CHAPTER ONE THE PELICAN If it hadn’t been for the pelican, Jack London would have been murdered by the wolves. Even lulled by the gentle motion of the ship, he had been unable to sleep or rest, though in truth that was all his body craved. His mind burned with memories of his adventures in the north, and each ache, pain, and wound recalled those experiences as surely as a smell or sound. Confined in a cramped ship’s cabin with his friend Merritt Sloper and three weary men whose eyes were flat with defeat, Jack felt his senses sing with yearning. It had been only days since they had departed Alaska. After so long in the wilderness—and with his own wild nature urging him to run, to climb, to live—he felt stifled by that room, and it was inevitable that the pressure would drive him up here, onto the deck. And so it had been for the last three nights. The days were easier, filled with casual conversations and hours spent gazing into the hazy distance, wrapped against the cold and yet buffeted by the sun. But the nights were more difficult. It was as if the darkness called him into its embrace—not just the false shade of a room without light, but the darkness of infinity. Jack breathed in the fresh air and held on to the railing, legs shifting slightly as