I scarcely know where to begin, though I sometimes facetiously place thecause of it all to Charley Furuseth’s credit. He kept a summer cottagein Mill Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, and never occupiedit except when he loafed through the winter months and read Nietzsche andSchopenhauer to rest his brain. When summer came on, he elected to sweatout a hot and dusty existence in the city and to toil incessantly. Hadit not been my custom to run up to see him every Saturday afternoon andto stop over till Monday morning, this particular January Monday morningwould not have found me afloat on San Francisco Bay.

Not but that I was afloat in a safe craft, for the _Martinez_ was a newferry-steamer, making her fourth or fifth trip on the run betweenSausalito and San Francisco. The danger lay in the heavy fog whichblanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman, I had littleapprehension. In fact, I remember the placid exaltation with which Itook up my position on the forward upper deck, directly beneath thepilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog to lay hold of myimagination. A fresh breeze was blowing, and for a time I was alone inthe moist obscurity—yet not alone, for I was dimly conscious of thepresence of the pilot, and of what I took to be the captain, in the glasshouse above my head.

I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division of labour whichmade it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, tides, and navigation,in order to visit my friend who lived across an arm of the sea. It wasgood that men should be specialists, I mused. The peculiar knowledge ofthe pilot and captain sufficed for many thousands of people who knew nomore of the sea and navigation than I knew. On the other hand, insteadof having to devote my energy to the learning of a multitude of things, Iconcentrated it upon a few particular things, such as, for instance, theanalysis of Poe’s place in American literature—an essay of mine, by theway, in the current _Atlantic_. Coming aboard, as I passed through thecabin, I had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the_Atlantic_, which was open at my very essay. And there it was again, thedivision of labour, the special knowledge of the pilot and captain whichpermitted the stout gentleman to read my special knowledge on Poe whilethey carried him safely from Sausalito to San Francisco.

A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out onthe deck, interrupted my reflections, though I made a mental note of thetopic for use in a projected essay which I had thought of calling “TheNecessity for Freedom: A Plea for the Artist.” The red-faced man shot aglance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped across thedeck and back (he evidently had artificial legs), and stood still by myside, legs wide apart, and with an expression of keen enjoyment on hisface. I was not wrong when I decided that his days had been spent on thesea.

“It’s nasty weather like this here that turns heads grey before theirtime,” he said, with a nod toward the pilot-house.

“I had not thought there was any particular strain,” I answered. “Itseems as simple as A, B, C. They know the direction by compass, thedistance, and the speed. I should not call it anything more thanmathematical certainty.”

“Strain!” he snorted. “Simple as A, B, C! Mathematical certainty!”

He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as hestared at me. “How about this here tide that’s rushin’ out through theGolden Gate?” he demanded, or bellowed, rather. “How fast is she ebbin’?What’s the drift, eh? Listen to that, will you? A bell-buoy, and we’rea-top of it! See ’em alterin’ the course!”

From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could seethe pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity. The bell, which hadseemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side. Our own whistlewas blowing hoarsely, and from time to time the sound of other whistlescame to us from out of the fog.

“That’s a ferry-boat of some sort,” the new-comer said, indicating awhistle off to the right. “And there! D’ye hear that? Blown by mouth.Some scow schooner, most likely. Better watch out, Mr. Schooner-man.Ah, I thought so. Now hell’s a poppin’ for somebody!”

The unseen ferry-boat was blowing blast after blast, and the mouth-blownhorn was tooting in terror-stricken fashion.

“And now they’re payin’ their respects to each other and tryin’ to getclear,” the red-faced man went on, as the hurried whistling ceased.

His face was shining, his eyes flashing with excitement as he translatedinto articulate language the speech of the horns and sirens. “That’s asteam-siren a-goin’ it over there to the left. And you hear that fellowwith a frog in his throat—a steam schooner as near as I can judge,crawlin’ in from the Heads against the tide.”

A shrill little whistle, piping as if gone mad, came from directly aheadand from very near at hand. Gongs sounded on the _Martinez_. Ourpaddle-wheels stopped, their pulsing beat died away, and then theystarted again. The shrill little whistle, like the chirping of a cricketamid the cries of great beasts, shot through the fog from more to theside and swiftly grew faint and fainter. I looked to my companion forenlightenment.

“One of them dare-devil launches,” he said. “I almost wish we’d sunkhim, the little rip! They’re the cause of more trouble. And what goodare they? Any jackass gets aboard one and runs it from hell tobreakfast, blowin’ his whistle to beat the band and tellin’ the rest ofthe world to look out for him, because he’s comin’ and can’t look out forhimself! Because he’s comin’! And you’ve got to look out, too! Rightof way! Common decency! They don’t know the meanin’ of it!”

I felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler, and while he stumpedindignantly up and down I fell to dwelling upon the romance of the fog.And romantic it certainly was—the fog, like the grey shadow of infinitemystery, brooding over the whirling speck of earth; and men, mere motesof light and sparkle, cursed with an insane relish for work, riding theirsteeds of wood and steel through the heart of the mystery, groping theirway blindly through the Unseen, and clamouring and clanging in confidentspeech the while their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear.

The voice of my companion brought me back to myself with a laugh. I toohad been groping and floundering, the while I thought I rode clear-eyedthrough the mystery.

“Hello! somebody comin’ our way,” he was saying. “And d’ye hear that?He’s comin’ fast. Walking right along. Guess he don’t hear us yet.Wind’s in wrong direction.”

The fresh breeze was blowing right down upon us, and I could hear thewhistle plainly, off to one side and a little ahead.

“Ferry-boat?” I asked.

He nodded, then added, “Or he wouldn’t be keepin’ up such a clip.” Hegave a short chuckle. “They’re gettin’ anxious up there.”

I glanced up. The captain had thrust his head and shoulders out of thepilot-house, and was staring intently into the fog as though by sheerforce of will he could penetrate it. His face was anxious, as was theface of my companion, who had stumped over to the rail and was gazingwith a like intentness in the direction of the invisible danger.

Then everything happened, and with inconceivable rapidity. The fogseemed to break away as though split by a wedge, and the bow of asteamboat emerged, trailing fog-wreaths on either side like seaweed onthe snout of Leviathan. I could see the pilot-house and a white-beardedman leaning partly out of it, on his elbows. He was clad in a blueuniform, and I remember noting how trim and quiet he was. His quietness,under the circumstances, was terrible. He accepted Destiny, marched handin hand with it, and coolly measured the stroke. As he leaned there, heran a calm and speculative eye over us, as though to determine theprecise point of the collision, and took no notice whatever when ourpilot, white with rage, shouted, “Now you’ve done it!”

On looking back, I realize that the remark was too obvious to makerejoinder necessary.

“Grab hold of something and hang on,” the red-faced man said to me. Allhis bluster had gone, and he seemed to have caught the contagion ofpreternatural calm. “And listen to the women scream,” he saidgrimly—almost bitterly, I thought, as though he had been through theexperience before.

The vessels came together before I could follow his advice. We must havebeen struck squarely amidships, for I saw nothing, the strange steamboathaving passed beyond my line of vision. The _Martinez_ heeled over,sharply, and there was a crashing and rending of timber. I was thrownflat on the wet deck, and before I could scramble to my feet I heard thescream of the women. This it was, I am certain,—the most indescribableof blood-curdling sounds,—that threw me into a panic. I remembered thelife-preservers stored in the cabin, but was met at the door and sweptbackward by a wild rush of men and women. What happened in the next fewminutes I do not recollect, though I have a clear remembrance of pullingdown life-preservers from the overhead racks, while the red-faced manfastened them about the bodies of an hysterical group of women. Thismemory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture I have seen. Itis a picture, and I can see it now,—the jagged edges of the hole in theside of the cabin, through which the grey fog swirled and eddied; theempty upholstered seats, littered with all the evidences of suddenflight, such as packages, hand satchels, umbrellas, and wraps; the stoutgentleman who had been reading my essay, encased in cork and canvas, themagazine still in his hand, and asking me with monotonous insistence if Ithought there was any danger; the red-faced man, stumping gallantlyaround on his artificial legs and buckling life-preservers on all comers;and finally, the screaming bedlam of women.

This it was, the screaming of the women, that most tried my nerves. Itmust have tried, too, the nerves of the red-faced man, for I have anotherpicture which will never fade from my mind. The stout gentleman isstuffing the magazine into his overcoat pocket and looking on curiously.A tangled mass of women, with drawn, white faces and open mouths, isshrieking like a chorus of lost souls; and the red-faced man, his facenow purplish with wrath, and with arms extended overhead as in the act ofhurling thunderbolts, is shouting, “Shut up! Oh, shut up!”

I remember the scene impelled me to sudden laughter, and in the nextinstant I realized I was becoming hysterical myself; for these were womenof my own kind, like my mother and sisters, with the fear of death uponthem and unwilling to die. And I remember that the sounds they madereminded me of the squealing of pigs under the knife of the butcher, andI was struck with horror at the vividness of the analogy. These women,capable of the most sublime emotions, of the tenderest sympathies, wereopen-mouthed and screaming. They wanted to live, they were helpless,like rats in a trap, and they screamed.

