beyond human nature to go
on hanging out with nothing in our stomachs. There is a serious question
to consider: whether it is better for all to die, or for one to die. We
are standing with our feet in our graves. If one of us dies, the rest
may live until a ship is sighted. What say you?"

Michael Behane, the man who had been at the wheel when the Francis
Spaight broached to, called out that it was well. The others joined in
the cry.

"Let it be one of the b'ys!" cried Sullivan, a Tarbert man, glancing at
the same time significantly at O'Brien.

"It is my opinion," the captain went on, "that it will be a good deed
for one of us to die for the rest."

"A good deed! A good deed!" the men interjected.

"And it is my opinion that 'tis best for one of the boys to die. They
have no families to support, nor would they be considered so great a
loss to their friends as those who have wives and children."

"'Tis right." "Very right." "Very fit it should be done," the men
muttered one to another.

But the four boys cried out against the injustice of it.

"Our lives is just as dear to us as the rest iv yez," O'Brien protested.
"An' our famblies, too. As for wives an' childer, who is there savin'
meself to care for me old mother that's a widow, as you know well,
Michael Behane, that comes from Limerick? 'Tis not fair. Let the lots be
drawn between all of us, men and b'ys."

Mahoney was the only man who spoke in favour of the boys, declaring that
it was the fair thing for all to share alike. Sullivan and the captain
insisted on the drawing of lots being confined to the boys. There
were high words, in the midst of which Sullivan turned upon O'Brien,
snarling--

"'Twould be a good deed to put you out of the way. You deserve it.
'Twould be the right way to serve you, an' serve you we will."

He started toward O'Brien, with intent to lay hands on him and proceed
at once with the killing, while several others likewise shuffled toward
him and reached for him. He stumbled backwards to escape them, at the
same time crying that he would submit to the drawing of the lots among
the boys.

The captain prepared four sticks of different lengths and handed them to
Sullivan.

"You're thinkin' the drawin'll not be fair," the latter sneered to
O'Brien. "So it's yerself'll do the drawin'."

To this O'Brien agreed. A handkerchief was tied over his eyes,
blindfolding him, and he knelt down on the deck with his back to
Sullivan.

"Whoever you name for the shortest stick'll die," the captain said.

Sullivan held up one of the sticks. The rest were concealed in his hand
so that no one could see whether it was the short stick or not.

"An' whose stick will it be?" Sullivan demanded.

"For little Johnny Sheehan," O'Brien answered.

Sullivan laid the stick aside. Those who looked could not tell if it
were the fatal one. Sullivan held up another stick.

"Whose will it be?"

"For George Burns," was the reply.

The stick was laid with the first one, and a third held up.

"An' whose is this wan?"

"For myself," said O'Brien.

With a quick movement, Sullivan threw the four sticks together. No one
had seen.

"'Tis for yourself ye've drawn it," Sullivan announced.

"A good deed," several of the men muttered.

O'Brien was very quiet. He arose to his feet, took the bandage off, and
looked around.

"Where is ut?" he demanded. "The short stick? The wan for me?"

The captain pointed to the four sticks lying on the deck.

"How do you know the stick was mine?" O'Brien questioned. "Did you see
ut, Johnny Sheehan?"

Johnny Sheehan, who was the youngest of the boys, did not answer.

"Did you see ut?" O'Brien next asked Mahoney.

"No, I didn't see ut."

The men were muttering and growling.

"'Twas a fair drawin'," Sullivan said. "Ye had yer chanct an' ye lost,
that's all iv ut."

"A fair drawin'," the captain added. "Didn't I behold it myself? The
stick was yours, O'Brien, an' ye may as well get ready. Where's the
cook? Gorman, come here. Fetch the tureen cover, some of ye. Gorman, do
your duty like a man."

"But how'll I do it," the cook demanded. He was a weak-eyed,
weak-chinned, indecisive man.

"'Tis a damned murder!" O'Brien cried out.

"I'll have none of ut," Mahoney announced. "Not a bite shall pass me
lips."

"Then 'tis yer share for better men than yerself," Sullivan sneered. "Go
on with yer duty, cook."

"'Tis not me duty, the killin' of b'ys," Gorman protested irresolutely.

"If yez don't make mate for us, we'll be makin' mate of yerself," Behane
threatened. "Somebody must die, an' as well you as another."

Johnny Sheehan began to cry. O'Brien listened anxiously. His face was
pale. His lips trembled, and at times his whole body shook.

"I signed on as cook," Gorman enounced. "An' cook I wud if galley there
was. But I'll not lay me hand to murder. 'Tis not in the articles. I'm
the cook--"

"An' cook ye'll be for wan minute more only," Sullivan said grimly, at
the same moment gripping the cook's head from behind and bending it back
till the windpipe and jugular were stretched taut. "Where's yer knife,
Mike? Pass it along."

At the touch of the steel, Gorman whimpered.

"I'll do ut, if yez'll hold the b'y."

The pitiable condition of the cook seemed in some fashion to nerve up
O'Brien.

"It's all right, Gorman," he said. "Go on with ut. 'Tis meself knows yer
not wantin' to do ut. It's all right, sir"--this to the captain, who
had laid a hand heavily on his arm. "Ye won't have to hold me, sir. I'll
stand still."

"Stop yer blitherin', an' go an' get the tureen cover," Behane commanded
Johnny Sheehan, at the same time dealing him a heavy cuff alongside the
head.

The boy, who was scarcely more than a child, fetched the cover. He
crawled and tottered along the deck, so weak was he from hunger. The
tears still ran down his cheeks. Behane took the cover from him, at the
same time administering another cuff.

O'Brien took off his coat and bared his right arm. His under lip still
trembled, but he held a tight grip on himself. The captain's penknife
was opened and passed to Gorman.

"Mahoney, tell me mother what happened to me, if ever ye get back,"
O'Brien requested.

Mahoney nodded.

"'Tis black murder, black an' damned," he said. "The b'y's flesh'll do
none iv yez anny good. Mark me words. Ye'll not profit by it, none iv
yez."

"Get ready," the captain ordered. "You, Sullivan, hold the cover--that's
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