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End Of The Tether
By
Joseph Conrad
Contents
I =
II =
III =
VI =
VII =
VIII =
XI =
XII =
XIII =
THE
END OF THE TETHER
By
Joseph Conrad
I
For a long time a=
fter
the course of the steamer Sofala had been altered for the land, the low swa=
mpy
coast had retained its appearance of a mere smudge of darkness beyond a bel=
t of
glitter. The sunrays seemed to fall violently upon the calm sea--seemed to
shatter themselves upon an adamantine surface into sparkling dust, into a
dazzling vapor of light that blinded the eye and wearied the brain with its
unsteady brightness.
Captain Whalley d=
id
not look at it. When his Serang, approaching the roomy cane arm-chair which=
he
filled capably, had informed him in a low voice that the course was to be a=
ltered,
he had risen at once and had remained on his feet, face forward, while the =
head
of his ship swung through a quarter of a circle. He had not uttered a single
word, not even the word to steady the helm. It was the Serang, an elderly,
alert, little Malay, with a very dark skin, who murmured the order to the h=
elmsman.
And then slowly Captain Whalley sat down again in the arm-chair on the brid=
ge
and fixed his eyes on the deck between his feet.
He could not hope=
to
see anything new upon this lane of the sea. He had been on these coasts for=
the
last three years. From Low Cape to Malantan the distance was fifty miles, s=
ix
hours' steaming for the old ship with the tide, or seven against. Then you
steered straight for the land, and by-and-by three palms would appear on the
sky, tall and slim, and with their disheveled heads in a bunch, as if in
confidential criticism of the dark mangroves. The Sofala would be headed
towards the somber strip of the coast, which at a given moment, as the ship
closed with it obliquely, would show several clean shining fractures--the
brimful estuary of a river. Then on through a brown liquid, three parts wat=
er and
one part black earth, on and on between the low shores, three parts black e=
arth
and one part brackish water, the Sofala would plow her way up-stream, as she
had done once every month for these seven years or more, long before he was
aware of her existence, long before he had ever thought of having anything =
to
do with her and her invariable voyages. The old ship ought to have known the
road better than her men, who had not been kept so long at it without a cha=
nge;
better than the faithful Serang, whom he had brought over from his last shi=
p to
keep the captain's watch; better than he himself, who had been her captain =
for the
last three years only. She could always be depended upon to make her course=
s.
Her compasses were never out. She was no trouble at all to take about, as if
her great age had given her knowledge, wisdom, and steadiness. She made her
landfalls to a degree of the bearing, and almost to a minute of her allowed
time. At any moment, as he sat on the bridge without looking up, or lay
sleepless in his bed, simply by reckoning the days and the hours he could t=
ell
where he was--the precise spot of the beat. He knew it well too, this
monotonous huckster's round, up and down the Straits; he knew its order and=
its
sights and its people. Malacca to begin with, in at daylight and out at dus=
k,
to cross over with a rigid phosphorescent wake this highway of the Far East=
. Darkness
and gleams on the water, clear stars on a black sky, perhaps the lights of a
home steamer keeping her unswerving course in the middle, or maybe the elus=
ive
shadow of a native craft with her mat sails flitting by silently--and the l=
ow
land on the other side in sight at daylight. At noon the three palms of the
next place of call, up a sluggish river. The only white man residing there =
was
a retired young sailor, with whom he had become friendly in the course of m=
any
voyages. Sixty miles farther on there was another place of call, a deep bay
with only a couple of houses on the beach. And so on, in and out, picking up
coastwise cargo here and there, and finishing with a hundred miles' steady
steaming through the maze of an archipelago of small islands up to a large
native town at the end of the beat. There was a three days' rest for the old
ship before he started her again in inverse order, seeing the same shores f=
rom
another bearing, hearing the same voices in the same places, back again to =
the
Sofala's port of registry on the great highway to the East, where he would =
take
up a berth nearly opposite the big stone pile of the harbor office till it =
was
time to start again on the old round of 1600 miles and thirty days. Not a v=
ery enterprising
life, this, for Captain Whalley, Henry Whalley, otherwise Dare-devil
Harry--Whalley of the Condor, a famous clipper in her day. No. Not a very
enterprising life for a man who had served famous firms, who had sailed fam=
ous
ships (more than one or two of them his own); who had made famous passages,=
had
been the pioneer of new routes and new trades; who had steered across the
unsurveyed tracts of the South Seas, and had seen the sun rise on uncharted
islands. Fifty years at sea, and forty out in the East ("a pretty thor=
ough
apprenticeship," he used to remark smilingly), had made him honorably
known to a generation of shipowners and merchants in all the ports from Bom=
bay
clear over to where the East merges into the West upon the coast of the two
Americas. His fame remained writ, not very large but plain enough, on the A=
dmiralty
charts. Was there not somewhere between Australia and China a Whalley Island
and a Condor Reef? On that dangerous coral formation the celebrated clipper=
had
hung stranded for three days, her captain and crew throwing her cargo overb=
oard
with one hand and with the other, as it were, keeping off her a flotilla of
savage war-canoes. At that time neither the island nor the reef had any
official existence. Later the officers of her Majesty's steam vessel Fusili=
er,
dispatched to make a survey of the route, recognized in the adoption of the=
se
two names the enterprise of the man and the solidity of the ship. Besides, =
as
anyone who cares may see, the "General Directory," vol. ii. p. 41=
0,
begins the description of the "Malotu or Whalley Passage" with the
words: "This advantageous route, first discovered in 1850 by Captain
Whalley in the ship Condor," &c., and ends by recommending it warm=
ly
to sailing vessels leaving the China ports for the south in the months from
December to April inclusive.
This was the clea=
rest
gain he had out of life. Nothing could rob him of this kind of fame. The
piercing of the Isthmus of Suez, like the breaking of a dam, had let in upon
the East a flood of new ships, new men, new methods of trade. It had changed
the face of the Eastern seas and the very spirit of their life; so that his
early experiences meant nothing whatever to the new generation of seamen.
In those bygone d=
ays
he had handled many thousands of pounds of his employers' money and of his =
own;
he had attended faithfully, as by law a shipmaster is expected to do, to the
conflicting interests of owners, charterers, and underwriters. He had never
lost a ship or consented to a shady transaction; and he had lasted well,
outlasting in the end the conditions that had gone to the making of his nam=
e.
He had buried his wife (in the Gulf of Petchili), had married off his daugh=
ter
to the man of her unlucky choice, and had lost more than an ample competenc=
e in
the crash of the notorious Travancore and Deccan Banking Corporation, whose=
downfall
had shaken the East like an earthquake. And he was sixty-five years old.
II
His age sat lightly enough on him; =
and of
his ruin he was not ashamed. He had not been alone to believe in the stabil=
ity
of the Banking Corporation. Men whose judgment in matters of finance was as
expert as his seamanship had commended the prudence of his investments, and=
had
themselves lost much money in the great failure. The only difference between
him and them was that he had lost his all. And yet not his all. There had
remained to him from his lost fortune a very pretty little bark, Fair Maid,
which he had bought to occupy his leisure of a retired sailor--"to play
with," as he expressed it himself.
He had formally
declared himself tired of the sea the year preceding his daughter's marriag=
e.
But after the young couple had gone to settle in Melbourne he found out tha=
t he
could not make himself happy on shore. He was too much of a merchant
sea-captain for mere yachting to satisfy him. He wanted the illusion of
affairs; and his acquisition of the Fair Maid preserved the continuity of h=
is
life. He introduced her to his acquaintances in various ports as "my l=
ast
command." When he grew too old to be trusted with a ship, he would lay=
her
up and go ashore to be buried, leaving directions in his will to have the b=
ark
towed out and scuttled decently in deep water on the day of the funeral. His
daughter would not grudge him the satisfaction of knowing that no stranger
would handle his last command after him. With the fortune he was able to le=
ave her,
the value of a 500-ton bark was neither here nor there. All this would be s=
aid
with a jocular twinkle in his eye: the vigorous old man had too much vitali=
ty
for the sentimentalism of regret; and a little wistfully withal, because he=
was
at home in life, taking a genuine pleasure in its feelings and its possessi=
ons;
in the dignity of his reputation and his wealth, in his love for his daught=
er,
and in his satisfaction with the ship--the plaything of his lonely leisure.=
He had the cabin
arranged in accordance with his simple ideal of comfort at sea. A big bookc=
ase
(he was a great reader) occupied one side of his stateroom; the portrait of=
his
late wife, a flat bituminous oil-painting representing the profile and one =
long
black ringlet of a young woman, faced his bed-place. Three chronometers tic=
ked
him to sleep and greeted him on waking with the tiny competition of their
beats. He rose at five every day. The officer of the morning watch, drinking
his early cup of coffee aft by the wheel, would hear through the wide orifi=
ce
of the copper ventilators all the splashings, blowings, and splutterings of=
his
captain's toilet. These noises would be followed by a sustained deep murmur=
of
the Lord's Prayer recited in a loud earnest voice. Five minutes afterwards =
the
head and shoulders of Captain Whalley emerged out of the companion-hatchway.
Invariably he paused for a while on the stairs, looking all round at the
horizon; upwards at the trim of the sails; inhaling deep draughts of the fr=
esh
air. Only then he would step out on the poop, acknowledging the hand raised=
to
the peak of the cap with a majestic and benign "Good morning to you.&q=
uot;
He walked the deck till eight scrupulously. Sometimes, not above twice a ye=
ar,
he had to use a thick cudgel-like stick on account of a stiffness in the hi=
p--a
slight touch of rheumatism, he supposed. Otherwise he knew nothing of the i=
lls
of the flesh. At the ringing of the breakfast bell he went below to feed his
canaries, wind up the chronometers, and take the head of the table. From th=
ere
he had before his eyes the big carbon photographs of his daughter, her husb=
and,
and two fat-legged babies --his grandchildren--set in black frames into the
maplewood bulkheads of the cuddy. After breakfast he dusted the glass over
these portraits himself with a cloth, and brushed the oil painting of his w=
ife
with a plumate kept suspended from a small brass hook by the side of the he=
avy gold
frame. Then with the door of his stateroom shut, he would sit down on the c=
ouch
under the portrait to read a chapter out of a thick pocket Bible--her Bible.
But on some days he only sat there for half an hour with his finger between=
the
leaves and the closed book resting on his knees. Perhaps he had remembered =
suddenly
how fond of boat-sailing she used to be.
She had been a re=
al
shipmate and a true woman too. It was like an article of faith with him that
there never had been, and never could be, a brighter, cheerier home anywhere
afloat or ashore than his home under the poop-deck of the Condor, with the =
big
main cabin all white and gold, garlanded as if for a perpetual festival wit=
h an
unfading wreath. She had decorated the center of every panel with a cluster=
of
home flowers. It took her a twelvemonth to go round the cuddy with this lab=
or
of love. To him it had remained a marvel of painting, the highest achieveme=
nt
of taste and skill; and as to old Swinburne, his mate, every time he came d=
own
to his meals he stood transfixed with admiration before the progress of the
work. You could almost smell these roses, he declared, sniffing the faint
flavor of turpentine which at that time pervaded the saloon, and (as he
confessed afterwards) made him somewhat less hearty than usual in tackling =
his
food. But there was nothing of the sort to interfere with his enjoyment of =
her
singing. "Mrs. Whalley is a regular out-and-out nightingale, sir,"=
; he
would pronounce with a judicial air after listening profoundly over the
skylight to the very end of the piece. In fine weather, in the second
dog-watch, the two men could hear her trills and roulades going on to the
accompaniment of the piano in the cabin. On the very day they got engaged he
had written to London for the instrument; but they had been married for ove=
r a
year before it reached them, coming out round the Cape. The big case made p=
art
of the first direct general cargo landed in Hong-kong harbor--an event that=
to the
men who walked the busy quays of to-day seemed as hazily remote as the dark
ages of history. But Captain Whalley could in a half hour of solitude live
again all his life, with its romance, its idyl, and its sorrow. He had to c=
lose
her eyes himself. She went away from under the ensign like a sailor's wife,=
a
sailor herself at heart. He had read the service over her, out of her own
prayer-book, without a break in his voice. When he raised his eyes he could=
see
old Swinburne facing him with his cap pressed to his breast, and his rugged,
weather-beaten, impassive face streaming with drops of water like a lump of
chipped red granite in a shower. It was all very well for that old sea-dog =
to
cry. He had to read on to the end; but after the splash he did not remember=
much
of what happened for the next few days. An elderly sailor of the crew, deft=
at
needlework, put together a mourning frock for the child out of one of her b=
lack
skirts.
He was not likely=
to
forget; but you cannot dam up life like a sluggish stream. It will break out
and flow over a man's troubles, it will close upon a sorrow like the sea up=
on a
dead body, no matter how much love has gone to the bottom. And the world is=
not
bad. People had been very kind to him; especially Mrs. Gardner, the wife of=
the
senior partner in Gardner, Patteson, & Co., the owners of the Condor. It
was she who volunteered to look after the little one, and in due course took
her to England (something of a journey in those days, even by the overland =
mail
route) with her own girls to finish her education. It was ten years before =
he
saw her again.
As a little child=
she
had never been frightened of bad weather; she would beg to be taken up on d=
eck
in the bosom of his oilskin coat to watch the big seas hurling themselves u=
pon
the Condor. The swirl and crash of the waves seemed to fill her small soul =
with
a breathless delight. "A good boy spoiled," he used to say of her=
in
joke. He had named her Ivy because of the sound of the word, and obscurely
fascinated by a vague association of ideas. She had twined herself tightly
round his heart, and he intended her to cling close to her father as to a t=
ower
of strength; forgetting, while she was little, that in the nature of things=
she
would probably elect to cling to someone else. But he loved life well enough
for even that event to give him a certain satisfaction, apart from his more
intimate feeling of loss.
After he had
purchased the Fair Maid to occupy his loneliness, he hastened to accept a
rather unprofitable freight to Australia simply for the opportunity of seei=
ng
his daughter in her own home. What made him dissatisfied there was not to s=
ee
that she clung now to somebody else, but that the prop she had selected see=
med
on closer examination "a rather poor stick"--even in the matter of
health. He disliked his son-in-law's studied civility perhaps more than his
method of handling the sum of money he had given Ivy at her marriage. But of
his apprehensions he said nothing. Only on the day of his departure, with t=
he
hall-door open already, holding her hands and looking steadily into her eye=
s,
he had said, "You know, my dear, all I have is for you and the chicks.
Mind you write to me openly." She had answered him by an almost imperc=
eptible
movement of her head. She resembled her mother in the color of her eyes, an=
d in
character--and also in this, that she understood him without many words.
Sure enough she h=
ad
to write; and some of these letters made Captain Whalley lift his white
eye-brows. For the rest he considered he was reaping the true reward of his
life by being thus able to produce on demand whatever was needed. He had not
enjoyed himself so much in a way since his wife had died. Characteristically
enough his son-in-law's punctuality in failure caused him at a distance to =
feel
a sort of kindness towards the man. The fellow was so perpetually being jam=
med
on a lee shore that to charge it all to his reckless navigation would be ma=
nifestly
unfair. No, no! He knew well what that meant. It was bad luck. His own had =
been
simply marvelous, but he had seen in his life too many good men--seamen and
others--go under with the sheer weight of bad luck not to recognize the fat=
al
signs. For all that, he was cogitating on the best way of tying up very
strictly every penny he had to leave, when, with a preliminary rumble of ru=
mors
(whose first sound reached him in Shanghai as it happened), the shock of the
big failure came; and, after passing through the phases of stupor, of
incredulity, of indignation, he had to accept the fact that he had nothing =
to
speak of to leave.
Upon that, as if =
he
had only waited for this catastrophe, the unlucky man, away there in Melbou=
rne,
gave up his unprofitable game, and sat down--in an invalid's bath-chair at =
that
too. "He will never walk again," wrote the wife. For the first ti=
me
in his life Captain Whalley was a bit staggered.
The Fair Maid had=
to
go to work in bitter earnest now. It was no longer a matter of preserving a=
live
the memory of Dare-devil Harry Whalley in the Eastern Seas, or of keeping an
old man in pocket-money and clothes, with, perhaps, a bill for a few hundred
first-class cigars thrown in at the end of the year. He would have to
buckle-to, and keep her going hard on a scant allowance of gilt for the
ginger-bread scrolls at her stem and stern.
This necessity op=
ened
his eyes to the fundamental changes of the world. Of his past only the fami=
liar
names remained, here and there, but the things and the men, as he had known
them, were gone. The name of Gardner, Patteson, & Co. was still display=
ed
on the walls of warehouses by the waterside, on the brass plates and
window-panes in the business quarters of more than one Eastern port, but th=
ere
was no longer a Gardner or a Patteson in the firm. There was no longer for
Captain Whalley an arm-chair and a welcome in the private office, with a bi=
t of
business ready to be put in the way of an old friend, for the sake of bygone
services. The husbands of the Gardner girls sat behind the desks in that ro=
om
where, long after he had left the employ, he had kept his right of entrance=
in
the old man's time. Their ships now had yellow funnels with black tops, and=
a
time-table of appointed routes like a confounded service of tramways. The w=
inds
of December and June were all one to them; their captains (excellent young =
men
he doubted not) were, to be sure, familiar with Whalley Island, because of =
late
years the Government had established a white fixed light on the north end (=
with
a red danger sector over the Condor Reef), but most of them would have been
extremely surprised to hear that a flesh-and-blood Whalley still existed--an
old man going about the world trying to pick up a cargo here and there for =
his
little bark.
And everywhere it=
was
the same. Departed the men who would have nodded appreciatively at the ment=
ion
of his name, and would have thought themselves bound in honor to do somethi=
ng
for Dare-devil Harry Whalley. Departed the opportunities which he would have
known how to seize; and gone with them the white-winged flock of clippers t=
hat
lived in the boisterous uncertain life of the winds, skimming big fortunes =
out
of the foam of the sea. In a world that pared down the profits to an irredu=
cible
minimum, in a world that was able to count its disengaged tonnage twice over
every day, and in which lean charters were snapped up by cable three months=
in
advance, there were no chances of fortune for an individual wandering hapha=
zard
with a little bark--hardly indeed any room to exist.
He found it more
difficult from year to year. He suffered greatly from the smallness of
remittances he was able to send his daughter. Meantime he had given up good
cigars, and even in the matter of inferior cheroots limited himself to six a
day. He never told her of his difficulties, and she never enlarged upon her
struggle to live. Their confidence in each other needed no explanations, and
their perfect understanding endured without protestations of gratitude or r=
egret.
