The Unexpected Page #6

"The Unexpected" is a short story by Jack London that explores themes of survival, human resilience, and the unpredictability of nature. Set against the backdrop of the wilderness, the narrative follows a group of men facing unforeseen challenges that test their limits and camaraderie. Through vivid descriptions and intense situations, London delves into the complexities of human instinct and the unexpected twists of fate that can change lives in an instant. The story reflects London's characteristic rugged individualism and profound understanding of the human spirit in the face of adversity.

								

convincing evidence. He spoke of miners' meetings, where all the men of
a locality came together and made the law and executed the law. There
might be only ten or fifteen men altogether, he said, but the will of
the majority became the law for the whole ten or fifteen, and whoever
violated that will was punished.

Edith saw her way clear at last. Dennin must hang. Hans agreed with
her. Between them they constituted the majority of this particular
group. It was the group-will that Dennin should be hanged. In the
execution of this will Edith strove earnestly to observe the customary
forms, but the group was so small that Hans and she had to serve as
witnesses, as jury, and as judges--also as executioners. She formally
charged Michael Dennin with the murder of Dutchy and Harkey, and the
prisoner lay in his bunk and listened to the testimony, first of Hans,
and then of Edith. He refused to plead guilty or not guilty, and
remained silent when she asked him if he had anything to say in his
own defence. She and Hans, without leaving their seats, brought in the
jury's verdict of guilty. Then, as judge, she imposed the sentence. Her
voice shook, her eyelids twitched, her left arm jerked, but she carried
it out.

"Michael Dennin, in three days' time you are to be hanged by the neck
until you are dead."

Such was the sentence. The man breathed an unconscious sigh of relief,
then laughed defiantly, and said, "Thin I'm thinkin' the damn bunk
won't be achin' me back anny more, an' that's a consolation."

With the passing of the sentence a feeling of relief seemed to
communicate itself to all of them. Especially was it noticeable in
Dennin. All sullenness and defiance disappeared, and he talked sociably
with his captors, and even with flashes of his old-time wit. Also, he
found great satisfaction in Edith's reading to him from the Bible. She
read from the New Testament, and he took keen interest in the prodigal
son and the thief on the cross.

On the day preceding that set for the execution, when Edith asked
her usual question, "Why did you do it?" Dennin answered, "'Tis very
simple. I was thinkin'--"

But she hushed him abruptly, asked him to wait, and hurried to Hans's
bedside. It was his watch off, and he came out of his sleep, rubbing
his eyes and grumbling.

"Go," she told him, "and bring up Negook and one other Indian.
Michael's going to confess. Make them come. Take the rifle along and
bring them up at the point of it if you have to."

Half an hour later Negook and his uncle, Hadikwan, were ushered into
the death chamber. They came unwillingly, Hans with his rifle herding
them along.

"Negook," Edith said, "there is to be no trouble for you and your
people. Only is it for you to sit and do nothing but listen and
understand."

Thus did Michael Dennin, under sentence of death, make public
confession of his crime. As he talked, Edith wrote his story down,
while the Indians listened, and Hans guarded the door for fear the
witnesses might bolt.

He had not been home to the old country for fifteen years, Dennin
explained, and it had always been his intention to return with plenty
of money and make his old mother comfortable for the rest of her days.

"An' how was I to be doin' it on sixteen hundred?" he demanded. "What
I was after wantin' was all the goold, the whole eight thousan'. Thin
I cud go back in style. What ud be aisier, thinks I to myself, than to
kill all iv yez, report it at Skaguay for an Indian-killin', an' thin
pull out for Ireland? An' so I started in to kill all iv yez, but, as
Harkey was fond of sayin', I cut out too large a chunk an' fell down on
the swallowin' iv it. An' that's me confession. I did me duty to the
devil, an' now, God willin', I'll do me duty to God."

"Negook and Hadikwan, you have heard the white man's words," Edith said
to the Indians. "His words are here on this paper, and it is for you to
make a sign, thus, on the paper, so that white men to come after will
know that you have heard."

The two Siwashes put crosses opposite their signatures, received a
summons to appear on the morrow with all their tribe for a further
witnessing of things, and were allowed to go.

Dennin's hands were released long enough for him to sign the document.
Then a silence fell in the room. Hans was restless, and Edith felt
uncomfortable. Dennin lay on his back, staring straight up at the
moss-chinked roof.

"An' now I'll do me duty to God," he murmured. He turned his head
toward Edith. "Read to me," he said, "from the book;" then added, with
a glint of playfulness, "Mayhap 'twill help me to forget the bunk."

The day of the execution broke clear and cold. The thermometer was down
to twenty-five below zero, and a chill wind was blowing which drove
the frost through clothes and flesh to the bones. For the first time
in many weeks Dennin stood upon his feet. His muscles had remained
inactive so long, and he was so out of practice in maintaining an erect
position, that he could scarcely stand.

He reeled back and forth, staggered, and clutched hold of Edith with his
bound hands for support.

"Sure, an' it's dizzy I am," he laughed weakly.

A moment later he said, "An' it's glad I am that it's over with. That
damn bunk would iv been the death iv me, I know."

When Edith put his fur cap on his head and proceeded to pull the flaps
down over his ears, he laughed and said:

"What are you doin' that for?"

"It's freezing cold outside," she answered.

"An' in tin minutes' time what'll matter a frozen ear or so to poor
Michael Dennin?" he asked.

She had nerved herself for the last culminating ordeal, and his remark
was like a blow to her self-possession. So far, everything had seemed
phantom-like, as in a dream, but the brutal truth of what he had said
shocked her eyes wide open to the reality of what was taking place. Nor
was her distress unnoticed by the Irishman.

"I'm sorry to be troublin' you with me foolish spache," he said
regretfully. "I mint nothin' by it. 'Tis a great day for Michael
Dennin, an' he's as gay as a lark."

He broke out in a merry whistle, which quickly became lugubrious and
ceased.

"I'm wishin' there was a priest," he said wistfully; then added swiftly,
"But Michael Dennin's too old a campaigner to miss the luxuries when he
hits the trail."

He was so very weak and unused to walking that when the door opened
and he passed outside, the wind nearly carried him off his feet. Edith
and Hans walked on either side of him and supported him, the while he
cracked jokes and tried to keep them cheerful, breaking off, once, long
enough to arrange the forwarding of his share of the gold to his mother
in Ireland.

They climbed a slight hill and came out into an open space among the
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