Lost Face E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

It was the end. Subienkow had travelled a long trail of bitterness and horror, homing like a dove for the capitals of Europe, and here, farther away than ever, in Russian America, the trail ceased. He sat in the snow, arms tied behind him, waiting the torture. He stared curiously before him at a huge Cossack, prone in the snow, moaning in his pain. The men had finished handling the giant and turned him over to the women. That they exceeded the fiendishness of the men, the man’s cries attested.

Leseprobe

LostFace

ByJackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

LOSTFACE

It was the end. Subienkow had travelled a long trail of bitterness and horror,homing like a dove for the capitals of Europe, and here, farther away thanever,inRussianAmerica,thetrailceased.Hesatinthesnow,armstiedbehindhim, waiting the torture. He stared curiously before him at a huge Cossack,prone in the snow, moaning in his pain. The men had finished handling thegiant and turned him over to the women. That they exceeded the fiendishnessofthemen,theman’scriesattested.

Subienkow looked on, and shuddered.He was not afraid to die.He hadcarried his life too long in his hands, on that weary trail from Warsaw toNulato, to shudder at mere dying.But he objected to the torture.It offendedhis soul.And this offence, in turn, was not due to the mere pain he mustendure, but to the sorry spectacle the pain would make of him. He knew thathe would pray, and beg, and entreat, even as Big Ivan and the others that hadgone before.This would not be nice.To pass out bravely and cleanly, with asmile and a jest—ah! That would have been the way. But to lose control, tohavehissoulupsetbythepangsoftheflesh,toscreechandgibberlikeanape,tobecometheveriestbeast—ah,thatwaswhatwassoterrible.

There had been no chance to escape. From the beginning, when he dreamedthe fiery dream of Poland’s independence, he had become a puppet in thehandsofFate.Fromthebeginning,atWarsaw,atSt.Petersburg,intheSiberian mines, in Kamtchatka, on the crazy boats of the fur-thieves, Fate hadbeen driving him to this end. Without doubt, in the foundations of the worldwasgravedthisendforhim—forhim,whowassofineandsensitive,whose

nerves scarcely sheltered under his skin, who was a dreamer, and a poet, andan artist. Before he was dreamed of, it had been determined that the quiveringbundle of sensitiveness that constituted him should be doomed to live in rawand howling savagery, and to die in this far land of night, in this dark placebeyondthelastboundariesoftheworld.

Hesighed.SothatthingbeforehimwasBigIvan—BigIvanthegiant,theman without nerves, the man of iron, the Cossack turned freebooter of theseas, who was as phlegmatic as an ox, with a nervous system so low that whatwas pain to ordinary men was scarcely a tickle to him. Well, well, trust theseNulato Indians to find Big Ivan’s nerves and trace them to the roots of hisquivering soul. They were certainly doing it. It was inconceivable that a mancould suffer so much and yet live. Big Ivan was paying for his low order ofnerves.Alreadyhehadlastedtwiceaslongasanyoftheothers.

Subienkow felt that he could not stand the Cossack’s sufferings much longer.Why didn’t Ivan die?He would go mad if that screaming did not cease.Butwhen it did cease, his turn would come. And there was Yakaga awaiting him,too,grinningathimevennowinanticipation—Yakaga,whomonlylastweekhe had kicked out of the fort, and upon whose face he had laid the lash of hisdog-whip.Yakaga would attend to him.Doubtlessly Yakaga was saving forhim more refined tortures, more exquisite nerve-racking. Ah! that must havebeen a good one, from the way Ivan screamed. The squaws bending over himstepped back with laughter and clapping of hands.Subienkow saw themonstrousthingthathadbeenperpetrated,andbegantolaughhysterically.

The Indians looked at him in wonderment that he should laugh. ButSubienkowcouldnotstop.

This would never do. He controlled himself, the spasmodic twitchings slowlydying away. He strove to think of other things, and began reading back in hisown life.He remembered his mother and his father, and the little spottedpony, and the French tutor who had taught him dancing and sneaked him anold worn copy of Voltaire. Once more he saw Paris, and dreary London, andgayVienna,andRome.Andoncemorehesawthatwildgroupofyouthswhohad dreamed, even as he, the dream of an independent Poland with a king ofPolandonthethroneatWarsaw.Ah,thereitwasthatthelongtrailbegan.

Well, he had lasted longest. One by one, beginning with the two executed atSt. Petersburg, he took up the count of the passing of those brave spirits. Hereonehadbeenbeatentodeathbyajailer,andthere,onthatbloodstainedhighwayoftheexiles,wheretheyhadmarchedforendlessmonths,beatenandmaltreatedbytheirCossackguards,anotherhaddroppedbytheway.Alwaysithadbeensavagery—brutal,bestialsavagery.Theyhaddied—offever,inthemines,undertheknout.Thelasttwohaddiedaftertheescape,inthebattlewiththeCossacks,andhealonehadwontoKamtchatkawiththestolenpapers

andthemoneyofatravellerhehadleftlyinginthesnow.