He would have been shocked if she had taken it into her head to thank him i=
n so
many words, but he found it perfectly natural that she should tell him she
needed two hundred pounds.
He had come in wi=
th
the Fair Maid in ballast to look for a freight in the Sofala's port of
registry, and her letter met him there. Its tenor was that it was no use
mincing matters. Her only resource was in opening a boarding-house, for whi=
ch
the prospects, she judged, were good. Good enough, at any rate, to make her
tell him frankly that with two hundred pounds she could make a start. He had
torn the envelope open, hastily, on deck, where it was handed to him by the
ship-chandler's runner, who had brought his mail at the moment of anchoring.
For the second time in his life he was appalled, and remained stock-still at
the cabin door with the paper trembling between his fingers. Open a
boarding-house! Two hundred pounds for a start! The only resource! And he d=
id
not know where to lay his hands on two hundred pence.
All that night
Captain Whalley walked the poop of his anchored ship, as though he had been
about to close with the land in thick weather, and uncertain of his position
after a run of many gray days without a sight of sun, moon, or stars. The b=
lack
night twinkled with the guiding lights of seamen and the steady straight li=
nes
of lights on shore; and all around the Fair Maid the riding lights of ships
cast trembling trails upon the water of the roadstead. Captain Whalley saw =
not
a gleam anywhere till the dawn broke and he found out that his clothing was=
soaked
through with the heavy dew.
His ship was awak=
e.
He stopped short, stroked his wet beard, and descended the poop ladder
backwards, with tired feet. At the sight of him the chief officer, lounging
about sleepily on the quarterdeck, remained open-mouthed in the middle of a
great early-morning yawn.
"Good mornin=
g to
you," pronounced Captain Whalley solemnly, passing into the cabin. But=
he
checked himself in the doorway, and without looking back, "By the
bye," he said, "there should be an empty wooden case put away in =
the
lazarette. It has not been broken up--has it?"
The mate shut his
mouth, and then asked as if dazed, "What empty case, sir?"
"A big flat
packing-case belonging to that painting in my room. Let it be taken up on d=
eck
and tell the carpenter to look it over. I may want to use it before long.&q=
uot;
The chief officer=
did
not stir a limb till he had heard the door of the captain's state-room slam
within the cuddy. Then he beckoned aft the second mate with his forefinger =
to
tell him that there was something "in the wind."
When the bell rang
Captain Whalley's authoritative voice boomed out through a closed door,
"Sit down and don't wait for me." And his impressed officers took
their places, exchanging looks and whispers across the table. What! No
breakfast? And after apparently knocking about all night on deck, too! Clea=
rly,
there was something in the wind. In the skylight above their heads, bowed
earnestly over the plates, three wire cages rocked and rattled to the restl=
ess
jumping of the hungry canaries; and they could detect the sounds of their
"old man's" deliberate movements within his state-room. Captain
Whalley was methodically winding up the chronometers, dusting the portrait =
of his
late wife, getting a clean white shirt out of the drawers, making himself r=
eady
in his punctilious unhurried manner to go ashore. He could not have swallow=
ed a
single mouthful of food that morning. He had made up his mind to sell the F=
air
Maid.
III
Just at that time the Japanese were
casting far and wide for ships of European build, and he had no difficulty =
in
finding a purchaser, a speculator who drove a hard bargain, but paid cash d=
own
for the Fair Maid, with a view to a profitable resale. Thus it came about t=
hat Captain
Whalley found himself on a certain afternoon descending the steps of one of=
the
most important post-offices of the East with a slip of bluish paper in his
hand. This was the receipt of a registered letter enclosing a draft for two
hundred pounds, and addressed to Melbourne. Captain Whalley pushed the paper
into his waistcoat-pocket, took his stick from under his arm, and walked do=
wn
the street.
It was a recently
opened and untidy thoroughfare with rudimentary side-walks and a soft layer=
of
dust cushioning the whole width of the road. One end touched the slummy str=
eet
of Chinese shops near the harbor, the other drove straight on, without hous=
es,
for a couple of miles, through patches of jungle-like vegetation, to the ya=
rd
gates of the new Consolidated Docks Company. The crude frontages of the new=
Government
buildings alternated with the blank fencing of vacant plots, and the view of
the sky seemed to give an added spaciousness to the broad vista. It was emp=
ty
and shunned by natives after business hours, as though they had expected to=
see
one of the tigers from the neighborhood of the New Waterworks on the hill
coming at a loping canter down the middle to get a Chinese shopkeeper for
supper. Captain Whalley was not dwarfed by the solitude of the grandly plan=
ned
street. He had too fine a presence for that. He was only a lonely figure
walking purposefully, with a great white beard like a pilgrim, and with a t=
hick
stick that resembled a weapon. On one side the new Courts of Justice had a =
low
and unadorned portico of squat columns half concealed by a few old trees le=
ft
in the approach. On the other the pavilion wings of the new Colonial Treasu=
ry
came out to the line of the street. But Captain Whalley, who had now no ship
and no home, remembered in passing that on that very site when he first came
out from England there had stood a fishing village, a few mat huts erected =
on
piles between a muddy tidal creek and a miry pathway that went writhing int=
o a
tangled wilderness without any docks or waterworks.
No ship--no home.=
And
his poor Ivy away there had no home either. A boarding-house is no sort of =
home
though it may get you a living. His feelings were horribly rasped by the id=
ea
of the boarding-house. In his rank of life he had that truly aristocratic
temperament characterized by a scorn of vulgar gentility and by prejudiced
views as to the derogatory nature of certain occupations. For his own part =
he
had always preferred sailing merchant ships (which is a straightforward
occupation) to buying and selling merchandise, of which the essence is to g=
et
the better of somebody in a bargain--an undignified trial of wits at best. =
His
father had been Colonel Whalley (retired) of the H. E. I. Company's service=
, with
very slender means besides his pension, but with distinguished connections.=
He
could remember as a boy how frequently waiters at the inns, country tradesm=
en
and small people of that sort, used to "My lord" the old warrior =
on
the strength of his appearance.
Captain Whalley
himself (he would have entered the Navy if his father had not died before he
was fourteen) had something of a grand air which would have suited an old a=
nd
glorious admiral; but he became lost like a straw in the eddy of a brook
amongst the swarm of brown and yellow humanity filling a thoroughfare, that=
by
contrast with the vast and empty avenue he had left seemed as narrow as a l=
ane
and absolutely riotous with life. The walls of the houses were blue; the sh=
ops
of the Chinamen yawned like cavernous lairs; heaps of nondescript merchandi=
se overflowed
the gloom of the long range of arcades, and the fiery serenity of sunset to=
ok
the middle of the street from end to end with a glow like the reflection of=
a
fire. It fell on the bright colors and the dark faces of the bare-footed cr=
owd,
on the pallid yellow backs of the half-naked jostling coolies, on the
accouterments of a tall Sikh trooper with a parted beard and fierce mustach=
es
on sentry before the gate of the police compound. Looming very big above the
heads in a red haze of dust, the tightly packed car of the cable tramway
navigated cautiously up the human stream, with the incessant blare of its h=
orn,
in the manner of a steamer groping in a fog.
Captain Whalley
emerged like a diver on the other side, and in the desert shade between the
walls of closed warehouses removed his hat to cool his brow. A certain
disrepute attached to the calling of a landlady of a boarding-house. These
women were said to be rapacious, unscrupulous, untruthful; and though he
contemned no class of his fellow-creatures--God forbid!--these were suspici=
ons
to which it was unseemly that a Whalley should lay herself open. He had not
expostulated with her, however. He was confident she shared his feelings; he
was sorry for her; he trusted her judgment; he considered it a merciful dis=
pensation
that he could help her once more,--but in his aristocratic heart of hearts =
he
would have found it more easy to reconcile himself to the idea of her turni=
ng
seamstress. Vaguely he remembered reading years ago a touching piece called=
the
"Song of the Shirt." It was all very well making songs about poor
women. The granddaughter of Colonel Whalley, the landlady of a boarding-hou=
se!
Pooh! He replaced his hat, dived into two pockets, and stopping a moment to
apply a flaring match to the end of a cheap cheroot, blew an embittered clo=
ud
of smoke at a world that could hold such surprises.
Of one thing he w=
as
certain--that she was the own child of a clever mother. Now he had got over=
the
wrench of parting with his ship, he perceived clearly that such a step had =
been
unavoidable. Perhaps he had been growing aware of it all along with an
unconfessed knowledge. But she, far away there, must have had an intuitive
perception of it, with the pluck to face that truth and the courage to speak
out--all the qualities which had made her mother a woman of such excellent
counsel.
It would have had=
to
come to that in the end! It was fortunate she had forced his hand. In anoth=
er
year or two it would have been an utterly barren sale. To keep the ship goi=
ng
he had been involving himself deeper every year. He was defenseless before =
the
insidious work of adversity, to whose more open assaults he could present a
firm front; like a cliff that stands unmoved the open battering of the sea,
with a lofty ignorance of the treacherous backwash undermining its base. As=
it
was, every liability satisfied, her request answered, and owing no man a pe=
nny,
there remained to him from the proceeds a sum of five hundred pounds put aw=
ay
safely. In addition he had upon his person some forty odd dollars--enough to
pay his hotel bill, providing he did not linger too long in the modest bedr=
oom
where he had taken refuge.
Scantily furnishe=
d,
and with a waxed floor, it opened into one of the side-verandas. The stragg=
ling
building of bricks, as airy as a bird-cage, resounded with the incessant
flapping of rattan screens worried by the wind between the white-washed squ=
are
pillars of the sea-front. The rooms were lofty, a ripple of sunshine flowed
over the ceilings; and the periodical invasions of tourists from some passe=
nger
steamer in the harbor flitted through the wind-swept dusk of the apartments
with the tumult of their unfamiliar voices and impermanent presences, like
relays of migratory shades condemned to speed headlong round the earth with=
out
leaving a trace. The babble of their irruptions ebbed out as suddenly as it=
had
arisen; the draughty corridors and the long chairs of the verandas knew the=
ir
sight-seeing hurry or their prostrate repose no more; and Captain Whalley,
substantial and dignified, left well-nigh alone in the vast hotel by each
light-hearted skurry, felt more and more like a stranded tourist with no ai=
m in
view, like a forlorn traveler without a home. In the solitude of his room h=
e smoked
thoughtfully, gazing at the two sea-chests which held all that he could call
his own in this world. A thick roll of charts in a sheath of sailcloth lean=
ed
in a corner; the flat packing-case containing the portrait in oils and the
three carbon photographs had been pushed under the bed. He was tired of
discussing terms, of assisting at surveys, of all the routine of the busine=
ss.
What to the other parties was merely the sale of a ship was to him a moment=
ous
event involving a radically new view of existence. He knew that after this =
ship
there would be no other; and the hopes of his youth, the exercise of his
abilities, every feeling and achievement of his manhood, had been indissolu=
bly
connected with ships. He had served ships; he had owned ships; and even the
years of his actual retirement from the sea had been made bearable by the i=
dea that
he had only to stretch out his hand full of money to get a ship. He had bee=
n at
liberty to feel as though he were the owner of all the ships in the world. =
The
selling of this one was weary work; but when she passed from him at last, w=
hen
he signed the last receipt, it was as though all the ships had gone out of =
the
world together, leaving him on the shore of inaccessible oceans with seven
hundred pounds in his hands.
Striding firmly,
without haste, along the quay, Captain Whalley averted his glances from the
familiar roadstead. Two generations of seamen born since his first day at s=
ea
stood between him and all these ships at the anchorage. His own was sold, a=
nd
he had been asking himself, What next?
From the feeling =
of
loneliness, of inward emptiness,--and of loss too, as if his very soul had =
been
taken out of him forcibly,--there had sprung at first a desire to start rig=
ht
off and join his daughter. "Here are the last pence," he would sa=
y to
her; "take them, my dear. And here's your old father: you must take him
too."
His soul recoiled=
, as
if afraid of what lay hidden at the bottom of this impulse. Give up! Never!
When one is thoroughly weary all sorts of nonsense come into one's head. A
pretty gift it would have been for a poor woman--this seven hundred pounds =
with
the incumbrance of a hale old fellow more than likely to last for years and
years to come. Was he not as fit to die in harness as any of the youngsters=
in
charge of these anchored ships out yonder? He was as solid now as ever he h=
ad
been. But as to who would give him work to do, that was another matter. Were
he, with his appearance and antecedents, to go about looking for a junior's=
berth,
people, he was afraid, would not take him seriously; or else if he succeede=
d in
impressing them, he would maybe obtain their pity, which would be like
stripping yourself naked to be kicked. He was not anxious to give himself a=
way
for less than nothing. He had no use for anybody's pity. On the other hand,=
a
command--the only thing he could try for with due regard for common
decency--was not likely to be lying in wait for him at the corner of the ne=
xt
street. Commands don't go a-begging nowadays. Ever since he had come ashore=
to
carry out the business of the sale he had kept his ears open, but had heard=
no
hint of one being vacant in the port. And even if there had been one, his
successful past itself stood in his way. He had been his own employer too l=
ong.
The only credential he could produce was the testimony of his whole life. W=
hat better
recommendation could anyone require? But vaguely he felt that the unique
document would be looked upon as an archaic curiosity of the Eastern waters=
, a
screed traced in obsolete words--in a half-forgotten language.
IV
Revolving these thoughts, he stroll=
ed on
near the railings of the quay, broad-chested, without a stoop, as though his
big shoulders had never felt the burden of the loads that must be carried
between the cradle and the grave. No single betraying fold or line of care
disfigured the reposeful modeling of his face. It was full and untanned; and
the upper part emerged, massively quiet, out of the downward flow of silvery
hair, with the striking delicacy of its clear complexion and the powerful w=
idth
of the forehead. The first cast of his glance fell on you candid and swift,
like a boy's; but because of the ragged snowy thatch of the eyebrows the
affability of his attention acquired the character of a dark and searching
scrutiny. With age he had put on flesh a little, had increased his girth li=
ke
an old tree presenting no symptoms of decay; and even the opulent, lustrous
ripple of white hairs upon his chest seemed an attribute of unquenchable
vitality and vigor.
Once rather proud=
of
his great bodily strength, and even of his personal appearance, conscious of
his worth, and firm in his rectitude, there had remained to him, like the
heritage of departed prosperity, the tranquil bearing of a man who had prov=
ed
himself fit in every sort of way for the life of his choice. He strode on
squarely under the projecting brim of an ancient Panama hat. It had a low
crown, a crease through its whole diameter, a narrow black ribbon. Imperish=
able
and a little discolored, this headgear made it easy to pick him out from af=
ar
on thronged wharves and in the busy streets. He had never adopted the
comparatively modern fashion of pipeclayed cork helmets. He disliked the fo=
rm;
and he hoped he could manage to keep a cool head to the end of his life wit=
hout
all these contrivances for hygienic ventilation. His hair was cropped close=
, his
linen always of immaculate whiteness; a suit of thin gray flannel, worn
threadbare but scrupulously brushed, floated about his burly limbs, adding =
to
his bulk by the looseness of its cut. The years had mellowed the good-humor=
ed,
imperturbable audacity of his prime into a temper carelessly serene; and the
leisurely tapping of his iron-shod stick accompanied his footfalls with a
self-confident sound on the flagstones. It was impossible to connect such a
fine presence and this unruffled aspect with the belittling troubles of
poverty; the man's whole existence appeared to pass before you, facile and
large, in the freedom of means as ample as the clothing of his body.
The irrational dr=
ead
of having to break into his five hundred pounds for personal expenses in the
hotel disturbed the steady poise of his mind. There was no time to lose. The
bill was running up. He nourished the hope that this five hundred would per=
haps
be the means, if everything else failed, of obtaining some work which, keep=
ing his
body and soul together (not a matter of great outlay), would enable him to =
be
of use to his daughter. To his mind it was her own money which he employed,=
as it
were, in backing her father and solely for her benefit. Once at work, he wo=
uld
help her with the greater part of his earnings; he was good for many years =
yet,
and this boarding-house business, he argued to himself, whatever the prospe=
cts,
could not be much of a gold-mine from the first start. But what work? He was
ready to lay hold of anything in an honest way so that it came quickly to h=
is
hand; because the five hundred pounds must be preserved intact for eventual
use. That was the great point. With the entire five hundred one felt a
substance at one's back; but it seemed to him that should he let it dwindle=
to
four-fifty or even four-eighty, all the efficiency would be gone out of the
money, as though there were some magic power in the round figure. But what =
sort
of work?
Confronted by that
haunting question as by an uneasy ghost, for whom he had no exorcising form=
ula,
Captain Whalley stopped short on the apex of a small bridge spanning steeply
the bed of a canalized creek with granite shores. Moored between the square
blocks a seagoing Malay prau floated half hidden under the arch of masonry,=
with
her spars lowered down, without a sound of life on board, and covered from =
stem
to stern with a ridge of palm-leaf mats. He had left behind him the overhea=
ted pavements
bordered by the stone frontages that, like the sheer face of cliffs, follow=
ed
the sweep of the quays; and an unconfined spaciousness of orderly and sylvan
aspect opened before him its wide plots of rolled grass, like pieces of gre=
en
carpet smoothly pegged out, its long ranges of trees lined up in colossal
porticos of dark shafts roofed with a vault of branches.
Some of these ave=
nues
ended at the sea. It was a terraced shore; and beyond, upon the level expan=
se,
profound and glistening like the gaze of a dark-blue eye, an oblique band of
stippled purple lengthened itself indefinitely through the gap between a co=
uple
of verdant twin islets. The masts and spars of a few ships far away, hull d=
own
in the outer roads, sprang straight from the water in a fine maze of rosy l=
ines
penciled on the clear shadow of the eastern board. Captain Whalley gave the=
m a
long glance. The ship, once his own, was anchored out there. It was stagger=
ing
to think that it was open to him no longer to take a boat at the jetty and =
get
himself pulled off to her when the evening came. To no ship. Perhaps never
more. Before the sale was concluded, and till the purchase-money had been p=
aid,
he had spent daily some time on board the Fair Maid. The money had been paid
this very morning, and now, all at once, there was positively no ship that =
he
could go on board of when he liked; no ship that would need his presence in
order to do her work--to live. It seemed an incredible state of affairs,
something too bizarre to last. And the sea was full of craft of all sorts.
There was that prau lying so still swathed in her shroud of sewn palm-leave=
s--she
too had her indispensable man. They lived through each other, this Malay he=
had
never seen, and this high-sterned thing of no size that seemed to be resting
after a long journey. And of all the ships in sight, near and far, each was
provided with a man, the man without whom the finest ship is a dead thing, a
floating and purposeless log.