The horror of it drove me out on deck. I was feeling sick and squeamish,and sat down on a bench. In a hazy way I saw and heard men rushing andshouting as they strove to lower the boats. It was just as I had readdescriptions of such scenes in books. The tackles jammed. Nothingworked. One boat lowered away with the plugs out, filled with women andchildren and then with water, and capsized. Another boat had beenlowered by one end, and still hung in the tackle by the other end, whereit had been abandoned. Nothing was to be seen of the strange steamboatwhich had caused the disaster, though I heard men saying that she wouldundoubtedly send boats to our assistance.

I descended to the lower deck. The _Martinez_ was sinking fast, for thewater was very near. Numbers of the passengers were leaping overboard.Others, in the water, were clamouring to be taken aboard again. No oneheeded them. A cry arose that we were sinking. I was seized by theconsequent panic, and went over the side in a surge of bodies. How Iwent over I do not know, though I did know, and instantly, why those inthe water were so desirous of getting back on the steamer. The water wascold—so cold that it was painful. The pang, as I plunged into it, was asquick and sharp as that of fire. It bit to the marrow. It was like thegrip of death. I gasped with the anguish and shock of it, filling mylungs before the life-preserver popped me to the surface. The taste ofthe salt was strong in my mouth, and I was strangling with the acridstuff in my throat and lungs.

But it was the cold that was most distressing. I felt that I couldsurvive but a few minutes. People were struggling and floundering in thewater about me. I could hear them crying out to one another. And Iheard, also, the sound of oars. Evidently the strange steamboat hadlowered its boats. As the time went by I marvelled that I was stillalive. I had no sensation whatever in my lower limbs, while a chillingnumbness was wrapping about my heart and creeping into it. Small waves,with spiteful foaming crests, continually broke over me and into mymouth, sending me off into more strangling paroxysms.

The noises grew indistinct, though I heard a final and despairing chorusof screams in the distance, and knew that the _Martinez_ had gone down.Later,—how much later I have no knowledge,—I came to myself with a startof fear. I was alone. I could hear no calls or cries—only the sound ofthe waves, made weirdly hollow and reverberant by the fog. A panic in acrowd, which partakes of a sort of community of interest, is not soterrible as a panic when one is by oneself; and such a panic I nowsuffered. Whither was I drifting? The red-faced man had said that thetide was ebbing through the Golden Gate. Was I, then, being carried outto sea? And the life-preserver in which I floated? Was it not liable togo to pieces at any moment? I had heard of such things being made ofpaper and hollow rushes which quickly became saturated and lost allbuoyancy. And I could not swim a stroke. And I was alone, floating,apparently, in the midst of a grey primordial vastness. I confess that amadness seized me, that I shrieked aloud as the women had shrieked, andbeat the water with my numb hands.

How long this lasted I have no conception, for a blankness intervened, ofwhich I remember no more than one remembers of troubled and painfulsleep. When I aroused, it was as after centuries of time; and I saw,almost above me and emerging from the fog, the bow of a vessel, and threetriangular sails, each shrewdly lapping the other and filled with wind.Where the bow cut the water there was a great foaming and gurgling, and Iseemed directly in its path. I tried to cry out, but was too exhausted.The bow plunged down, just missing me and sending a swash of water clearover my head. Then the long, black side of the vessel began slippingpast, so near that I could have touched it with my hands. I tried toreach it, in a mad resolve to claw into the wood with my nails, but myarms were heavy and lifeless. Again I strove to call out, but made nosound.

The stern of the vessel shot by, dropping, as it did so, into a hollowbetween the waves; and I caught a glimpse of a man standing at the wheel,and of another man who seemed to be doing little else than smoke a cigar.I saw the smoke issuing from his lips as he slowly turned his head andglanced out over the water in my direction. It was a careless,unpremeditated glance, one of those haphazard things men do when theyhave no immediate call to do anything in particular, but act because theyare alive and must do something.

But life and death were in that glance. I could see the vessel beingswallowed up in the fog; I saw the back of the man at the wheel, and thehead of the other man turning, slowly turning, as his gaze struck thewater and casually lifted along it toward me. His face wore an absentexpression, as of deep thought, and I became afraid that if his eyes didlight upon me he would nevertheless not see me. But his eyes did lightupon me, and looked squarely into mine; and he did see me, for he sprangto the wheel, thrusting the other man aside, and whirled it round andround, hand over hand, at the same time shouting orders of some sort.The vessel seemed to go off at a tangent to its former course and leaptalmost instantly from view into the fog.

I felt myself slipping into unconsciousness, and tried with all the powerof my will to fight above the suffocating blankness and darkness that wasrising around me. A little later I heard the stroke of oars, growingnearer and nearer, and the calls of a man. When he was very near I heardhim crying, in vexed fashion, “Why in hell don’t you sing out?” Thismeant me, I thought, and then the blankness and darkness rose over me.