It had been nothing but savagery. All the years, with his heart in studios, andtheatres, and courts, he had been hemmed in by savagery. He had purchasedhis life with blood. Everybody had killed. He had killed that traveller for hispassports. He had proved that he was a man of parts by duelling with twoRussian officers on a single day. He had had to prove himself in order to winto a place among the fur-thieves. He had had to win to that place. Behind himlay the thousand-years-long road across all Siberia and Russia. He could notescape that way. The only way was ahead, across the dark and icy sea ofBering to Alaska. The way had led from savagery to deeper savagery. On thescurvy-rottenshipsofthefur-thieves,outoffoodandoutofwater,buffetedbythe interminable storms of that stormy sea, men had become animals. Thricehe had sailed east from Kamtchatka. And thrice, after all manner of hardshipand suffering, the survivors had come back to Kamtchatka. There had been nooutletforescape,andhecouldnotgobackthewayhehadcome,fortheminesandtheknoutawaitedhim.

Again, the fourth and last time, he had sailed east.He had been with thosewho first found the fabled Seal Islands; but he had not returned with them toshare the wealth of furs in the mad orgies of Kamtchatka. He had sworn neverto go back. He knew that to win to those dear capitals of Europe he must goon.So he had changed ships and remained in the dark new land.Hiscomrades were Slavonian hunters and Russian adventurers, Mongols andTartars and Siberian aborigines; and through the savages of the new worldthey had cut a path of blood. They had massacred whole villages that refusedto furnish the fur-tribute; and they, in turn, had been massacred by ships’companies.He,withoneFinn,hadbeenthesolesurvivorofsuchacompany.TheyhadspentawinterofsolitudeandstarvationonalonelyAleutianisle,andtheirrescueinthespringbyanotherfur-shiphadbeenonechanceinathousand.

But always the terrible savagery had hemmed him in. Passing from ship toship, and ever refusing to return, he had come to the ship that explored south.All down the Alaska coast they had encountered nothing but hosts of savages.Everyanchorageamongthebeetlingislandsorunderthefrowningcliffsofthemainland had meant a battle or a storm. Either the gales blew, threateningdestruction, or the war canoes came off, manned by howling natives with thewar-paint on their faces, who came to learn the bloody virtues of the sea-rovers’ gunpowder. South, south they had coasted, clear to the myth-land ofCalifornia. Here, it was said, were Spanish adventurers who had fought theirwayupfromMexico.HehadhadhopesofthoseSpanishadventurers.Escaping to them, the rest would have been easy—a year or two, what did itmattermoreorless—andhewouldwintoMexico,thenaship,andEurope

would be his. But they had met no Spaniards. Only had they encountered thesameimpregnablewallofsavagery.Thedenizensoftheconfinesoftheworld,painted for war, had driven them back from the shores. At last, when one boatwascutoffandeverymankilled,thecommanderhadabandonedthequestandsailedbacktothenorth.

The years had passed. He had served under Tebenkoff when MichaelovskiRedoubt was built. He had spent two years in the Kuskokwim country. Twosummers, in the month of June, he had managed to be at the head of KotzebueSound. Here, at this time, the tribes assembled for barter; here were to befound spotted deerskins from Siberia, ivory from the Diomedes, walrus skinsfrom the shores of the Arctic, strange stone lamps, passing in trade from tribetotribe,nooneknewwhence,and,once,ahunting-knifeofEnglishmake;andhere, Subienkow knew, was the school in which to learn geography. For hemet Eskimos from Norton Sound, from King Island and St. Lawrence Island,from Cape Prince of Wales, and Point Barrow. Such places had other names,andtheirdistancesweremeasuredindays.

It was a vast region these trading savages came from, and a vaster region fromwhich, by repeated trade, their stone lamps and that steel knife had come.Subienkow bullied, and cajoled, and bribed. Every far-journeyer or strangetribesman was brought before him. Perils unaccountable and unthinkable werementioned, as well as wild beasts, hostile tribes, impenetrable forests, andmighty mountain ranges; but always from beyond came the rumour and thetale of white-skinned men, blue of eye and fair of hair, who fought like devilsand who sought always for furs. They were to the east—far, far to the east. Noonehadseenthem.Itwasthewordthathadbeenpassedalong.

It was a hard school. One could not learn geography very well through themedium of strange dialects, from dark minds that mingled fact and fable andthat measured distances by “sleeps” that varied according to the difficulty ofthe going. But at last came the whisper that gave Subienkow courage. In theeastlayagreatriverwhereweretheseblue-eyedmen.TheriverwascalledtheYukon. South of Michaelovski Redoubt emptied another great river which theRussiansknewastheKwikpak.Thesetworiverswereone,ranthewhisper.