After his one gla=
nce
at the roadstead he went on, since there was nothing to turn back for, and =
the
time must be got through somehow. The avenues of big trees ran straight over
the Esplanade, cutting each other at diverse angles, columnar below and
luxuriant above. The interlaced boughs high up there seemed to slumber; not=
a
leaf stirred overhead: and the reedy cast-iron lampposts in the middle of t=
he
road, gilt like scepters, diminished in a long perspective, with their glob=
es
of white porcelain atop, resembling a barbarous decoration of ostriches' eg=
gs displayed
in a row. The flaming sky kindled a tiny crimson spark upon the glistening
surface of each glassy shell.
With his chin sun=
k a
little, his hands behind his back, and the end of his stick marking the gra=
vel
with a faint wavering line at his heels, Captain Whalley reflected that if a
ship without a man was like a body without a soul, a sailor without a ship =
was
of not much more account in this world than an aimless log adrift upon the =
sea.
The log might be sound enough by itself, tough of fiber, and hard to
destroy--but what of that! And a sudden sense of irremediable idleness weig=
hted
his feet like a great fatigue.
A succession of o=
pen
carriages came bowling along the newly opened sea-road. You could see across
the wide grass-plots the discs of vibration made by the spokes. The bright
domes of the parasols swayed lightly outwards like full-blown blossoms on t=
he
rim of a vase; and the quiet sheet of dark-blue water, crossed by a bar of
purple, made a background for the spinning wheels and the high action of the
horses, whilst the turbaned heads of the Indian servants elevated above the
line of the sea horizon glided rapidly on the paler blue of the sky. In an =
open
space near the little bridge each turn-out trotted smartly in a wide curve =
away
from the sunset; then pulling up sharp, entered the main alley in a long
slow-moving file with the great red stillness of the sky at the back. The
trunks of mighty trees stood all touched with red on the same side, the air
seemed aflame under the high foliage, the very ground under the hoofs of the
horses was red. The wheels turned solemnly; one after another the sunshades
drooped, folding their colors like gorgeous flowers shutting their petals at
the end of the day. In the whole half-mile of human beings no voice uttered=
a
distinct word, only a faint thudding noise went on mingled with slight jing=
ling
sounds, and the motionless heads and shoulders of men and women sitting in =
couples
emerged stolidly above the lowered hoods--as if wooden. But one carriage and
pair coming late did not join the line.
It fled along in a
noiseless roll; but on entering the avenue one of the dark bays snorted,
arching his neck and shying against the steel-tipped pole; a flake of foam =
fell
from the bit upon the point of a satiny shoulder, and the dusky face of the
coachman leaned forward at once over the hands taking a fresh grip of the r=
eins.
It was a long dark-green landau, having a dignified and buoyant motion betw=
een
the sharply curved C-springs, and a sort of strictly official majesty in its
supreme elegance. It seemed more roomy than is usual, its horses seemed
slightly bigger, the appointments a shade more perfect, the servants perche=
d somewhat
higher on the box. The dresses of three women--two young and pretty, and on=
e,
handsome, large, of mature age--seemed to fill completely the shallow body =
of
the carriage. The fourth face was that of a man, heavy lidded, distinguished
and sallow, with a somber, thick, iron-gray imperial and mustaches, which
somehow had the air of solid appendages. His Excellency--
The rapid motion =
of
that one equipage made all the others appear utterly inferior, blighted, and
reduced to crawl painfully at a snail's pace. The landau distanced the whole
file in a sort of sustained rush; the features of the occupant whirling out=
of
sight left behind an impression of fixed stares and impassive vacancy; and
after it had vanished in full flight as it were, notwithstanding the long l=
ine
of vehicles hugging the curb at a walk, the whole lofty vista of the avenue
seemed to lie open and emptied of life in the enlarged impression of an aug=
ust
solitude.
Captain Whalley h=
ad
lifted his head to look, and his mind, disturbed in its meditation, turned =
with
wonder (as men's minds will do) to matters of no importance. It struck him =
that
it was to this port, where he had just sold his last ship, that he had come
with the very first he had ever owned, and with his head full of a plan for
opening a new trade with a distant part of the Archipelago. The then govern=
or
had given him no end of encouragement. No Excellency he--this Mr. Denham--t=
his governor
with his jacket off; a man who tended night and day, so to speak, the growi=
ng
prosperity of the settlement with the self-forgetful devotion of a nurse fo=
r a
child she loves; a lone bachelor who lived as in a camp with the few servan=
ts
and his three dogs in what was called then the Government Bungalow: a
low-roofed structure on the half-cleared slope of a hill, with a new flagst=
aff
in front and a police orderly on the veranda. He remembered toiling up that
hill under a heavy sun for his audience; the unfurnished aspect of the cool
shaded room; the long table covered at one end with piles of papers, and wi=
th
two guns, a brass telescope, a small bottle of oil with a feather stuck in =
the
neck at the other--and the flattering attention given to him by the man in =
power.
It was an undertaking full of risk he had come to expound, but a twenty
minutes' talk in the Government Bungalow on the hill had made it go smoothly
from the start. And as he was retiring Mr. Denham, already seated before the
papers, called out after him, "Next month the Dido starts for a cruise
that way, and I shall request her captain officially to give you a look in =
and
see how you get on." The Dido was one of the smart frigates on the Chi=
na
station--and five-and-thirty years make a big slice of time. Five-and-thirty
years ago an enterprise like his had for the colony enough importance to be
looked after by a Queen's ship. A big slice of time. Individuals were of so=
me
account then. Men like himself; men, too, like poor Evans, for instance, wi=
th
his red face, his coal-black whiskers, and his restless eyes, who had set up
the first patent slip for repairing small ships, on the edge of the forest,=
in a
lonely bay three miles up the coast. Mr. Denham had encouraged that enterpr=
ise
too, and yet somehow poor Evans had ended by dying at home deucedly hard up.
His son, they said, was squeezing oil out of cocoa-nuts for a living on some
God-forsaken islet of the Indian Ocean; but it was from that patent slip in=
a
lonely wooded bay that had sprung the workshops of the Consolidated Docks
Company, with its three graving basins carved out of solid rock, its wharve=
s,
its jetties, its electric-light plant, its steam-power houses--with its
gigantic sheer-legs, fit to lift the heaviest weight ever carried afloat, a=
nd whose
head could be seen like the top of a queer white monument peeping over bushy
points of land and sandy promontories, as you approached the New Harbor from
the west.
There had been a =
time
when men counted: there were not so many carriages in the colony then, thou=
gh
Mr. Denham, he fancied, had a buggy. And Captain Whalley seemed to be swept=
out
of the great avenue by the swirl of a mental backwash. He remembered muddy
shores, a harbor without quays, the one solitary wooden pier (but that was a
public work) jutting out crookedly, the first coal-sheds erected on Monkey
Point, that caught fire mysteriously and smoldered for days, so that amazed
ships came into a roadstead full of sulphurous smoke, and the sun hung
blood-red at midday. He remembered the things, the faces, and something mor=
e besides--like
the faint flavor of a cup quaffed to the bottom, like a subtle sparkle of t=
he
air that was not to be found in the atmosphere of to-day.
In this evocation,
swift and full of detail like a flash of magnesium light into the niches of=
a
dark memorial hall, Captain Whalley contemplated things once important, the
efforts of small men, the growth of a great place, but now robbed of all
consequence by the greatness of accomplished facts, by hopes greater still;=
and
they gave him for a moment such an almost physical grip upon time, such a
comprehension of our unchangeable feelings, that he stopped short, struck t=
he
ground with his stick, and ejaculated mentally, "What the devil am I d=
oing
here!" He seemed lost in a sort of surprise; but he heard his name cal=
led
out in wheezy tones once, twice--and turned on his heels slowly.
He beheld then,
waddling towards him autocratically, a man of an old-fashioned and gouty
aspect, with hair as white as his own, but with shaved, florid cheeks, wear=
ing
a necktie--almost a neckcloth--whose stiff ends projected far beyond his ch=
in;
with round legs, round arms, a round body, a round face--generally producing
the effect of his short figure having been distended by means of an air-pum=
p as
much as the seams of his clothing would stand. This was the Master-Attendan=
t of
the port. A master-attendant is a superior sort of harbor-master; a person,=
out
in the East, of some consequence in his sphere; a Government official, a
magistrate for the waters of the port, and possessed of vast but ill-defined
disciplinary authority over seamen of all classes. This particular
Master-Attendant was reported to consider it miserably inadequate, on the
ground that it did not include the power of life and death. This was a jocu=
lar
exaggeration. Captain Eliott was fairly satisfied with his position, and nu=
rsed
no inconsiderable sense of such power as he had. His conceited and tyrannic=
al
disposition did not allow him to let it dwindle in his hands for want of us=
e.
The uproarious, choleric frankness of his comments on people's character and
conduct caused him to be feared at bottom; though in conversation many
pretended not to mind him in the least, others would only smile sourly at t=
he mention
of his name, and there were even some who dared to pronounce him "a
meddlesome old ruffian." But for almost all of them one of Captain Eli=
ott's
outbreaks was nearly as distasteful to face as a chance of annihilation.
V
As soon as he had come up quite clo=
se he
said, mouthing in a growl--
"What's this=
I
hear, Whalley? Is it true you're selling the Fair Maid?"
Captain Whalley,
looking away, said the thing was done--money had been paid that morning; and
the other expressed at once his approbation of such an extremely sensible
proceeding. He had got out of his trap to stretch his legs, he explained, on
his way home to dinner. Sir Frederick looked well at the end of his time.
Didn't he?
Captain Whalley c=
ould
not say; had only noticed the carriage going past.
The Master-Attend=
ant,
plunging his hands into the pockets of an alpaca jacket inappropriately sho=
rt
and tight for a man of his age and appearance, strutted with a slight limp,=
and
with his head reaching only to the shoulder of Captain Whalley, who walked
easily, staring straight before him. They had been good comrades years ago,
almost intimates. At the time when Whalley commanded the renowned Condor,
Eliott had charge of the nearly as famous Ringdove for the same owners; and
when the appointment of Master-Attendant was created, Whalley would have be=
en
the only other serious candidate. But Captain Whalley, then in the prime of=
life,
was resolved to serve no one but his own auspicious Fortune. Far away, tend=
ing
his hot irons, he was glad to hear the other had been successful. There was=
a
worldly suppleness in bluff Ned Eliott that would serve him well in that so=
rt
of official appointment. And they were so dissimilar at bottom that as they
came slowly to the end of the avenue before the Cathedral, it had never come
into Whalley's head that he might have been in that man's place--provided f=
or
to the end of his days.
The sacred edific=
e,
standing in solemn isolation amongst the converging avenues of enormous tre=
es,
as if to put grave thoughts of heaven into the hours of ease, presented a
closed Gothic portal to the light and glory of the west. The glass of the
rosace above the ogive glowed like fiery coal in the deep carvings of a whe=
el
of stone. The two men faced about.
"I'll tell y=
ou
what they ought to do next, Whalley," growled Captain Eliott suddenly.=
"Well?"=
"They ought =
to
send a real live lord out here when Sir Frederick's time is up. Eh?"
Captain Whalley
perfunctorily did not see why a lord of the right sort should not do as wel=
l as
anyone else. But this was not the other's point of view.
"No, no. Pla=
ce
runs itself. Nothing can stop it now. Good enough for a lord," he grow=
led
in short sentences. "Look at the changes in our time. We need a lord h=
ere
now. They have got a lord in Bombay."
He dined once or
twice every year at the Government House--a many-windowed, arcaded palace u=
pon
a hill laid out in roads and gardens. And lately he had been taking about a
duke in his Master-Attendant's steam-launch to visit the harbor improvement=
s.
Before that he had "most obligingly" gone out in person to pick o=
ut a
good berth for the ducal yacht. Afterwards he had an invitation to lunch on
board. The duchess herself lunched with them. A big woman with a red face.
Complexion quite sunburnt. He should think ruined. Very gracious manners. T=
hey
were going on to Japan. . . .
He ejaculated the=
se
details for Captain Whalley's edification, pausing to blow out his cheeks a=
s if
with a pent-up sense of importance, and repeatedly protruding his thick lips
till the blunt crimson end of his nose seemed to dip into the milk of his
mustache. The place ran itself; it was fit for any lord; it gave no trouble
except in its Marine department--in its Marine department he repeated twice,
and after a heavy snort began to relate how the other day her Majesty's Con=
sul-General
in French Cochin-China had cabled to him--in his official capacity--asking =
for
a qualified man to be sent over to take charge of a Glasgow ship whose mast=
er
had died in Saigon.
"I sent word=
of
it to the officers' quarters in the Sailors' Home," he continued, while
the limp in his gait seemed to grow more accentuated with the increasing
irritation of his voice. "Place's full of them. Twice as many men as t=
here
are berths going in the local trade. All hungry for an easy job. Twice as
many--and--What d'you think, Whalley? . . ."
He stopped short;=
his
hands clenched and thrust deeply downwards, seemed ready to burst the pocke=
ts
of his jacket. A slight sigh escaped Captain Whalley.
"Hey? You wo=
uld
think they would be falling over each other. Not a bit of it. Frightened to=
go
home. Nice and warm out here to lie about a veranda waiting for a job. I sit
and wait in my office. Nobody. What did they suppose? That I was going to s=
it
there like a dummy with the Consul-General's cable before me? Not likely. S=
o I
looked up a list of them I keep by me and sent word for Hamilton--the worst
loafer of them all--and just made him go. Threatened to instruct the stewar=
d of
the Sailors' Home to have him turned out neck and crop. He did not think the
berth was good enough--if--you--please. 'I've your little records by me,' s=
aid
I. 'You came ashore here eighteen months ago, and you haven't done six mont=
hs'
work since. You are in debt for your board now at the Home, and I suppose y=
ou
reckon the Marine Office will pay in the end. Eh? So it shall; but if you d=
on't
take this chance, away you go to England, assisted passage, by the first
homeward steamer that comes along. You are no better than a pauper. We don't
want any white paupers here.' I scared him. But look at the trouble all this
gave me."
"You would n=
ot
have had any trouble," Captain Whalley said almost involuntarily, &quo=
t;if
you had sent for me."
Captain Eliott was
immensely amused; he shook with laughter as he walked. But suddenly he stop=
ped
laughing. A vague recollection had crossed his mind. Hadn't he heard it sai=
d at
the time of the Travancore and Deccan smash that poor Whalley had been clea=
ned
out completely. "Fellow's hard up, by heavens!" he thought; and at
once he cast a sidelong upward glance at his companion. But Captain Whalley=
was
smiling austerely straight before him, with a carriage of the head
inconceivable in a penniless man--and he became reassured. Impossible. Could
not have lost everything. That ship had been only a hobby of his. And the r=
eflection
that a man who had confessed to receiving that very morning a presumably la=
rge
sum of money was not likely to spring upon him a demand for a small loan put
him entirely at his ease again. There had come a long pause in their talk,
however, and not knowing how to begin again, he growled out soberly, "=
We
old fellows ought to take a rest now."
"The best th=
ing
for some of us would be to die at the oar," Captain Whalley said
negligently.
"Come, now.
Aren't you a bit tired by this time of the whole show?" muttered the o=
ther
sullenly.
"Are you?&qu=
ot;
Captain Eliott wa=
s.
Infernally tired. He only hung on to his berth so long in order to get his
pension on the highest scale before he went home. It would be no better than
poverty, anyhow; still, it was the only thing between him and the workhouse.
And he had a family. Three girls, as Whalley knew. He gave "Harry, old
boy," to understand that these three girls were a source of the greate=
st
anxiety and worry to him. Enough to drive a man distracted.
"Why? What h=
ave
they been doing now?" asked Captain Whalley with a sort of amused
absent-mindedness.
"Doing! Doing
nothing. That's just it. Lawn-tennis and silly novels from morning to night=
. .
. ."
If one of them at
least had been a boy. But all three! And, as ill-luck would have it, there =
did
not seem to be any decent young fellows left in the world. When he looked
around in the club he saw only a lot of conceited popinjays too selfish to
think of making a good woman happy. Extreme indigence stared him in the face
with all that crowd to keep at home. He had cherished the idea of building
himself a little house in the country--in Surrey--to end his days in, but he
was afraid it was out of the question, . . . and his staring eyes rolled
upwards with such a pathetic anxiety that Captain Whalley charitably nodded
down at him, restraining a sort of sickening desire to laugh.
"You must kn=
ow
what it is yourself, Harry. Girls are the very devil for worry and
anxiety."
"Ay! But min=
e is
doing well," Captain Whalley pronounced slowly, staring to the end of =
the
avenue.
The Master-Attend=
ant
was glad to hear this. Uncommonly glad. He remembered her well. A pretty gi=
rl
she was.
Captain Whalley,
stepping out carelessly, assented as if in a dream.
"She was
pretty."
The procession of
carriages was breaking up.
One after another
they left the file to go off at a trot, animating the vast avenue with their
scattered life and movement; but soon the aspect of dignified solitude retu=
rned
and took possession of the straight wide road. A syce in white stood at the
head of a Burmah pony harnessed to a varnished two-wheel cart; and the whole
thing waiting by the curb seemed no bigger than a child's toy forgotten und=
er
the soaring trees. Captain Eliott waddled up to it and made as if to clamber
in, but refrained; and keeping one hand resting easily on the shaft, he cha=
nged
the conversation from his pension, his daughters, and his poverty back agai=
n to
the only other topic in the world--the Marine Office, the men and the ships=
of
the port.
He proceeded to g=
ive
instances of what was expected of him; and his thick voice drowsed in the s=
till
air like the obstinate droning of an enormous bumble-bee. Captain Whalley d=
id
not know what was the force or the weakness that prevented him from saying
good-night and walking away. It was as though he had been too tired to make=
the
effort. How queer. More queer than any of Ned's instances. Or was it that
overpowering sense of idleness alone that made him stand there and listen to
these stories. Nothing very real had ever troubled Ned Eliott; and graduall=
y he
seemed to detect deep in, as if wrapped up in the gross wheezy rumble,
something of the clear hearty voice of the young captain of the Ringdove. He
wondered if he too had changed to the same extent; and it seemed to him that
the voice of his old chum had not changed so very much--that the man was the
same. Not a bad fellow the pleasant, jolly Ned Eliott, friendly, well up to=
his
business--and always a bit of a humbug. He remembered how he used to amuse =
his
poor wife. She could read him like an open book. When the Condor and the
Ringdove happened to be in port together, she would frequently ask him to b=
ring
Captain Eliott to dinner. They had not met often since those old days. Not =
once
in five years, perhaps. He regarded from under his white eyebrows this man =
he could
not bring himself to take into his confidence at this juncture; and the oth=
er
went on with his intimate outpourings, and as remote from his hearer as tho=
ugh
he had been talking on a hill-top a mile away.
He was in a bit o=
f a
quandary now as to the steamer Sofala. Ultimately every hitch in the port c=
ame
into his hands to undo. They would miss him when he was gone in another
eighteen months, and most likely some retired naval officer had been
pitchforked into the appointment--a man that would understand nothing and c=
are
less. That steamer was a coasting craft having a steady trade connection as=
far
north as Tenasserim; but the trouble was she could get no captain to take h=
er
on her regular trip. Nobody would go in her. He really had no power, of cou=
rse,
to order a man to take a job. It was all very well to stretch a point on the
demand of a consul-general, but . . .
"What's the matter with the ship?" Captain Whalley interrupted in measured tones.<= o:p>
"Nothing's t=
he
matter. Sound old steamer. Her owner has been in my office this afternoon
tearing his hair."
"Is he a whi=
te
man?" asked Whalley in an interested voice.
"He calls
himself a white man," answered the Master-Attendant scornfully; "=
but
if so, it's just skin-deep and no more. I told him that to his face too.&qu=
ot;
"But who is =
he,
then?"
"He's the ch=
ief
engineer of her. See that, Harry?"
"I see,"
Captain Whalley said thoughtfully. "The engineer. I see."
How the fellow ca=
me
to be a shipowner at the same time was quite a tale. He came out third in a=
home
ship nearly fifteen years ago, Captain Eliott remembered, and got paid off
after a bad sort of row both with his skipper and his chief. Anyway, they
seemed jolly glad to get rid of him at all costs. Clearly a mutinous sort of
chap. Well, he remained out here, a perfect nuisance, everlastingly shipped=
and
unshipped, unable to keep a berth very long; pretty nigh went through every
engine-room afloat belonging to the colony. Then suddenly, "What do you
think happened, Harry?"
Captain Whalley, =
who
seemed lost in a mental effort as of doing a sum in his head, gave a slight
start. He really couldn't imagine. The Master-Attendant's voice vibrated du=
lly
with hoarse emphasis. The man actually had the luck to win the second prize=
in
the Manilla lottery. All these engineers and officers of ships took tickets=
in
that gamble. It seemed to be a perfect mania with them all.
Everybody expected now that he woul=
d take
himself off home with his money, and go to the devil in his own way. Not at
all. The Sofala, judged too small and not quite modern enough for the sort =
of
trade she was in, could be got for a moderate price from her owners, who ha=
d ordered
a new steamer from Europe. He rushed in and bought her. This man had never
given any signs of that sort of mental intoxication the mere fact of getting
hold of a large sum of money may produce--not till he got a ship of his own;
but then he went off his balance all at once: came bouncing into the Marine
Office on some transfer business, with his hat hanging over his left eye and
switching a little cane in his hand, and told each one of the clerks separa=
tely
that "Nobody could put him out now. It was his turn. There was no one =
over
him on earth, and there never would be either." He swaggered and strut=
ted
between the desks, talking at the top of his voice, and trembling like a le=
af
all the while, so that the current business of the office was suspended for=
the
time he was in there, and everybody in the big room stood open-mouthed look=
ing
at his antics. Afterwards he could be seen during the hottest hours of the =
day
with his face as red as fire rushing along up and down the quays to look at=
his
ship from different points of view: he seemed inclined to stop every strang=
er
he came across just to let them know "that there would be no longer an=
yone
over him; he had bought a ship; nobody on earth could put him out of his
engine-room now."
Good bargain as s=
he
was, the price of the Sofala took up pretty near all the lottery-money. He =
had
left himself no capital to work with. That did not matter so much, for these
were the halcyon days of steam coasting trade, before some of the home ship=
ping
firms had thought of establishing local fleets to feed their main lines. Th=
ese,
when once organized, took the biggest slices out of that cake, of course; a=
nd by-and-by
a squad of confounded German tramps turned up east of Suez Canal and swept =
up
all the crumbs. They prowled on the cheap to and fro along the coast and
between the islands, like a lot of sharks in the water ready to snap up
anything you let drop. And then the high old times were over for good; for
years the Sofala had made no more, he judged, than a fair living. Captain
Eliott looked upon it as his duty in every way to assist an English ship to
hold her own; and it stood to reason that if for want of a captain the Sofa=
la
began to miss her trips she would very soon lose her trade. There was the
quandary. The man was too impracticable. "Too much of a beggar on
horseback from the first," he explained. "Seemed to grow worse as=
the
time went on. In the last three years he's run through eleven skippers; he =
had
tried every single man here, outside of the regular lines. I had warned him
before that this would not do. And now, of course, no one will look at the
Sofala. I had one or two men up at my office and talked to them; but, as th=
ey
said to me, what was the good of taking the berth to lead a regular dog's l=
ife
for a month and then get the sack at the end of the first trip? The fellow,=
of
course, told me it was all nonsense; there has been a plot hatching for yea=
rs
against him. And now it had come. All the horrid sailors in the port had
conspired to bring him to his knees, because he was an engineer."
Captain Eliott
emitted a throaty chuckle.
"And the fact
is, that if he misses a couple more trips he need never trouble himself to
start again. He won't find any cargo in his old trade. There's too much
competition nowadays for people to keep their stuff lying about for a ship =
that
does not turn up when she's expected. It's a bad lookout for him. He swears=
he
will shut himself on board and starve to death in his cabin rather than sell
her--even if he could find a buyer. And that's not likely in the least. Not
even the Japs would give her insured value for her. It isn't like selling
sailing-ships. Steamers do get out of date, besides getting old."
"He must have
laid by a good bit of money though," observed Captain Whalley quietly.=
The Harbor-master
puffed out his purple cheeks to an amazing size.
"Not a stive=
r,
Harry. Not--a--single--sti-ver."
He waited; but as
Captain Whalley, stroking his beard slowly, looked down on the ground witho=
ut a
word, he tapped him on the forearm, tiptoed, and said in a hoarse whisper--=
"The Manilla
lottery has been eating him up."
He frowned a litt=
le,
nodding in tiny affirmative jerks. They all were going in for it; a third of
the wages paid to ships' officers ("in my port," he snorted) went=
to
Manilla. It was a mania. That fellow Massy had been bitten by it like the r=
est
of them from the first; but after winning once he seemed to have persuaded
himself he had only to try again to get another big prize. He had taken doz=
ens
and scores of tickets for every drawing since. What with this vice and his
ignorance of affairs, ever since he had improvidently bought that steamer he
had been more or less short of money.
This, in Captain
Eliott's opinion, gave an opening for a sensible sailor-man with a few poun=
ds
to step in and save that fool from the consequences of his folly. It was his
craze to quarrel with his captains. He had had some really good men too, who
would have been too glad to stay if he would only let them. But no. He seem=
ed
to think he was no owner unless he was kicking somebody out in the morning =
and having
a row with the new man in the evening. What was wanted for him was a master
with a couple of hundred or so to take an interest in the ship on proper
conditions. You don't discharge a man for no fault, only because of the fun=
of
telling him to pack up his traps and go ashore, when you know that in that =
case
you are bound to buy back his share. On the other hand, a fellow with an
interest in the ship is not likely to throw up his job in a huff about a
trifle. He had told Massy that. He had said: "'This won't do, Mr. Mass=
y.
We are getting very sick of you here in the Marine Office. What you must do=
now
is to try whether you could get a sailor to join you as partner. That seems=
to
be the only way.' And that was sound advice, Harry."
Captain Whalley,
leaning on his stick, was perfectly still all over, and his hand, arrested =
in
the act of stroking, grasped his whole beard. And what did the fellow say to
that?
The fellow had the
audacity to fly out at the Master-Attendant. He had received the advice in a
most impudent manner. "I didn't come here to be laughed at," he h=
ad
shrieked. "I appeal to you as an Englishman and a shipowner brought to=
the
verge of ruin by an illegal conspiracy of your beggarly sailors, and all you
condescend to do for me is to tell me to go and get a partner!" . . . =
The
fellow had presumed to stamp with rage on the floor of the private office.
Where was he going to get a partner? Was he being taken for a fool? Not a
single one of that contemptible lot ashore at the "Home" had twop=
ence
in his pocket to bless himself with. The very native curs in the bazaar knew
that much. . . . "And it's true enough, Harry," rumbled Captain
Eliott judicially. "They are much more likely one and all to owe money=
to
the Chinamen in Denham Road for the clothes on their backs. 'Well,' said I,
'you make too much noise over it for my taste, Mr. Massy. Good morning.' He
banged the door after him; he dared to bang my door, confound his cheek!&qu=
ot;
The head of the
Marine department was out of breath with indignation; then recollecting him=
self
as it were, "I'll end by being late to dinner--yarning with you here .=
. .
wife doesn't like it."
He clambered
ponderously into the trap; leaned out sideways, and only then wondered whee=
zily
what on earth Captain Whalley could have been doing with himself of late. T=
hey
had had no sight of each other for years and years till the other day when =
he
had seen him unexpectedly in the office.
What on earth . .=
.
Captain Whalley
seemed to be smiling to himself in his white beard.
"The earth is
big," he said vaguely.
The other, as if =
to
test the statement, stared all round from his driving-seat. The Esplanade w=
as
very quiet; only from afar, from very far, a long way from the seashore, ac=
ross
the stretches of grass, through the long ranges of trees, came faintly the
toot--toot--toot of the cable car beginning to roll before the empty perist=
yle
of the Public Library on its three-mile journey to the New Harbor Docks.
"Doesn't see=
m to
be so much room on it," growled the Master-Attendant, "since these
Germans came along shouldering us at every turn. It was not so in our
time."
He fell into deep
thought, breathing stertorously, as though he had been taking a nap open-ey=
ed.
Perhaps he too, on his side, had detected in the silent pilgrim-like figure,
standing there by the wheel, like an arrested wayfarer, the buried lineamen=
ts
of the features belonging to the young captain of the Condor. Good
fellow--Harry Whalley--never very talkative. You never knew what he was up
to--a bit too off-hand with people of consequence, and apt to take a wrong =
view
of a fellow's actions. Fact was he had a too good opinion of himself. He wo=
uld
have liked to tell him to get in and drive him home to dinner. But one never
knew. Wife would not like it.
"And it's fu=
nny
to think, Harry," he went on in a big, subdued drone, "that of al=
l the
people on it there seems only you and I left to remember this part of the w=
orld
as it used to be . . ."
He was ready to
indulge in the sweetness of a sentimental mood had it not struck him sudden=
ly
that Captain Whalley, unstirring and without a word, seemed to be awaiting
something--perhaps expecting . . . He gathered the reins at once and burst =
out
in bluff, hearty growls--
"Ha! My dear
boy. The men we have known--the ships we've sailed--ay! and the things we've
done . . ."
The pony plunged-=
-the
syce skipped out of the way. Captain Whalley raised his arm.
"Good-by.&qu=
ot;
VI
The sun had set. =
And
when, after drilling a deep hole with his stick, he moved from that spot the
night had massed its army of shadows under the trees. They filled the easte=
rn
ends of the avenues as if only waiting the signal for a general advance upon
the open spaces of the world; they were gathering low between the deep
stone-faced banks of the canal. The Malay prau, half-concealed under the ar=
ch
of the bridge, had not altered its position a quarter of an inch. For a long
time Captain Whalley stared down over the parapet, till at last the floating
immobility of that beshrouded thing seemed to grow upon him into something =
inexplicable
and alarming. The twilight abandoned the zenith; its reflected gleams left =
the
world below, and the water of the canal seemed to turn into pitch. Captain
Whalley crossed it.
The turning to the
right, which was his way to his hotel, was only a very few steps farther. He
stopped again (all the houses of the sea-front were shut up, the quayside w=
as
deserted, but for one or two figures of natives walking in the distance) and
began to reckon the amount of his bill. So many days in the hotel at so many
dollars a day. To count the days he used his fingers: plunging one hand into
his pocket, he jingled a few silver coins. All right for three days more; a=
nd
then, unless something turned up, he must break into the five hundred--Ivy's
money--invested in her father. It seemed to him that the first meal coming =
out
of that reserve would choke him--for certain. Reason was of no use. It was a
matter of feeling. His feelings had never played him false.
He did not turn to
the right. He walked on, as if there still had been a ship in the roadstead=
to
which he could get himself pulled off in the evening. Far away, beyond the
houses, on the slope of an indigo promontory closing the view of the quays,=
the
slim column of a factory-chimney smoked quietly straight up into the clear =
air.
A Chinaman, curled down in the stern of one of the half-dozen sampans float=
ing
off the end of the jetty, caught sight of a beckoning hand. He jumped up,
rolled his pigtail round his head swiftly, tucked in two rapid movements his
wide dark trousers high up his yellow thighs, and by a single, noiseless,
finlike stir of the oars, sheered the sampan alongside the steps with the e=
ase
and precision of a swimming fish.
"Sofala,&quo=
t;
articulated Captain Whalley from above; and the Chinaman, a new emigrant
probably, stared upwards with a tense attention as if waiting to see the qu=
eer
word fall visibly from the white man's lips. "Sofala," Captain
Whalley repeated; and suddenly his heart failed him. He paused. The shores,=
the
islets, the high ground, the low points, were dark: the horizon had grown
somber; and across the eastern sweep of the shore the white obelisk, marking
the landing-place of the telegraph-cable, stood like a pale ghost on the be=
ach
before the dark spread of uneven roofs, intermingled with palms, of the nat=
ive
town. Captain Whalley began again.
"Sofala. Sav=
ee
So-fa-la, John?"
This time the
Chinaman made out that bizarre sound, and grunted his assent uncouthly, low
down in his bare throat. With the first yellow twinkle of a star that appea=
red
like the head of a pin stabbed deep into the smooth, pale, shimmering fabri=
c of
the sky, the edge of a keen chill seemed to cleave through the warm air of =
the
earth. At the moment of stepping into the sampan to go and try for the comm=
and
of the Sofala Captain Whalley shivered a little.
When on his return he landed on the=
quay
again Venus, like a choice jewel set low on the hem of the sky, cast a faint
gold trail behind him upon the roadstead, as level as a floor made of one d=
ark
and polished stone. The lofty vaults of the avenues were black--all black o=
verhead--and
the porcelain globes on the lamp-posts resembled egg-shaped pearls, gigantic
and luminous, displayed in a row whose farther end seemed to sink in the
distance, down to the level of his knees. He put his hands behind his back.=
He
would now consider calmly the discretion of it before saying the final word
to-morrow. His feet scrunched the gravel loudly--the discretion of it. It w=
ould
have been easier to appraise had there been a workable alternative. The hon=
esty
of it was indubitable: he meant well by the fellow; and periodically his sh=
adow
leaped up intense by his side on the trunks of the trees, to lengthen itsel=
f,
oblique and dim, far over the grass--repeating his stride.
The discretion of=
it.
Was there a choice? He seemed already to have lost something of himself; to
have given up to a hungry specter something of his truth and dignity in ord=
er
to live. But his life was necessary. Let poverty do its worst in exacting i=
ts
toll of humiliation. It was certain that Ned Eliott had rendered him, witho=
ut knowing
it, a service for which it would have been impossible to ask. He hoped Ned
would not think there had been something underhand in his action. He suppos=
ed
that now when he heard of it he would understand--or perhaps he would only
think Whalley an eccentric old fool. What would have been the good of telli=
ng him--any
more than of blurting the whole tale to that man Massy? Five hundred pounds
ready to invest. Let him make the best of that. Let him wonder. You want a
captain--I want a ship. That's enough. B-r-r-r-r. What a disagreeable
impression that empty, dark, echoing steamer had made upon him. . . .
A laid-up steamer=
was
a dead thing and no mistake; a sailing-ship somehow seems always ready to
spring into life with the breath of the incorruptible heaven; but a teamer,
thought Captain Whalley, with her fires out, without the warm whiffs from b=
elow
meeting you on her decks, without the hiss of steam, the clangs of iron in =
her
breast--lies there as cold and still and pulseless as a corpse.
In the solitude of
the avenue, all black above and lighted below, Captain Whalley, considering=
the
discretion of his course, met, as it were incidentally, the thought of deat=
h.
He pushed it aside with dislike and contempt. He almost laughed at it; and =
in
the unquenchable vitality of his age only thought with a kind of exultation=
how
little he needed to keep body and soul together. Not a bad investment for t=
he
poor woman this solid carcass of her father. And for the rest--in case of a=
nything--the
agreement should be clear: the whole five hundred to be paid back to her
integrally within three months. Integrally. Every penny. He was not to lose=
any
of her money whatever else had to go--a little dignity--some of his
self-respect. He had never before allowed anybody to remain under any sort =
of
false impression as to himself. Well, let that go--for her sake. After all,=
he
had never said anything misleading--and Captain Whalley felt himself corrup=
t to
the marrow of his bones. He laughed a little with the intimate scorn of his=
worldly
prudence. Clearly, with a fellow of that sort, and in the peculiar relation
they were to stand to each other, it would not have done to blurt out
everything. He did not like the fellow. He did not like his spells of fawni=
ng
loquacity and bursts of resentfulness. In the end--a poor devil. He would n=
ot
have liked to stand in his shoes. Men were not evil, after all. He did not =
like
his sleek hair, his queer way of standing at right angles, with his nose in=
the
air, and glancing along his shoulder at you. No. On the whole, men were not
bad--they were only silly or unhappy.
Captain Whalley h=
ad
finished considering the discretion of that step--and there was the whole l=
ong
night before him. In the full light his long beard would glisten like a sil=
ver
breastplate covering his heart; in the spaces between the lamps his burly
figure passed less distinct, loomed very big, wandering, and mysterious. No;
there was not much real harm in men: and all the time a shadow marched with
him, slanting on his left hand--which in the East is a presage of evil.
. . . . . . .
"Can you make
out the clump of palms yet, Serang?" asked Captain Whalley from his ch=
air
on the bridge of the Sofala approaching the bar of Batu Beru.
"No, Tuan.
By-and-by see." The old Malay, in a blue dungaree suit, planted on his
bony dark feet under the bridge awning, put his hands behind his back and
stared ahead out of the innumerable wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Captain Whalley s=
at
still, without lifting his head to look for himself. Three years--thirty-six
times. He had made these palms thirty-six times from the southward. They wo=
uld
come into view at the proper time. Thank God, the old ship made her courses=
and
distances trip after trip, as correct as clockwork. At last he murmured aga=
in--
"In sight
yet?"