SubienkowreturnedtoMichaelovski.ForayearheurgedanexpeditionuptheKwikpak.ThenaroseMalakoff,theRussianhalf-breed,toleadthewildestandmost ferocious of the hell’s broth of mongrel adventurers who had crossedfrom Kamtchatka. Subienkow was his lieutenant. They threaded the mazes ofthe great delta of the Kwikpak, picked up the first low hills on the northernbank, and for half a thousand miles, in skin canoes loaded to the gunwaleswithtrade-goodsandammunition,foughttheirwayagainstthefive-knotcurrent of a river that ran from two to ten miles wide in a channel manyfathomsdeep.MalakoffdecidedtobuildthefortatNulato.Subienkowurged

to go farther. But he quickly reconciled himself to Nulato. The long winterwas coming on. It would be better to wait. Early the following summer, whenthe ice was gone, he would disappear up the Kwikpak and work his way to theHudson Bay Company’s posts. Malakoff had never heard the whisper that theKwikpakwastheYukon,andSubienkowdidnottellhim.

Came the building of the fort. It was enforced labour. The tiered walls of logsarose to the sighs and groans of the Nulato Indians. The lash was laid upontheir backs, and it was the iron hand of the freebooters of the sea that laid onthe lash. There were Indians that ran away, and when they were caught theywere brought back and spread-eagled before the fort, where they and theirtribe learned the efficacy of the knout. Two died under it; others were injuredfor life; and the rest took the lesson to heart and ran away no more. The snowwas flying ere the fort was finished, and then it was the time for furs. A heavytribute was laid upon the tribe. Blows and lashings continued, and that thetribute should be paid, the women and children were held as hostages andtreatedwiththebarbaritythatonlythefur-thievesknew.

Well, it had been a sowing of blood, and now was come the harvest. The fortwas gone. In the light of its burning, half the fur-thieves had been cut down.The other half had passed under the torture. Only Subienkow remained, orSubienkowandBigIvan,ifthatwhimpering,moaningthinginthesnowcouldbe called Big Ivan. Subienkow caught Yakaga grinning at him. There was nogainsaying Yakaga. The mark of the lash was still on his face. After all,Subienkow could not blame him, but he disliked the thought of what Yakagawoulddotohim.HethoughtofappealingtoMakamuk,thehead-chief;buthisjudgment told him that such appeal was useless. Then, too, he thought ofbursting his bonds and dying fighting. Such an end would be quick. But hecouldnotbreakhisbonds.Caribouthongswerestrongerthanhe.Stilldevising, another thought came to him. He signed for Makamuk, and that aninterpreterwhoknewthecoastdialectshouldbebrought.

“Oh, Makamuk,” he said, “I am not minded to die. I am a great man, and itwere foolishness for me to die. In truth, I shall not die. I am not like theseothercarrion.”

He looked at the moaning thing that had once been Big Ivan, and stirred itcontemptuouslywithhistoe.

“I am too wise to die. Behold, I have a great medicine. I alone know thismedicine. Since I am not going to die, I shall exchange this medicine withyou.”

“Whatisthismedicine?”Makamukdemanded.“Itisastrangemedicine.”

Subienkowdebatedwithhimselfforamoment,asiflothtopartwiththe

secret.

“I will tell you. A little bit of this medicine rubbed on the skin makes the skinhard like a rock, hard like iron, so that no cutting weapon can cut it. Thestrongest blow of a cutting weapon is a vain thing against it. A bone knifebecomes like a piece of mud; and it will turn the edge of the iron knives wehavebroughtamongyou.Whatwillyougivemeforthesecretofthemedicine?”

“Iwillgiveyouyourlife,”Makamukmadeanswerthroughtheinterpreter.Subienkowlaughedscornfully.

“Andyoushallbeaslaveinmyhouseuntilyoudie.”ThePolelaughedmorescornfully.

“Untiemyhandsandfeetandletustalk,”hesaid.

Thechiefmadethesign;andwhenhewasloosedSubienkowrolledacigaretteandlightedit.

“Thisisfoolishtalk,”saidMakamuk.“Thereisnosuchmedicine.Itcannotbe.Acuttingedgeisstrongerthananymedicine.”

Thechiefwasincredulous,andyethewavered.Hehadseentoomanydeviltriesoffur-thievesthatworked.Hecouldnotwhollydoubt.

“Iwillgiveyouyourlife;butyoushallnotbeaslave,”heannounced.“Morethanthat.”

Subienkowplayedhisgameascoollyasifhewerebarteringforafoxskin.