"The sun mak=
es a
very great glare, Tuan."
"Watch well,
Serang."
"Ya, Tuan.&q=
uot;
A white man had
ascended the ladder from the deck noiselessly, and had listened quietly to =
this
short colloquy. Then he stepped out on the bridge and began to walk from en=
d to
end, holding up the long cherrywood stem of a pipe. His black hair lay
plastered in long lanky wisps across the bald summit of his head; he had a
furrowed brow, a yellow complexion, and a thick shapeless nose. A scanty gr=
owth
of whisker did not conceal the contour of his jaw. His aspect was of broodi=
ng
care; and sucking at a curved black mouthpiece, he presented such a heavy o=
verhanging
profile that even the Serang could not help reflecting sometimes upon the
extreme unloveliness of some white men.
Captain Whalley
seemed to brace himself up in his chair, but gave no recognition whatever to
his presence. The other puffed jets of smoke; then suddenly--
"I could nev=
er
understand that new mania of yours of having this Malay here for your shado=
w,
partner."
Captain Whalley g=
ot
up from the chair in all his imposing stature and walked across to the
binnacle, holding such an unswerving course that the other had to back away
hurriedly, and remained as if intimidated, with the pipe trembling in his h=
and.
"Walk over me now," he muttered in a sort of astounded and
discomfited whisper. Then slowly and distinctly he said--
"I--am--not-=
-dirt."
And then added defiantly, "As you seem to think."
The Serang jerked
out--
"See the pal=
ms
now, Tuan."
Captain Whalley
strode forward to the rail; but his eyes, instead of going straight to the
point, with the assured keen glance of a sailor, wandered irresolutely in
space, as though he, the discoverer of new routes, had lost his way upon th=
is
narrow sea.
Another white man,
the mate, came up on the bridge. He was tall, young, lean, with a mustache =
like
a trooper, and something malicious in the eye. He took up a position beside=
the
engineer. Captain Whalley, with his back to them, inquired--
"What's on t=
he
log?"
"Eighty-five=
,"
answered the mate quickly, and nudged the engineer with his elbow.
Captain Whalley's
muscular hands squeezed the iron rail with an extraordinary force; his eyes
glared with an enormous effort; he knitted his eyebrows, the perspiration f=
ell
from under his hat,--and in a faint voice he murmured, "Steady her,
Serang--when she is on the proper bearing."
The silent Malay
stepped back, waited a little, and lifted his arm warningly to the helmsman.
The wheel revolved rapidly to meet the swing of the ship. Again the made nu=
dged
the engineer. But Massy turned upon him.
"Mr.
Sterne," he said violently, "let me tell you--as a shipowner--tha=
t you
are no better than a confounded fool."
VII
Sterne went down
smirking and apparently not at all disconcerted, but the engineer Massy
remained on the bridge, moving about with uneasy self-assertion. Everybody =
on
board was his inferior--everyone without exception. He paid their wages and
found them in their food. They ate more of his bread and pocketed more of h=
is
money than they were worth; and they had no care in the world, while he alo=
ne
had to meet all the difficulties of shipowning. When he contemplated his
position in all its menacing entirety, it seemed to him that he had been for
years the prey of a band of parasites: and for years he had scowled at
everybody connected with the Sofala except, perhaps, at the Chinese firemen=
who
served to get her along. Their use was manifest: they were an indispensable
part of the machinery of which he was the master.
When he passed al=
ong
his decks he shouldered those he came across brutally; but the Malay deck h=
ands
had learned to dodge out of his way. He had to bring himself to tolerate th=
em
because of the necessary manual labor of the ship which must be done. He ha=
d to
struggle and plan and scheme to keep the Sofala afloat--and what did he get=
for
it? Not even enough respect. They could not have given him enough of that if
all their thoughts and all their actions had been directed to that end. The=
vanity
of possession, the vainglory of power, had passed away by this time, and th=
ere
remained only the material embarrassments, the fear of losing that position
which had turned out not worth having, and an anxiety of thought which no
abject subservience of men could repay.
He walked up and
down. The bridge was his own after all. He had paid for it; and with the st=
em
of the pipe in his hand he would stop short at times as if to listen with a
profound and concentrated attention to the deadened beat of the engines (his
own engines) and the slight grinding of the steering chains upon the contin=
uous
low wash of water alongside. But for these sounds, the ship might have been
lying as still as if moored to a bank, and as silent as if abandoned by eve=
ry
living soul; only the coast, the low coast of mud and mangroves with the th=
ree
palms in a bunch at the back, grew slowly more distinct in its long straigh=
t line,
without a single feature to arrest attention. The native passengers of the
Sofala lay about on mats under the awnings; the smoke of her funnel seemed =
the
only sign of her life and connected with her gliding motion in a mysterious
manner.
Captain Whalley on
his feet, with a pair of binoculars in his hand and the little Malay Serang=
at
his elbow, like an old giant attended by a wizened pigmy, was taking her ov=
er
the shallow water of the bar.
This submarine ri=
dge
of mud, scoured by the stream out of the soft bottom of the river and heape=
d up
far out on the hard bottom of the sea, was difficult to get over. The alluv=
ial
coast having no distinguishing marks, the bearings of the crossing-place ha=
d to
be taken from the shape of the mountains inland. The guidance of a form
flattened and uneven at the top like a grinder tooth, and of another smooth,
saddle-backed summit, had to be searched for within the great unclouded gla=
re
that seemed to shift and float like a dry fiery mist, filling the air, asce=
nding
from the water, shrouding the distances, scorching to the eye. In this veil=
of
light the near edge of the shore alone stood out almost coal-black with an
opaque and motionless solidity. Thirty miles away the serrated range of the
interior stretched across the horizon, its outlines and shades of blue, fai=
nt
and tremulous like a background painted on airy gossamer on the quivering
fabric of an impalpable curtain let down to the plain of alluvial soil; and=
the
openings of the estuary appeared, shining white, like bits of silver let in=
to
the square pieces snipped clean and sharp out of the body of the land borde=
red
with mangroves.
On the forepart of
the bridge the giant and the pigmy muttered to each other frequently in qui=
et
tones. Behind them Massy stood sideways with an expression of disdain and
suspense on his face. His globular eyes were perfectly motionless, and he
seemed to have forgotten the long pipe he held in his hand.
On the fore-deck
below the bridge, steeply roofed with the white slopes of the awnings, a yo=
ung
lascar seaman had clambered outside the rail. He adjusted quickly a broad b=
and
of sail canvas under his armpits, and throwing his chest against it, leaned=
out
far over the water. The sleeves of his thin cotton shirt, cut off close to =
the
shoulder, bared his brown arm of full rounded form and with a satiny skin l=
ike
a woman's. He swung it rigidly with the rotary and menacing action of a sli=
nger:
the 14-lb. weight hurtled circling in the air, then suddenly flew ahead as =
far
as the curve of the bow. The wet thin line swished like scratched silk runn=
ing
through the dark fingers of the man, and the plunge of the lead close to th=
e ship's
side made a vanishing silvery scar upon the golden glitter; then after an
interval the voice of the young Malay uplifted and long-drawn declared the
depth of the water in his own language.
"Tiga
stengah," he cried after each splash and pause, gathering the line bus=
ily
for another cast. "Tiga stengah," which means three fathom and a =
half.
For a mile or so from seaward there was a uniform depth of water right up to
the bar. "Half-three. Half-three. Half-three,"--and his modulated
cry, returned leisurely and monotonous, like the repeated call of a bird,
seemed to float away in sunshine and disappear in the spacious silence of t=
he
empty sea and of a lifeless shore lying open, north and south, east and wes=
t,
without the stir of a single cloud-shadow or the whisper of any other voice=
.
The owner-enginee=
r of
the Sofala remained very still behind the two seamen of different race, cre=
ed,
and color; the European with the time-defying vigor of his old frame, the
little Malay, old, too, but slight and shrunken like a withered brown leaf
blown by a chance wind under the mighty shadow of the other. Very busy look=
ing
forward at the land, they had not a glance to spare; and Massy, glaring at =
them
from behind, seemed to resent their attention to their duty like a personal=
slight
upon himself.
This was
unreasonable; but he had lived in his own world of unreasonable resentments=
for
many years. At last, passing his moist palm over the rare lanky wisps of co=
arse
hair on the top of his yellow head, he began to talk slowly.
"A leadsman,=
you
want! I suppose that's your correct mail-boat style. Haven't you enough
judgment to tell where you are by looking at the land? Why, before I had be=
en a
twelvemonth in the trade I was up to that trick--and I am only an engineer.=
I
can point to you from here where the bar is, and I could tell you besides t=
hat
you are as likely as not to stick her in the mud in about five minutes from
now; only you would call it interfering, I suppose. And there's that written
agreement of ours, that says I mustn't interfere."
His voice stopped.
Captain Whalley, without relaxing the set severity of his features, moved h=
is
lips to ask in a quick mumble--
"How near,
Serang?"
"Very near n=
ow,
Tuan," the Malay muttered rapidly.
"Dead
slow," said the Captain aloud in a firm tone.
The Serang snatch= ed at the handle of the telegraph. A gong clanged down below. Massy with a scornful snigger walked off and put his head down the engineroom skylight.<= o:p>
"You may exp=
ect
some rare fooling with the engines, Jack," he bellowed. The space into
which he stared was deep and full of gloom; and the gray gleams of steel do=
wn
there seemed cool after the intense glare of the sea around the ship. The a=
ir,
however, came up clammy and hot on his face. A short hoot on which it would
have been impossible to put any sort of interpretation came from the bottom
cavernously. This was the way in which the second engineer answered his chi=
ef.
He was a middle-a=
ged
man with an inattentive manner, and apparently wrapped up in such a taciturn
concern for his engines that he seemed to have lost the use of speech. When
addressed directly his only answer would be a grunt or a hoot, according to=
the
distance. For all the years he had been in the Sofala he had never been kno=
wn
to exchange as much as a frank Good-morning with any of his shipmates. He d=
id
not seem aware that men came and went in the world; he did not seem to see =
them
at all. Indeed he never recognized his ship mates on shore. At table (the f=
our white
men of the Sofala messed together) he sat looking into his plate dispassion=
ately,
but at the end of the meal would jump up and bolt down below as if a sudden
thought had impelled him to rush and see whether somebody had not stolen the
engines while he dined. In port at the end of the trip he went ashore
regularly, but no one knew where he spent his evenings or in what manner. T=
he
local coasting fleet had preserved a wild and incoherent tale of his
infatuation for the wife of a sergeant in an Irish infantry regiment. The
regiment, however, had done its turn of garrison duty there ages before, and
was gone somewhere to the other side of the earth, out of men's knowledge.
Twice or perhaps three times in the course of the year he would take too mu=
ch
to drink. On these occasions he returned on board at an earlier hour than
usual; ran across the deck balancing himself with his spread arms like a
tight-rope walker; and locking the door of his cabin, he would converse and
argue with himself the livelong night in an amazing variety of tones; storm=
, sneer,
and whine with an inexhaustible persistence. Massy in his berth next door,
raising himself on his elbow, would discover that his second had remembered=
the
name of every white man that had passed through the Sofala for years and ye=
ars
back. He remembered the names of men that had died, that had gone home, that
had gone to America: he remembered in his cups the names of men whose
connection with the ship had been so short that Massy had almost forgotten =
its
circumstances and could barely recall their faces. The inebriated voice on =
the
other side of the bulkhead commented upon them all with an extraordinary and
ingenious venom of scandalous inventions. It seems they had all offended hi=
m in
some way, and in return he had found them all out. He muttered darkly; he l=
aughed
sardonically; he crushed them one after another; but of his chief, Massy, he
babbled with an envious and naive admiration. Clever scoundrel! Don't meet =
the
likes of him every day. Just look at him. Ha! Great! Ship of his own. Would=
n't
catch him going wrong. No fear--the beast! And Massy, after listening with a
gratified smile to these artless tributes to his greatness, would begin to
shout, thumping at the bulkhead with both fists--
"Shut up, you
lunatic! Won't you let me go to sleep, you fool!"
But a half smile =
of
pride lingered on his lips; outside the solitary lascar told off for night =
duty
in harbor, perhaps a youth fresh from a forest village, would stand motionl=
ess
in the shadows of the deck listening to the endless drunken gabble. His hea=
rt would
be thumping with breathless awe of white men: the arbitrary and obstinate m=
en
who pursue inflexibly their incomprehensible purposes,--beings with weird i=
ntonations
in the voice, moved by unaccountable feelings, actuated by inscrutable moti=
ves.
VIII
For a while after=
his
second's answering hoot Massy hung over the engine-room gloomily. Captain
Whalley, who, by the power of five hundred pounds, had kept his command for
three years, might have been suspected of never having seen that coast befo=
re.
He seemed unable to put down his glasses, as though they had been glued und=
er
his contracted eyebrows. This settled frown gave to his face an air of
invincible and just severity; but his raised elbow trembled slightly, and t=
he
perspiration poured from under his hat as if a second sun had suddenly blaz=
ed
up at the zenith by the side of the ardent still globe already there, in wh=
ose blinding
white heat the earth whirled and shone like a mote of dust.
From time to time,
still holding up his glasses, he raised his other hand to wipe his streaming
face. The drops rolled down his cheeks, fell like rain upon the white hairs=
of
his beard, and brusquely, as if guided by an uncontrollable and anxious
impulse, his arm reached out to the stand of the engine-room telegraph.
The gong clanged =
down
below. The balanced vibration of the dead-slow speed ceased together with e=
very
sound and tremor in the ship, as if the great stillness that reigned upon t=
he
coast had stolen in through her sides of iron and taken possession of her i=
nnermost
recesses. The illusion of perfect immobility seemed to fall upon her from t=
he
luminous blue dome without a stain arching over a flat sea without a stir. =
The faint
breeze she had made for herself expired, as if all at once the air had beco=
me
too thick to budge; even the slight hiss of the water on her stem died out.=
The
narrow, long hull, carrying its way without a ripple, seemed to approach the
shoal water of the bar by stealth. The plunge of the lead with the mournful,
mechanical cry of the lascar came at longer and longer intervals; and the m=
en
on her bridge seemed to hold their breath. The Malay at the helm looked fix=
edly
at the compass card, the Captain and the Serang stared at the coast.
Massy had left the
skylight, and, walking flat-footed, had returned softly to the very spot on=
the
bridge he had occupied before. A slow, lingering grin exposed his set of big
white teeth: they gleamed evenly in the shade of the awning like the keyboa=
rd
of a piano in a dusky room.
At last, pretendi=
ng
to talk to himself in excessive astonishment, he said not very loud--
"Stop the
engines now. What next, I wonder?"
He waited, stoopi=
ng
from the shoulders, his head bowed, his glance oblique. Then raising his vo=
ice
a shade--
"If I dared =
make
an absurd remark I would say that you haven't the stomach to . . ."
But a yelling spi=
rit
of excitement, like some frantic soul wandering unsuspected in the vast
stillness of the coast, had seized upon the body of the lascar at the lead.=
The
languid monotony of his sing-song changed to a swift, sharp clamor. The wei=
ght
flew after a single whir, the line whistled, splash followed splash in hast=
e.
The water had shoaled, and the man, instead of the drowsy tale of fathoms, =
was
calling out the soundings in feet.
"Fifteen fee=
t.
Fifteen, fifteen! Fourteen, fourteen . . ."
Captain Whalley
lowered the arm holding the glasses. It descended slowly as if by its own
weight; no other part of his towering body stirred; and the swift cries with
their eager warning note passed him by as though he had been deaf.
Massy, very still,
and turning an attentive ear, had fastened his eyes upon the silvery,
close-cropped back of the steady old head. The ship herself seemed to be
arrested but for the gradual decrease of depth under her keel.
"Thirteen fe=
et .
. . Thirteen! Twelve!" cried the leadsman anxiously below the bridge. =
And
suddenly the barefooted Serang stepped away noiselessly to steal a glance o=
ver
the side.
Narrow of shoulde=
r,
in a suit of faded blue cotton, an old gray felt hat rammed down on his hea=
d,
with a hollow in the nape of his dark neck, and with his slender limbs, he
appeared from the back no bigger than a boy of fourteen. There was a childl=
ike
impulsiveness in the curiosity with which he watched the spread of the
voluminous, yellowish convolutions rolling up from below to the surface of =
the
blue water like massive clouds driving slowly upwards on the unfathomable s=
ky.
He was not startled at the sight in the least. It was not doubt, but the
certitude that the keel of the Sofala must be stirring the mud now, which m=
ade
him peep over the side.
His peering eyes,=
set
aslant in a face of the Chinese type, a little old face, immovable, as if
carved in old brown oak, had informed him long before that the ship was not
headed at the bar properly. Paid off from the Fair Maid, together with the =
rest
of the crew, after the completion of the sale, he had hung, in his faded bl=
ue
suit and floppy gray hat, about the doors of the Harbor Office, till one da=
y,
seeing Captain Whalley coming along to get a crew for the Sofala, he had put
himself quietly in the way, with his bare feet in the dust and an upward mu=
te glance.
The eyes of his old commander had fallen on him favorably--it must have bee=
n an
auspicious day--and in less than half an hour the white men in the
"Ofiss" had written his name on a document as Serang of the fire-=
ship
Sofala. Since that time he had repeatedly looked at that estuary, upon that
coast, from this bridge and from this side of the bar. The record of the vi=
sual
world fell through his eyes upon his unspeculating mind as on a sensitized
plate through the lens of a camera. His knowledge was absolute and precise;
nevertheless, had he been asked his opinion, and especially if questioned in
the downright, alarming manner of white men, he would have displayed the
hesitation of ignorance. He was certain of his facts--but such a certitude
counted for little against the doubt what answer would be pleasing. Fifty y=
ears
ago, in a jungle village, and before he was a day old, his father (who died=
without
ever seeing a white face) had had his nativity cast by a man of skill and
wisdom in astrology, because in the arrangement of the stars may be read the
last word of human destiny. His destiny had been to thrive by the favor of
various white men on the sea. He had swept the decks of ships, had tended t=
heir
helms, had minded their stores, had risen at last to be a Serang; and his
placid mind had remained as incapable of penetrating the simplest motives of
those he served as they themselves were incapable of detecting through the
crust of the earth the secret nature of its heart, which may be fire or may=
be
stone. But he had no doubt whatever that the Sofala was out of the proper t=
rack
for crossing the bar at Batu Beru.
It was a slight
error. The ship could not have been more than twice her own length too far =
to
the northward; and a white man at a loss for a cause (since it was impossib=
le
to suspect Captain Whalley of blundering ignorance, of want of skill, or of
neglect) would have been inclined to doubt the testimony of his senses. It =
was
some such feeling that kept Massy motionless, with his teeth laid bare by an
anxious grin. Not so the Serang. He was not troubled by any intellectual
mistrust of his senses. If his captain chose to stir the mud it was well. He
had known in his life white men indulge in outbreaks equally strange. He was
only genuinely interested to see what would come of it. At last, apparently=
satisfied,
he stepped back from the rail.
He had made no so=
und:
Captain Whalley, however, seemed to have observed the movements of his Sera=
ng.
Holding his head rigidly, he asked with a mere stir of his lips--
"Going ahead
still, Serang?"
"Still going=
a
little, Tuan," answered the Malay. Then added casually, "She is
over."
The lead confirme=
d his
words; the depth of water increased at every cast, and the soul of exciteme=
nt
departed suddenly from the lascar swung in the canvas belt over the Sofala's
side. Captain Whalley ordered the lead in, set the engines ahead without ha=
ste,
and averting his eyes from the coast directed the Serang to keep a course f=
or
the middle of the entrance.
Massy brought the
palm of his hand with a loud smack against his thigh.
"You grazed =
on
the bar. Just look astern and see if you didn't. Look at the track she left=
. You
can see it plainly. Upon my soul, I thought you would! What made you do tha=
t?
What on earth made you do that? I believe you are trying to scare me."=
He talked slowly,=
as
it were circumspectly, keeping his prominent black eyes on his captain. The=
re
was also a slight plaintive note in his rising choler, for, primarily, it w=
as
the clear sense of a wrong suffered undeservedly that made him hate the man
who, for a beggarly five hundred pounds, claimed a sixth part of the profits
under the three years' agreement. Whenever his resentment got the better of=
the
awe the person of Captain Whalley inspired he would positively whimper with=
fury.
"You don't k=
now
what to invent to plague my life out of me. I would not have thought that a=
man
of your sort would condescend . . ."
He paused, half
hopefully, half timidly, whenever Captain Whalley made the slightest moveme=
nt
in the deck-chair, as though expecting to be conciliated by a soft speech or
else rushed upon and hunted off the bridge.
"I am
puzzled," he went on again, with the watchful unsmiling baring of his =
big
teeth. "I don't know what to think. I do believe you are trying to
frighten me. You very nearly planted her on the bar for at least twelve hou=
rs,
besides getting the engines choked with mud. Ships can't afford to lose twe=
lve
hours on a trip nowadays--as you ought to know very well, and do know very =
well
to be sure, only . . ."
His slow volubili=
ty,
the sideways cranings of his neck, the black glances out of the very corner=
s of
his eyes, left Captain Whalley unmoved. He looked at the deck with a severe
frown. Massy waited for some little time, then began to threaten plaintivel=
y.
"You think
you've got me bound hand and foot in that agreement. You think you can torm=
ent
me in any way you please. Ah! But remember it has another six weeks to run =
yet.
There's time for me to dismiss you before the three years are out. You will=
do
yet something that will give me the chance to dismiss you, and make you wai=
t a
twelvemonth for your money before you can take yourself off and pull out yo=
ur
five hundred, and leave me without a penny to get the new boilers for her. =
You
gloat over that idea--don't you? I do believe you sit here gloating. It's a=
s if
I had sold my soul for five hundred pounds to be everlastingly damned in th=
e end.
. . ."
He paused, without
apparent exasperation, then continued evenly--
". . . With =
the
boilers worn out and the survey hanging over my head, Captain Whalley--Capt=
ain
Whalley, I say, what do you do with your money? You must have stacks of mon=
ey
somewhere--a man like you must. It stands to reason. I am not a fool, you k=
now,
Captain Whalley--partner."
Again he paused, = as though he had done for good. He passed his tongue over his lips, gave a backward glance at the Serang conning the ship with quiet whispers and slig= ht signs of the hand. The wash of the propeller sent a swift ripple, crested w= ith dark froth, upon a long flat spit of black slime. The Sofala had entered the river; the trail she had stirred up over the bar was a mile astern of her n= ow, out of sight, had disappeared utterly; and the smooth, empty sea along the coast was left behind in the glittering desolation of sunshine. On each sid= e of her, low down, the growth of somber twisted mangroves covered the semi-liqu= id banks; and Massy continued in his old tone, with an abrupt start, as if his speech= had been ground out of him, like the tune of a music-box, by turning a handle.<= o:p>
"Though if anybody ever got the best of me, it is you. I don't mind saying this. I've = said it--there! What more can you want? Isn't that enough for your pride, Captain Whalley. You got over me from the first. It's all of a piece, when I look b= ack at it. You allowed me to insert that clause about intemperance without sayi= ng anything, only looking very sick when I made a point of it going in black on white. How could I tell what was wrong about you. There's generally somethi= ng wrong somewhere. And, lo and behold! when you come on board it turns out th= at you've been in the habit of drinking nothing but water for years and years."<= o:p>
His dogmatic
reproachful whine stopped. He brooded profoundly, after the manner of crafty
and unintelligent men. It seemed inconceivable that Captain Whalley should =
not
laugh at the expression of disgust that overspread the heavy, yellow
countenance. But Captain Whalley never raised his eyes--sitting in his
arm-chair, outraged, dignified, and motionless.
"Much good it
was to me," Massy remonstrated monotonously, "to insert a clause =
for
dismissal for intemperance against a man who drinks nothing but water. And =
you
looked so upset, too, when I read my draft in the lawyer's office that morn=
ing,
Captain Whalley,--you looked so crestfallen, that I made sure I had gone ho=
me
on your weak spot. A shipowner can't be too careful as to the sort of skipp=
er
he gets. You must have been laughing at me in your sleeve all the blessed t=
ime.
. . . Eh? What are you going to say?"
Captain Whalley h=
ad
only shuffled his feet slightly. A dull animosity became apparent in Massy's
sideways stare.
"But recolle=
ct
that there are other grounds of dismissal. There's habitual carelessness,
amounting to incompetence--there's gross and persistent neglect of duty. I =
am
not quite as big a fool as you try to make me out to be. You have been care=
less
of late--leaving everything to that Serang. Why! I've seen you letting that=
old
fool of a Malay take bearings for you, as if you were too big to attend to =
your
work yourself. And what do you call that silly touch-and-go manner in which=
you
took the ship over the bar just now? You expect me to put up with that?&quo=
t;
Leaning on his el=
bow
against the ladder abaft the bridge, Sterne, the mate, tried to hear, blink=
ing
the while from the distance at the second engineer, who had come up for a
moment, and stood in the engine-room companion. Wiping his hands on a bunch=
of
cotton waste, he looked about with indifference to the right and left at the
river banks slipping astern of the Sofala steadily.
Massy turned full=
at
the chair. The character of his whine became again threatening.
"Take care. I may yet dismiss you and freeze to your money for a year. I may . . ."<= o:p>
But before the
silent, rigid immobility of the man whose money had come in the nick of tim=
e to
save him from utter ruin, his voice died out in his throat.
"Not that I =
want
you to go," he resumed after a silence, and in an absurdly insinuating
tone. "I want nothing better than to be friends and renew the agreemen=
t,
if you will consent to find another couple of hundred to help with the new
boilers, Captain Whalley. I've told you before. She must have new boilers; =
you
know it as well as I do. Have you thought this over?"
He waited. The
slender stem of the pipe with its bulky lump of a bowl at the end hung down
from his thick lips. It had gone out. Suddenly he took it from between his
teeth and wrung his hands slightly.
"Don't you
believe me?" He thrust the pipe bowl into the pocket of his shiny black
jacket.
"It's like
dealing with the devil," he said. "Why don't you speak? At first =
you
were so high and mighty with me I hardly dared to creep about my own deck. =
Now
I can't get a word from you. You don't seem to see me at all. What does it
mean? Upon my soul, you terrify me with this deaf and dumb trick. What's go=
ing
on in that head of yours? What are you plotting against me there so hard th=
at
you can't say a word? You will never make me believe that you--you--don't k=
now
where to lay your hands on a couple of hundred. You have made me curse the =
day
I was born. . . ."
"Mr.
Massy," said Captain Whalley suddenly, without stirring.
The engineer star=
ted
violently.
"If that is =
so I
can only beg you to forgive me."
"Starboard,&=
quot;
muttered the Serang to the helmsman; and the Sofala began to swing round the
bend into the second reach.
"Ough!"
Massy shuddered. "You make my blood run cold. What made you come here?
What made you come aboard that evening all of a sudden, with your high talk=
and
your money--tempting me? I always wondered what was your motive? You fasten=
ed
yourself on me to have easy times and grow fat on my life blood, I tell you.
Was that it? I believe you are the greatest miser in the world, or else why=
. .
."
"No. I am on=
ly
poor," interrupted Captain Whalley, stonily.
"Steady,&quo=
t;
murmured the Serang. Massy turned away with his chin on his shoulder.
"I don't bel=
ieve
it," he said in his dogmatic tone. Captain Whalley made no movement.
"There you sit like a gorged vulture--exactly like a vulture."
He embraced the
middle of the reach and both the banks in one blank unseeing circular glanc=
e,
and left the bridge slowly.
IX
On turning to des=
cend
Massy perceived the head of Sterne the mate loitering, with his sly confide=
nt
smile, his red mustaches and blinking eyes, at the foot of the ladder.
Sterne had been a
junior in one of the larger shipping concerns before joining the Sofala. He=
had
thrown up his berth, he said, "on general principles." The promot=
ion
in the employ was very slow, he complained, and he thought it was time for =
him
to try and get on a bit in the world. It seemed as though nobody would ever=
die
or leave the firm; they all stuck fast in their berths till they got mildew=
ed;
he was tired of waiting; and he feared that when a vacancy did occur the be=
st
servants were by no means sure of being treated fairly. Besides, the captai=
n he
had to serve under--Captain Provost--was an unaccountable sort of man, and,=
he
fancied, had taken a dislike to him for some reason or other. For doing rat=
her
more than his bare duty as likely as not. When he had done anything wrong he
could take a talking to, like a man; but he expected to be treated like a m=
an too,
and not to be addressed invariably as though he were a dog. He had asked
Captain Provost plump and plain to tell him where he was at fault, and Capt=
ain
Provost, in a most scornful way, had told him that he was a perfect officer,
and that if he disliked the way he was being spoken to there was the
gangway--he could take himself off ashore at once. But everybody knew what =
sort
of man Captain Provost was. It was no use appealing to the office. Captain =
Provost
had too much influence in the employ. All the same, they had to give him a =
good
character. He made bold to say there was nothing in the world against him, =
and,
as he had happened to hear that the mate of the Sofala had been taken to the
hospital that morning with a sunstroke, he thought there would be no harm in
seeing whether he would not do. . . .
He had come to
Captain Whalley freshly shaved, red-faced, thin-flanked, throwing out his l=
ean
chest; and had recited his little tale with an open and manly assurance. Now
and then his eyelids quivered slightly, his hand would steal up to the end =
of
the flaming mustache; his eyebrows were straight, furry, of a chestnut colo=
r,
and the directness of his frank gaze seemed to tremble on the verge of
impudence. Captain Whalley had engaged him temporarily; then, the other man
having been ordered home by the doctors, he had remained for the next trip,=
and
then the next. He had now attained permanency, and the performance of his
duties was marked by an air of serious, single-minded application. Directly=
he
was spoken to, he began to smile attentively, with a great deference expres=
sed
in his whole attitude; but there was in the rapid winking which went on all=
the
time something quizzical, as though he had possessed the secret of some
universal joke cheating all creation and impenetrable to other mortals.
Grave and smiling=
he
watched Massy come down step by step; when the chief engineer had reached t=
he
deck he swung about, and they found themselves face to face. Matched as to
height and utterly dissimilar, they confronted each other as if there had b=
een
something between them--something else than the bright strip of sunlight th=
at,
falling through the wide lacing of two awnings, cut crosswise the narrow pl=
anking
of the deck and separated their feet as it were a stream; something profound
and subtle and incalculable, like an unexpressed understanding, a secret
mistrust, or some sort of fear.
At last Sterne,
blinking his deep-set eyes and sticking forward his scraped, clean-cut chin=
, as
crimson as the rest of his face, murmured--
"You've seen=
? He
grazed! You've seen?"
Massy, contemptuo=
us,
and without raising his yellow, fleshy countenance, replied in the same pit=
ch--
"Maybe. But =
if
it had been you we would have been stuck fast in the mud."
"Pardon me, =
Mr.
Massy. I beg to deny it. Of course a shipowner may say what he jolly well
pleases on his own deck. That's all right; but I beg to . . ."
"Get out of =
my
way!"
The other had a
slight start, the impulse of suppressed indignation perhaps, but held his
ground. Massy's downward glance wandered right and left, as though the deck=
all
round Sterne had been bestrewn with eggs that must not be broken, and he had
looked irritably for places where he could set his feet in flight. In the e=
nd
he too did not move, though there was plenty of room to pass on.
"I heard you=
say
up there," went on the mate--"and a very just remark it was too--=
that
there's always something wrong. . . ."
"Eavesdroppi=
ng
is what's wrong with you, Mr. Sterne."
"Now, if you
would only listen to me for a moment, Mr. Massy, sir, I could . . ."
"You are a
sneak," interrupted Massy in a great hurry, and even managed to get so=
far
as to repeat, "a common sneak," before the mate had broken in
argumentatively--
"Now, sir, w=
hat
is it you want? You want . . ."
"I want--I
want," stammered Massy, infuriated and astonished--"I want. How do
you know that I want anything? How dare you? . . . What do you mean? . . . =
What
are you after--you . . ."
"Promotion.&=
quot;
Sterne silenced him with a sort of candid bravado. The engineer's round soft
cheeks quivered still, but he said quietly enough--
"You are only
worrying my head off," and Sterne met him with a confident little smil=
e.
"A chap in
business I know (well up in the world he is now) used to tell me that this =
was
the proper way. 'Always push on to the front,' he would say. 'Keep yourself
well before your boss. Interfere whenever you get a chance. Show him what y=
ou
know. Worry him into seeing you.' That was his advice. Now I know no other =
boss
than you here. You are the owner, and no one else counts for that much in my
eyes. See, Mr. Massy? I want to get on. I make no secret of it that I am on=
e of
the sort that means to get on. These are the men to make use of, sir. You
haven't arrived at the top of the tree, sir, without finding that out--I da=
re
say."
"Worry your =
boss
in order to get on," mumbled Massy, as if awestruck by the irreverent
originality of the idea. "I shouldn't wonder if this was just what the
Blue Anchor people kicked you out of the employ for. Is that what you call
getting on? You shall get on in the same way here if you aren't careful--I =
can
promise you."
At this Sterne hu=
ng
his head, thoughtful, perplexed, winking hard at the deck. All his attempts=
to
enter into confidential relations with his owner had led of late to nothing
better than these dark threats of dismissal; and a threat of dismissal would
check him at once into a hesitating silence as though he were not sure that=
the
proper time for defying it had come. On this occasion he seemed to have lost
his tongue for a moment, and Massy, getting in motion, heavily passed him by
with an abortive attempt at shouldering. Sterne defeated it by stepping asi=
de.
He turned then swiftly, opening his mouth very wide as if to shout something
after the engineer, but seemed to think better of it.
Always--as he was
ready to confess--on the lookout for an opening to get on, it had become an
instinct with him to watch the conduct of his immediate superiors for somet=
hing
"that one could lay hold of." It was his belief that no skipper in
the world would keep his command for a day if only the owners could be
"made to know." This romantic and naive theory had led him into
trouble more than once, but he remained incorrigible; and his character was=
so
instinctively disloyal that whenever he joined a ship the intention of oust=
ing
his commander out of the berth and taking his place was always present at t=
he
back of his head, as a matter of course. It filled the leisure of his waking
hours with the reveries of careful plans and compromising discoveries--the =
dreams
of his sleep with images of lucky turns and favorable accidents. Skippers h=
ad
been known to sicken and die at sea, than which nothing could be better to =
give
a smart mate a chance of showing what he's made of. They also would tumble
overboard sometimes: he had heard of one or two such cases. Others again . =
. .
But, as it were constitutionally, he was faithful to the belief that the
conduct of no single one of them would stand the test of careful watching b=
y a
man who "knew what's what" and who kept his eyes "skinned pr=
etty
well" all the time.
After he had gain=
ed a
permanent footing on board the Sofala he allowed his perennial hope to rise
high. To begin with, it was a great advantage to have an old man for captai=
n:
the sort of man besides who in the nature of things was likely to give up t=
he
job before long from one cause or another. Sterne was greatly chagrined,
however, to notice that he did not seem anyway near being past his work yet.
Still, these old men go to pieces all at once sometimes. Then there was the=
owner-engineer
close at hand to be impressed by his zeal and steadiness. Sterne never for a
moment doubted the obvious nature of his own merits (he was really an excel=
lent
officer); only, nowadays, professional merit alone does not take a man along
fast enough. A chap must have some push in him, and must keep his wits at w=
ork
too to help him forward. He made up his mind to inherit the charge of this
steamer if it was to be done at all; not indeed estimating the command of t=
he
Sofala as a very great catch, but for the reason that, out East especially,=
to
make a start is everything, and one command leads to another.
He began by promi=
sing
himself to behave with great circumspection; Massy's somber and fantastic
humors intimidated him as being outside one's usual sea experience; but he =
was
quite intelligent enough to realize almost from the first that he was there=
in
the presence of an exceptional situation. His peculiar prying imagination
penetrated it quickly; the feeling that there was in it an element which el=
uded
his grasp exasperated his impatience to get on. And so one trip came to an =
end,
then another, and he had begun his third before he saw an opening by which =
he
could step in with any sort of effect. It had all been very queer and very
obscure; something had been going on near him, as if separated by a chasm f=
rom
the common life and the working routine of the ship, which was exactly like=
the
life and the routine of any other coasting steamer of that class.
Then one day he m=
ade
his discovery.
It came to him af=
ter
all these weeks of watchful observation and puzzled surmises, suddenly, like
the long-sought solution of a riddle that suggests itself to the mind in a
flash. Not with the same authority, however. Great heavens! Could it be tha=
t?
And after remaining thunderstruck for a few seconds he tried to shake it off
with self-contumely, as though it had been the product of an unhealthy bias=
towards
the Incredible, the Inexplicable, the Unheard-of--the Mad!