“It is a very great medicine. It has saved my life many times. I want a sled anddogs, and six of your hunters to travel with me down the river and give mesafetytooneday’ssleepfromMichaelovskiRedoubt.”

“Youmustlivehere,andteachusallofyourdeviltries,”wasthereply.

Subienkow shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. He blew cigarettesmoke out on the icy air, and curiously regarded what remained of the bigCossack.

“That scar!” Makamuk said suddenly, pointing to the Pole’s neck, where alivid mark advertised the slash of a knife in a Kamtchatkan brawl. “Themedicineisnotgood.Thecuttingedgewasstrongerthanthemedicine.”

“Itwasastrongmanthatdrovethestroke.”(Subienkowconsidered.)“Strongerthanyou,strongerthanyourstrongesthunter,strongerthanhe.”

Again,withthetoeofhismoccasin,hetouchedtheCossack—agrislyspectacle, no longer conscious—yet in whose dismembered body the pain-rackedlifeclungandwaslothtogo.

“Also, the medicine was weak. For at that place there were no berries of acertainkind,ofwhichIseeyouhaveplentyinthiscountry.Themedicineherewillbestrong.”

“I will let you go down river,” said Makamuk; “and the sled and the dogs andthesixhunterstogiveyousafetyshallbeyours.”

“You are slow,” was the cool rejoinder. “You have committed an offenceagainst my medicine in that you did not at once accept my terms. Behold, Inowdemandmore.Iwantonehundredbeaverskins.”(Makamuksneered.)

“I want one hundred pounds of dried fish.” (Makamuk nodded, for fish wereplentiful and cheap.) “I want two sleds—one for me and one for my furs andfish. And my rifle must be returned to me. If you do not like the price, in alittlewhilethepricewillgrow.”

Yakagawhisperedtothechief.

“ButhowcanIknowyourmedicineistruemedicine?”Makamukasked.“Itisveryeasy.First,Ishallgointothewoods—”

AgainYakagawhisperedtoMakamuk,whomadeasuspiciousdissent.

“Youcansendtwentyhunterswithme,”Subienkowwenton.“Yousee,Imustgettheberriesandtherootswithwhichtomakethemedicine.Then,whenyouhave brought the two sleds and loaded on them the fish and the beaver skinsandtherifle,andwhenyouhavetoldoffthesixhunterswhowillgowithme

—then, when all is ready, I will rub the medicine on my neck, so, and lay myneck there on that log. Then can your strongest hunter take the axe and strikethreetimesonmyneck.Youyourselfcanstrikethethreetimes.”

Makamukstoodwithgapingmouth,drinkinginthislatestandmostwonderfulmagicofthefur-thieves.

“But first,” the Pole added hastily, “between each blow I must put on freshmedicine.Theaxeisheavyandsharp,andIwantnomistakes.”

“Allthatyouhaveaskedshallbeyours,”Makamukcriedinarushofacceptance.“Proceedtomakeyourmedicine.”

Subienkow concealed his elation. He was playing a desperate game, and theremustbenoslips.Hespokearrogantly.

“You have been slow. My medicine is offended. To make the offence cleanyoumustgivemeyourdaughter.”

He pointed to the girl, an unwholesome creature, with a cast in one eye and abristlingwolf-tooth.Makamukwasangry,butthePoleremainedimperturbable,rollingandlightinganothercigarette.

“Makehaste,”hethreatened.“Ifyouarenotquick,Ishalldemandyetmore.”

In the silence that followed, the dreary northland scene faded before him, andhe saw once more his native land, and France, and, once, as he glanced at thewolf-toothedgirl,herememberedanothergirl,asingerandadancer,whomhehadknownwhenfirstasayouthhecametoParis.

“Whatdoyouwantwiththegirl?”Makamukasked.

“To go down the river with me.” Subienkow glanced over her critically. “Shewill make a good wife, and it is an honour worthy of my medicine to bemarriedtoyourblood.”

Again he remembered the singer and dancer and hummed aloud a song shehadtaughthim.Helivedtheoldlifeover,butinadetached,impersonalsortofway, looking at the memory-pictures of his own life as if they were pictures ina book of anybody’s life. The chief’s voice, abruptly breaking the silence,startledhim

“It shall be done,” said Makamuk. “The girl shall go down the river with you.But be it understood that I myself strike the three blows with the axe on yourneck.”

“But each time I shall put on the medicine,” Subienkow answered, with ashowofill-concealedanxiety.

“You shall put the medicine on between each blow. Here are the hunters whoshallseeyoudonotescape.Gointotheforestandgatheryourmedicine.”

Makamuk had been convinced of the worth of the medicine by the Pole’srapacity.Surelynothinglessthanthegreatestofmedicinescouldenableamanintheshadowofdeathtostandupanddriveanold-woman’sbargain.