This--the illumin=
ating
moment--had occurred the trip before, on the return passage. They had just =
left
a place of call on the mainland called Pangu; they were steaming straight o=
ut
of a bay. To the east a massive headland closed the view, with the tilted e=
dges
of the rocky strata showing through its ragged clothing of rank bushes and
thorny creepers. The wind had begun to sing in the rigging; the sea along t=
he coast,
green and as if swollen a little above the line of the horizon, seemed to p=
our
itself over, time after time, with a slow and thundering fall, into the sha=
dow
of the leeward cape; and across the wide opening the nearest of a group of
small islands stood enveloped in the hazy yellow light of a breezy sunrise;
still farther out the hummocky tops of other islets peeped out motionless a=
bove
the water of the channels between, scoured tumultuously by the breeze.
The usual track of
the Sofala both going and returning on every trip led her for a few miles a=
long
this reefinfested region. She followed a broad lane of water, dropping aste=
rn,
one after another, these crumbs of the earth's crust resembling a squadron =
of
dismasted hulks run in disorder upon a foul ground of rocks and shoals. Som=
e of
these fragments of land appeared, indeed, no bigger than a stranded ship; o=
thers,
quite flat, lay awash like anchored rafts, like ponderous, black rafts of
stone; several, heavily timbered and round at the base, emerged in squat do=
mes of
deep green foliage that shuddered darkly all over to the flying touch of cl=
oud
shadows driven by the sudden gusts of the squally season. The thunderstorms=
of
the coast broke frequently over that cluster; it turned then shadowy in its
whole extent; it turned more dark, and as if more still in the play of fire=
; as
if more impenetrably silent in the peals of thunder; its blurred shapes
vanished--dissolving utterly at times in the thick rain--to reappear clear-=
cut
and black in the stormy light against the gray sheet of the cloud--scattere=
d on
the slaty round table of the sea. Unscathed by storms, resisting the work of
years, unfretted by the strife of the world, there it lay unchanged as on t=
hat
day, four hundred years ago, when first beheld by Western eyes from the dec=
k of
a high-pooped caravel.
It was one of the=
se
secluded spots that may be found on the busy sea, as on land you come somet=
imes
upon the clustered houses of a hamlet untouched by men's restlessness,
untouched by their need, by their thought, and as if forgotten by time itse=
lf.
The lives of uncounted generations had passed it by, and the multitudes of
seafowl, urging their way from all the points of the horizon to sleep on the
outer rocks of the group, unrolled the converging evolutions of their fligh=
t in
long somber streamers upon the glow of the sky. The palpitating cloud of th=
eir
wings soared and stooped over the pinnacles of the rocks, over the rocks
slender like spires, squat like martello towers; over the pyramidal heaps l=
ike
fallen ruins, over the lines of bald bowlders showing like a wall of stones
battered to pieces and scorched by lightning--with the sleepy, clear glimme=
r of
water in every breach. The noise of their continuous and violent screaming
filled the air.
This great noise
would meet the Sofala coming up from Batu Beru; it would meet her on quiet
evenings, a pitiless and savage clamor enfeebled by distance, the clamor of
seabirds settling to rest, and struggling for a footing at the end of the d=
ay.
No one noticed it especially on board; it was the voice of their ship's
unerring landfall, ending the steady stretch of a hundred miles. She had ma=
de
good her course, she had run her distance till the punctual islets began to
emerge one by one, the points of rocks, the hummocks of earth . . . and the
cloud of birds hovered--the restless cloud emitting a strident and cruel
uproar, the sound of the familiar scene, the living part of the broken land
beneath, of the outspread sea, and of the high sky without a flaw.
But when the Sofa=
la
happened to close with the land after sunset she would find everything very
still there under the mantle of the night. All would be still, dumb, almost
invisible--but for the blotting out of the low constellations occulted in t=
urns
behind the vague masses of the islets whose true outlines eluded the eye
amongst the dark spaces of the heaven: and the ship's three lights, resembl=
ing
three stars--the red and the green with the white above--her three lights, =
like
three companion stars wandering on the earth, held their unswerving course =
for
the passage at the southern end of the group. Sometimes there were human ey=
es
open to watch them come nearer, traveling smoothly in the somber void; the =
eyes
of a naked fisherman in his canoe floating over a reef. He thought drowsily:
"Ha! The fire-ship that once in every moon goes in and comes out of Pa=
ngu
bay." More he did not know of her. And just as he had detected the fai=
nt
rhythm of the propeller beating the calm water a mile and a half away, the =
time
would come for the Sofala to alter her course, the lights would swing off h=
im
their triple beam--and disappear.
A few miserable,
half-naked families, a sort of outcast tribe of long-haired, lean, and
wild-eyed people, strove for their living in this lonely wilderness of isle=
ts,
lying like an abandoned outwork of the land at the gates of the bay. Within=
the
knots and loops of the rocks the water rested more transparent than crystal
under their crooked and leaky canoes, scooped out of the trunk of a tree: t=
he
forms of the bottom undulated slightly to the dip of a paddle; and the men
seemed to hang in the air, they seemed to hang inclosed within the fibers o=
f a
dark, sodden log, fishing patiently in a strange, unsteady, pellucid, green=
air
above the shoals.
Their bodies stal=
ked
brown and emaciated as if dried up in the sunshine; their lives ran out
silently; the homes where they were born, went to rest, and died--flimsy sh=
eds
of rushes and coarse grass eked out with a few ragged mats--were hidden out=
of
sight from the open sea. No glow of their household fires ever kindled for a
seaman a red spark upon the blind night of the group: and the calms of the
coast, the flaming long calms of the equator, the unbreathing, concentrated
calms like the deep introspection of a passionate nature, brooded awfully f=
or
days and weeks together over the unchangeable inheritance of their children=
; till
at last the stones, hot like live embers, scorched the naked sole, till the
water clung warm, and sickly, and as if thickened, about the legs of lean m=
en
with girded loins, wading thigh-deep in the pale blaze of the shallows. And=
it
would happen now and then that the Sofala, through some delay in one of the
ports of call, would heave in sight making for Pangu bay as late as noonday=
.
Only a blurring c=
loud
at first, the thin mist of her smoke would arise mysteriously from an empty
point on the clear line of sea and sky. The taciturn fishermen within the r=
eefs
would extend their lean arms towards the offing; and the brown figures stoo=
ping
on the tiny beaches, the brown figures of men, women, and children grubbing=
in
the sand in search of turtles' eggs, would rise up, crooked elbow aloft and
hand over the eyes, to watch this monthly apparition glide straight on, swe=
rve off--and
go by. Their ears caught the panting of that ship; their eyes followed her =
till
she passed between the two capes of the mainland going at full speed as tho=
ugh
she hoped to make her way unchecked into the very bosom of the earth.
On such days the
luminous sea would give no sign of the dangers lurking on both sides of her
path. Everything remained still, crushed by the overwhelming power of the
light; and the whole group, opaque in the sunshine,--the rocks resembling
pinnacles, the rocks resembling spires, the rocks resembling ruins; the for=
ms
of islets resembling beehives, resembling mole-hills, the islets recalling =
the
shapes of haystacks, the contours of ivy-clad towers,--would stand reflected
together upside down in the unwrinkled water, like carved toys of ebony
disposed on the silvered plate-glass of a mirror.
The first touch of
blowing weather would envelop the whole at once in the spume of the windward
breakers, as if in a sudden cloudlike burst of steam; and the clear water
seemed fairly to boil in all the passages. The provoked sea outlined exactl=
y in
a design of angry foam the wide base of the group; the submerged level of b=
roken
waste and refuse left over from the building of the coast near by, projecti=
ng
its dangerous spurs, all awash, far into the channel, and bristling with wi=
cked
long spits often a mile long: with deadly spits made of froth and stones.
And even nothing =
more
than a brisk breeze--as on that morning, the voyage before, when the Sofala
left Pangu bay early, and Mr. Sterne's discovery was to blossom out like a
flower of incredible and evil aspect from the tiny seed of instinctive
suspicion,--even such a breeze had enough strength to tear the placid mask =
from
the face of the sea. To Sterne, gazing with indifference, it had been like a
revelation to behold for the first time the dangers marked by the hissing l=
ivid
patches on the water as distinctly as on the engraved paper of a chart. It =
came
into his mind that this was the sort of day most favorable for a stranger
attempting the passage: a clear day, just windy enough for the sea to break=
on
every ledge, buoying, as it were, the channel plainly to the sight; whereas
during a calm you had nothing to depend on but the compass and the practiced
judgment of your eye. And yet the successive captains of the Sofala had had=
to
take her through at night more than once. Nowadays you could not afford to
throw away six or seven hours of a steamer's time. That you couldn't. But t=
hen
use is everything, and with proper care . . . The channel was broad and safe
enough; the main point was to hit upon the entrance correctly in the dark--=
for
if a man got himself involved in that stretch of broken water over yonder h=
e would
never get out with a whole ship--if he ever got out at all.
This was Sterne's
last train of thought independent of the great discovery. He had just seen =
to
the securing of the anchor, and had remained forward idling away a moment or
two. The captain was in charge on the bridge. With a slight yawn he had tur=
ned
away from his survey of the sea and had leaned his shoulders against the fi=
sh
davit.
These, properly
speaking, were the very last moments of ease he was to know on board the
Sofala. All the instants that came after were to be pregnant with purpose a=
nd
intolerable with perplexity. No more idle, random thoughts; the discovery w=
ould
put them on the rack, till sometimes he wished to goodness he had been fool
enough not to make it at all. And yet, if his chance to get on rested on the
discovery of "something wrong," he could not have hoped for a gre=
ater
stroke of luck.
X
The knowledge was=
too
disturbing, really. There was "something wrong" with a vengeance,=
and
the moral certitude of it was at first simply frightful to contemplate. Ste=
rne
had been looking aft in a mood so idle, that for once he was thinking no ha=
rm
of anyone. His captain on the bridge presented himself naturally to his sig=
ht.
How insignificant, how casual was the thought that had started the train of
discovery--like an accidental spark that suffices to ignite the charge of a
tremendous mine!
Caught under by t=
he
breeze, the awnings of the foredeck bellied upwards and collapsed slowly, a=
nd
above their heavy flapping the gray stuff of Captain Whalley's roomy coat
fluttered incessantly around his arms and trunk. He faced the wind in full
light, with his great silvery beard blown forcibly against his chest; the
eyebrows overhung heavily the shadows whence his glance appeared to be star=
ing
ahead piercingly. Sterne could just detect the twin gleam of the whites
shifting under the shaggy arches of the brow. At short range these eyes, for
all the man's affable manner, seemed to look you through and through. Sterne
never could defend himself from that feeling when he had occasion to speak =
with
his captain. He did not like it. What a big heavy man he appeared up there,
with that little shrimp of a Serang in close attendance--as was usual in th=
is
extraordinary steamer! Confounded absurd custom that. He resented it. Surely
the old fellow could have looked after his ship without that loafing native=
at
his elbow. Sterne wriggled his shoulders with disgust. What was it? Indolen=
ce
or what?
That old skipper =
must
have been growing lazy for years. They all grew lazy out East here (Sterne =
was
very conscious of his own unimpaired activity); they got slack all over. Bu=
t he
towered very erect on the bridge; and quite low by his side, as you see a s=
mall
child looking over the edge of a table, the battered soft hat and the brown
face of the Serang peeped over the white canvas screen of the rail.
No doubt the Malay
was standing back, nearer to the wheel; but the great disparity of size in
close association amused Sterne like the observation of a bizarre fact in
nature. They were as queer fish out of the sea as any in it.
He saw Captain
Whalley turn his head quickly to speak to his Serang; the wind whipped the
whole white mass of the beard sideways. He would be directing the chap to l=
ook
at the compass for him, or what not. Of course. Too much trouble to step ov=
er
and see for himself. Sterne's scorn for that bodily indolence which overtak=
es
white men in the East increased on reflection. Some of them would be utterly
lost if they hadn't all these natives at their beck and call; they grew
perfectly shameless about it too. He was not of that sort, thank God! It wa=
sn't
in him to make himself dependent for his work on any shriveled-up little Ma=
lay
like that. As if one could ever trust a silly native for anything in the wo=
rld!
But that fine old man thought differently, it seems. There they were togeth=
er,
never far apart; a pair of them, recalling to the mind an old whale attende=
d by
a little pilot-fish.
The fancifulness =
of
the comparison made him smile. A whale with an inseparable pilot-fish! That=
's
what the old man looked like; for it could not be said he looked like a sha=
rk,
though Mr. Massy had called him that very name. But Mr. Massy did not mind =
what
he said in his savage fits. Sterne smiled to himself--and gradually the ide=
as
evoked by the sound, by the imagined shape of the word pilot-fish; the idea=
s of
aid, of guidance needed and received, came uppermost in his mind: the word
pilot awakened the idea of trust, of dependence, the idea of welcome,
clear-eyed help brought to the seaman groping for the land in the dark: gro=
ping
blindly in fogs: feeling their way in the thick weather of the gales that,
filling the air with a salt mist blown up from the sea, contract the range =
of
sight on all sides to a shrunken horizon that seems within reach of the han=
d.
A pilot sees bett=
er
than a stranger, because his local knowledge, like a sharper vision, comple=
tes
the shapes of things hurriedly glimpsed; penetrates the veils of mist spread
over the land by the storms of the sea; defines with certitude the outlines=
of
a coast lying under the pall of fog, the forms of landmarks half buried in a
starless night as in a shallow grave. He recognizes because he already know=
s.
It is not to his far-reaching eye but to his more extensive knowledge that =
the
pilot looks for certitude; for this certitude of the ship's position on whi=
ch
may depend a man's good fame and the peace of his conscience, the justifica=
tion
of the trust deposited in his hands, with his own life too, which is seldom
wholly his to throw away, and the humble lives of others rooted in distant
affections, perhaps, and made as weighty as the lives of kings by the burde=
n of
the awaiting mystery. The pilot's knowledge brings relief and certitude to =
the
commander of a ship; the Serang, however, in his fanciful suggestion of a
pilot-fish attending a whale, could not in any way be credited with a super=
ior
knowledge. Why should he have it? These two men had come on that run
together--the white and the brown--on the same day: and of course a white m=
an
would learn more in a week than the best native would in a month. He was ma=
de
to stick to the skipper as though he were of some use--as the pilot-fish, t=
hey
say, is to the whale. But how--it was very marked--how? A pilot-fish--a
pilot--a . . . But if not superior knowledge then . . .
Sterne's discovery
was made. It was repugnant to his imagination, shocking to his ideas of
honesty, shocking to his conception of mankind. This enormity affected one's
outlook on what was possible in this world: it was as if for instance the s=
un
had turned blue, throwing a new and sinister light on men and nature. Reall=
y in
the first moment he had felt sickish, as though he had got a blow below the
belt: for a second the very color of the sea seemed changed--appeared queer=
to
his wandering eye; and he had a passing, unsteady sensation in all his limb=
s as
though the earth had started turning the other way.
A very natural
incredulity succeeding this sense of upheaval brought a measure of relief. =
He
had gasped; it was over. But afterwards during all that day sudden paroxysm=
s of
wonder would come over him in the midst of his occupations. He would stop a=
nd
shake his head. The revolt of his incredulity had passed away almost as qui=
ck
as the first emotion of discovery, and for the next twenty-four hours he ha=
d no
sleep. That would never do. At meal-times (he took the foot of the table se=
t up
for the white men on the bridge) he could not help losing himself in a
fascinated contemplation of Captain Whalley opposite. He watched the delibe=
rate
upward movements of the arm; the old man put his food to his lips as though=
he
never expected to find any taste in his daily bread, as though he did not k=
now
anything about it. He fed himself like a somnambulist. "It's an awful
sight," thought Sterne; and he watched the long period of mournful, si=
lent
immobility, with a big brown hand lying loosely closed by the side of the
plate, till he noticed the two engineers to the right and left looking at h=
im
in astonishment. He would close his mouth in a hurry then, and lowering his
eyes, wink rapidly at his plate. It was awful to see the old chap sitting
there; it was even awful to think that with three words he could blow him up
sky-high. All he had to do was to raise his voice and pronounce a single sh=
ort sentence,
and yet that simple act seemed as impossible to attempt as moving the sun o=
ut
of its place in the sky. The old chap could eat in his terrific mechanical =
way;
but Sterne, from mental excitement, could not--not that evening, at any rat=
e.
He had had ample =
time
since to get accustomed to the strain of the meal-hours. He would never have
believed it. But then use is everything; only the very potency of his succe=
ss
prevented anything resembling elation. He felt like a man who, in his
legitimate search for a loaded gun to help him on his way through the world,
chances to come upon a torpedo--upon a live torpedo with a shattering charg=
e in
its head and a pressure of many atmospheres in its tail. It is the sort of
weapon to make its possessor careworn and nervous. He had no mind to be blo=
wn
up himself; and he could not get rid of the notion that the explosion was b=
ound
to damage him too in some way.
This vague
apprehension had restrained him at first. He was able now to eat and sleep =
with
that fearful weapon by his side, with the conviction of its power always in
mind. It had not been arrived at by any reflective process; but once the id=
ea
had entered his head, the conviction had followed overwhelmingly in a multi=
tude
of observed little facts to which before he had given only a languid attent=
ion.
The abrupt and faltering intonations of the deep voice; the taciturnity put=
on like
an armor; the deliberate, as if guarded, movements; the long immobilities, =
as
if the man he watched had been afraid to disturb the very air: every famili=
ar
gesture, every word uttered in his hearing, every sigh overheard, had acqui=
red
a special significance, a confirmatory import.
Every day that pa=
ssed
over the Sofala appeared to Sterne simply crammed full with proofs--with
incontrovertible proofs. At night, when off duty, he would steal out of his
cabin in pyjamas (for more proofs) and stand a full hour, perhaps, on his b=
are
feet below the bridge, as absolutely motionless as the awning stanchion in =
its
deck socket near by. On the stretches of easy navigation it is not usual fo=
r a
coasting captain to remain on deck all the time of his watch. The Serang ke=
eps
it for him as a matter of custom; in open water, on a straight course, he is
usually trusted to look after the ship by himself. But this old man seemed =
incapable
of remaining quietly down below. No doubt he could not sleep. And no wonder.
This was also a proof. Suddenly in the silence of the ship panting upon the
still, dark sea, Sterne would hear a low voice above him exclaiming nervous=
ly--
"Serang!&quo=
t;
"Tuan!"=
"You are
watching the compass well?"
"Yes, I am
watching, Tuan."
"The ship is
making her course?"
"She is, Tua=
n.
Very straight."
"It is well;=
and
remember, Serang, that the order is that you are to mind the helmsmen and k=
eep
a lookout with care, the same as if I were not on deck."
Then, when the Se=
rang
had made his answer, the low tones on the bridge would cease, and everything
round Sterne seemed to become more still and more profoundly silent. Slight=
ly
chilled and with his back aching a little from long immobility, he would st=
eal
away to his room on the port side of the deck. He had long since parted with
the last vestige of incredulity; of the original emotions, set into a tumul=
t by
the discovery, some trace of the first awe alone remained. Not the awe of t=
he
man himself--he could blow him up sky-high with six words--rather it was an
awestruck indignation at the reckless perversity of avarice (what else coul=
d it
be?), at the mad and somber resolution that for the sake of a few dollars m=
ore
seemed to set at naught the common rule of conscience and pretended to stru=
ggle
against the very decree of Providence.
You could not find
another man like this one in the whole round world--thank God. There was
something devilishly dauntless in the character of such a deception which m=
ade
you pause.
Other considerati=
ons
occurring to his prudence had kept him tongue-tied from day to day. It seem=
ed
to him now that it would yet have been easier to speak out in the first hou=
r of
discovery. He almost regretted not having made a row at once. But then the =
very
monstrosity of the disclosure . . . Why! He could hardly face it himself, l=
et
alone pointing it out to somebody else. Moreover, with a desperado of that =
sort
one never knew. The object was not to get him out (that was as well as done
already), but to step into his place. Bizarre as the thought seemed he might
have shown fight. A fellow up to working such a fraud would have enough che=
ek
for anything; a fellow that, as it were, stood up against God Almighty Hims=
elf.
He was a horrid marvel--that's what he was: he was perfectly capable of
brazening out the affair scandalously till he got him (Sterne) kicked out of
the ship and everlastingly damaged his prospects in this part of the East. =
Yet
if you want to get on something must be risked. At times Sterne thought he =
had
been unduly timid of taking action in the past; and what was worse, it had =
come
to this, that in the present he did not seem to know what action to take.
Massy's savage
moroseness was too disconcerting. It was an incalculable factor of the
situation. You could not tell what there was behind that insulting ferocity.
How could one trust such a temper; it did not put Sterne in bodily fear for
himself, but it frightened him exceedingly as to his prospects.
Though of course
inclined to credit himself with exceptional powers of observation, he had by
now lived too long with his discovery. He had gone on looking at nothing el=
se,
till at last one day it occurred to him that the thing was so obvious that =
no
one could miss seeing it. There were four white men in all on board the Sof=
ala.
Jack, the second engineer, was too dull to notice anything that took place =
out
of his engine-room. Remained Massy--the owner--the interested person--nearl=
y going
mad with worry. Sterne had heard and seen more than enough on board to know
what ailed him; but his exasperation seemed to make him deaf to cautious
overtures. If he had only known it, there was the very thing he wanted. But=
how
could you bargain with a man of that sort? It was like going into a tiger's=
den
with a piece of raw meat in your hand. He was as likely as not to rend you =
for
your pains. In fact, he was always threatening to do that very thing; and t=
he
urgency of the case, combined with the impossibility of handling it with
safety, made Sterne in his watches below toss and mutter open-eyed in his b=
unk,
for hours, as though he had been burning with fever.
Occurrences like =
the
crossing of the bar just now were extremely alarming to his prospects. He d=
id
not want to be left behind by some swift catastrophe. Massy being on the
bridge, the old man had to brace himself up and make a show, he supposed. B=
ut
it was getting very bad with him, very bad indeed, now. Even Massy had been
emboldened to find fault this time; Sterne, listening at the foot of the
ladder, had heard the other's whimpering and artless denunciations. Luckily=
the
beast was very stupid and could not see the why of all this. However, small=
blame
to him; it took a clever man to hit upon the cause. Nevertheless, it was hi=
gh
time to do something. The old man's game could not be kept up for many days
more.
"I may yet l=
ose
my life at this fooling--let alone my chance," Sterne mumbled angrily =
to
himself, after the stooping back of the chief engineer had disappeared round
the corner of the skylight. Yes, no doubt--he thought; but to blurt out his
knowledge would not advance his prospects. On the contrary, it would blast =
them
utterly as likely as not. He dreaded another failure. He had a vague
consciousness of not being much liked by his fellows in this part of the wo=
rld;
inexplicably enough, for he had done nothing to them. Envy, he supposed. Pe=
ople
were always down on a clever chap who made no bones about his determination=
to
get on. To do your duty and count on the gratitude of that brute Massy woul=
d be
sheer folly. He was a bad lot. Unmanly! A vicious man! Bad! Bad! A brute! A
brute without a spark of anything human about him; without so much as simple
curiosity even, or else surely he would have responded in some way to all t=
hese
hints he had been given. . . . Such insensibility was almost mysterious.
Massy's state of exasperation seemed to Sterne to have made him stupid beyo=
nd
the ordinary silliness of shipowners.
Sterne, meditatin=
g on
the embarrassments of that stupidity, forgot himself completely. His stony,
unwinking stare was fixed on the planks of the deck.
The slight quiver
agitating the whole fabric of the ship was more perceptible in the silent
river, shaded and still like a forest path. The Sofala, gliding with an even
motion, had passed beyond the coast-belt of mud and mangroves. The shores r=
ose
higher, in firm sloping banks, and the forest of big trees came down to the
brink. Where the earth had been crumbled by the floods it showed a steep br=
own
cut, denuding a mass of roots intertwined as if wrestling underground; and =
in the
air, the interlaced boughs, bound and loaded with creepers, carried on the
struggle for life, mingled their foliage in one solid wall of leaves, with =
here
and there the shape of an enormous dark pillar soaring, or a ragged opening=
, as
if torn by the flight of a cannonball, disclosing the impenetrable gloom
within, the secular inviolable shade of the virgin forest. The thump of the
engines reverberated regularly like the strokes of a metronome beating the
measure of the vast silence, the shadow of the western wall had fallen acro=
ss
the river, and the smoke pouring backwards from the funnel eddied down behi=
nd
the ship, spread a thin dusky veil over the somber water, which, checked by=
the
flood-tide, seemed to lie stagnant in the whole straight length of the reac=
hes.
Sterne's body, as=
if
rooted on the spot, trembled slightly from top to toe with the internal
vibration of the ship; from under his feet came sometimes a sudden clang of
iron, the noisy burst of a shout below; to the right the leaves of the
tree-tops caught the rays of the low sun, and seemed to shine with a golden
green light of their own shimmering around the highest boughs which stood o=
ut
black against a smooth blue sky that seemed to droop over the bed of the ri=
ver
like the roof of a tent. The passengers for Batu Beru, kneeling on the plan=
ks,
were engaged in rolling their bedding of mats busily; they tied up bundles,
they snapped the locks of wooden chests. A pockmarked peddler of small ware=
s threw
his head back to drain into his throat the last drops out of an earthenware
bottle before putting it away in a roll of blankets. Knots of traveling tra=
ders
standing about the deck conversed in low tones; the followers of a small Ra=
jah
from down the coast, broad-faced, simple young fellows in white drawers and
round white cotton caps with their colored sarongs twisted across their bro=
nze
shoulders, squatted on their hams on the hatch, chewing betel with bright r=
ed
mouths as if they had been tasting blood. Their spears, lying piled up toge=
ther
within the circle of their bare toes, resembled a casual bundle of dry bamb=
oos;
a thin, livid Chinaman, with a bulky package wrapped up in leaves already t=
hrust
under his arm, gazed ahead eagerly; a wandering Kling rubbed his teeth with=
a
bit of wood, pouring over the side a bright stream of water out of his lips;
the fat Rajah dozed in a shabby deck-chair,--and at the turn of every bend =
the
two walls of leaves reappeared running parallel along the banks, with their
impenetrable solidity fading at the top to a vaporous mistiness of countless
slender twigs growing free, of young delicate branches shooting from the
topmost limbs of hoary trunks, of feathery heads of climbers like delicate
silver sprays standing up without a quiver. There was not a sign of a clear=
ing
anywhere; not a trace of human habitation, except when in one place, on the
bare end of a low point under an isolated group of slender tree-ferns, the
jagged, tangled remnants of an old hut on piles appeared with that peculiar=
aspect
of ruined bamboo walls that look as if smashed with a club. Farther on, half
hidden under the drooping bushes, a canoe containing a man and a woman,
together with a dozen green cocoanuts in a heap, rocked helplessly after the
Sofala had passed, like a navigating contrivance of venturesome insects, of
traveling ants; while two glassy folds of water streaming away from each bo=
w of
the steamer across the whole width of the river ran with her up stream
smoothly, fretting their outer ends into a brown whispering tumble of froth
against the miry foot of each bank.
"I must,&quo=
t;
thought Sterne, "bring that brute Massy to his bearings. It's getting =
too
absurd in the end. Here's the old man up there buried in his chair--he may =
just
as well be in his grave for all the use he'll ever be in the world--and the
Serang's in charge. Because that's what he is. In charge. In the place that=
's
mine by rights. I must bring that savage brute to his bearings. I'll do it =
at
once, too . . ."
When the mate mad=
e an
abrupt start, a little brown half-naked boy, with large black eyes, and the
string of a written charm round his neck, became panic-struck at once. He
dropped the banana he had been munching, and ran to the knee of a grave dark
Arab in flowing robes, sitting like a Biblical figure, incongruously, on a
yellow tin trunk corded with a rope of twisted rattan. The father, unmoved,=
put
out his hand to pat the little shaven poll protectingly.
XI
Sterne crossed the
deck upon the track of the chief engineer. Jack, the second, retreating
backwards down the engine-room ladder, and still wiping his hands, treated =
him
to an incomprehensible grin of white teeth out of his grimy hard face; Massy
was nowhere to be seen. He must have gone straight into his berth. Sterne
scratched at the door softly, then, putting his lips to the rose of the
ventilator, said--
"I must spea=
k to
you, Mr. Massy. Just give me a minute or two."
"I am busy. =
Go
away from my door."
"But pray, M=
r.
Massy . . ."
"You go away.
D'you hear? Take yourself off altogether--to the other end of the ship--qui=
te
away . . ." The voice inside dropped low. "To the devil."
Sterne paused: th=
en
very quietly--
"It's rather
pressing. When do you think you will be at liberty, sir?"
The answer to this
was an exasperated "Never"; and at once Sterne, with a very firm
expression of face, turned the handle.
Mr. Massy's
stateroom--a narrow, one-berth cabin--smelt strongly of soap, and presented=
to
view a swept, dusted, unadorned neatness, not so much bare as barren, not so
much severe as starved and lacking in humanity, like the ward of a public
hospital, or rather (owing to the small size) like the clean retreat of a
desperately poor but exemplary person. Not a single photograph frame orname=
nted
the bulkheads; not a single article of clothing, not as much as a spare cap,
hung from the brass hooks. All the inside was painted in one plain tint of =
pale
blue; two big sea-chests in sailcloth covers and with iron padlocks fitted =
exactly
in the space under the bunk. One glance was enough to embrace all the strip=
of
scrubbed planks within the four unconcealed corners. The absence of the usu=
al
settee was striking; the teak-wood top of the washing-stand seemed hermetic=
ally
closed, and so was the lid of the writing-desk, which protruded from the
partition at the foot of the bed-place, containing a mattress as thin as a
pancake under a threadbare blanket with a faded red stripe, and a folded mo=
squito-net
against the nights spent in harbor. There was not a scrap of paper anywhere=
in sight,
no boots on the floor, no litter of any sort, not a speck of dust anywhere;=
no
traces of pipe-ash even, which, in a heavy smoker, was morally revolting, l=
ike a
manifestation of extreme hypocrisy; and the bottom of the old wooden arm-ch=
air
(the only seat there), polished with much use, shone as if its shabbiness h=
ad
been waxed. The screen of leaves on the bank, passing as if unrolled endles=
sly
in the round opening of the port, sent a wavering network of light and shade
into the place.
Sterne, holding t=
he
door open with one hand, had thrust in his head and shoulders. At this amaz=
ing
intrusion Massy, who was doing absolutely nothing, jumped up speechless.
"Don't call
names," murmured Sterne hurriedly. "I won't be called names. I th=
ink
of nothing but your good, Mr. Massy."
A pause as of ext=
reme
astonishment followed. They both seemed to have lost their tongues. Then the
mate went on with a discreet glibness.
"You simply
couldn't conceive what's going on on board your ship. It wouldn't enter your
head for a moment. You are too good--too--too upright, Mr. Massy, to suspect
anybody of such a . . . It's enough to make your hair stand on end."
He watched for the
effect: Massy seemed dazed, uncomprehending. He only passed the palm of his
hand on the coal-black wisps plastered across the top of his head. In a tone
suddenly changed to confidential audacity Sterne hastened on.
"Remember th=
at
there's only six weeks left to run . . ." The other was looking at him
stonily . . . "so anyhow you shall require a captain for the ship befo=
re
long."
Then only, as if =
that
suggestion had scarified his flesh in the manner of red-hot iron, Massy gav=
e a
start and seemed ready to shriek. He contained himself by a great effort.
"Require a
captain," he repeated with scathing slowness. "Who requires a
captain? You dare to tell me that I need any of you humbugging sailors to r=
un
my ship. You and your likes have been fattening on me for years. It would h=
ave
hurt me less to throw my money overboard. Pam--pe--red us--e--less
f-f-f-frauds. The old ship knows as much as the best of you." He snapp=
ed
his teeth audibly and growled through them, "The silly law requires a
captain."
Sterne had taken =
heart
of grace meantime.
"And the sil=
ly
insurance people too, as well," he said lightly. "But never mind
that. What I want to ask is: Why shouldn't I do, sir? I don't say but you c=
ould
take a steamer about the world as well as any of us sailors. I don't preten=
d to
tell you that it is a very great trick . . ." He emitted a short, holl=
ow
guffaw, familiarly . . . "I didn't make the law--but there it is; and =
I am
an active young fellow! I quite hold with your ideas; I know your ways by t=
his
time, Mr. Massy. I wouldn't try to give myself airs like that--that--er lazy
specimen of an old man up there."
He put a marked
emphasis on the last sentence, to lead Massy away from the track in case . =
. .
but he did not doubt of now holding his success. The chief engineer seemed
nonplused, like a slow man invited to catch hold of a whirligig of some sor=
t.
"What you wa=
nt,
sir, is a chap with no nonsense about him, who would be content to be your
sailing-master. Quite right, too. Well, I am fit for the work as much as th=
at
Serang. Because that's what it amounts to. Do you know, sir, that a dam' Ma=
lay
like a monkey is in charge of your ship--and no one else. Just listen to his
feet pit-patting above us on the bridge--real officer in charge. He's taking
her up the river while the great man is wallowing in the chair--perhaps asl=
eep;
and if he is, that would not make it much worse either--take my word for
it."
He tried to thrust
himself farther in. Massy, with lowered forehead, one hand grasping the bac=
k of
the arm-chair, did not budge.
"You think, = sir, that the man has got you tight in his agreement . . ." Massy raised a heavy snarling face at this . . . "Well, sir, one can't help hearing o= f it on board. It's no secret. And it has been the talk on shore for years; fell= ows have been making bets about it. No, sir! It's you who have got him at your mercy. You will say that you can't dismiss him for indolence. Difficult to prove in court, and so on. Why, yes. But if you say the word, sir, I can te= ll you something about his indolence that will give you the clear right to fire him out on the spot and put me in charge for the rest of this very trip--ye= s, sir, before we leave Batu Beru--and make him pay a dollar a day for his keep till we get back, if you like. Now, what do you think of that? Come, sir. S= ay the word. It's really well worth your while, and I am quite ready to take y= our bare word. A definite statement from you would be as good as a bond."<= o:p>
His eyes began to
shine. He insisted. A simple statement,--and he thought to himself that he
would manage somehow to stick in his berth as long as it suited him. He wou=
ld
make himself indispensable; the ship had a bad name in her port; it would be
easy to scare the fellows off. Massy would have to keep him.
"A definite
statement from me would be enough," Massy repeated slowly.
"Yes, sir. It
would." Sterne stuck out his chin cheerily and blinked at close quarte=
rs
with that unconscious impudence which had the power to enrage Massy beyond
anything.
The engineer spoke
very distinctly.
"Listen well=
to
me, then, Mr. Sterne: I wouldn't--d'ye hear?--I wouldn't promise you the va=
lue
of two pence for anything you can tell me."
He struck Sterne's
arm away with a smart blow, and catching hold of the handle pulled the door=
to.
The terrific slam darkened the cabin instantaneously to his eye as if after=
the
flash of an explosion. At once he dropped into the chair. "Oh, no! You
don't!" he whispered faintly.
The ship had in t=
hat
place to shave the bank so close that the gigantic wall of leaves came glid=
ing
like a shutter against the port; the darkness of the primeval forest seemed=
to
flow into that bare cabin with the odor of rotting leaves, of sodden soil--=
the
strong muddy smell of the living earth steaming uncovered after the passing=
of
a deluge. The bushes swished loudly alongside; above there was a series of
crackling sounds, with a sharp rain of small broken branches falling on the=
bridge;
a creeper with a great rustle snapped on the head of a boat davit, and a lo=
ng,
luxuriant green twig actually whipped in and out of the open port, leaving
behind a few torn leaves that remained suddenly at rest on Mr. Massy's blan=
ket.
Then, the ship sheering out in the stream, the light began to return but did
not augment beyond a subdued clearness: for the sun was very low already, a=
nd
the river, wending its sinuous course through a multitude of secular trees =
as
if at the bottom of a precipitous gorge, had been already invaded by a
deepening gloom--the swift precursor of the night.
"Oh, no, you
don't!" murmured the engineer again. His lips trembled almost
imperceptibly; his hands too, a little: and to calm himself he opened the
writing-desk, spread out a sheet of thin grayish paper covered with a mass =
of
printed figures and began to scan them attentively for the twentieth time t=
his
trip at least.
With his elbows
propped, his head between his hands, he seemed to lose himself in the study=
of
an abstruse problem in mathematics. It was the list of the winning numbers =
from
the last drawing of the great lottery which had been the one inspiring fact=
of
so many years of his existence. The conception of a life deprived of that
periodical sheet of paper had slipped away from him entirely, as another ma=
n,
according to his nature, would not have been able to conceive a world witho=
ut
fresh air, without activity, or without affection. A great pile of flimsy
sheets had been growing for years in his desk, while the Sofala, driven by =
the
faithful Jack, wore out her boilers in tramping up and down the Straits, fr=
om cape
to cape, from river to river, from bay to bay; accumulating by that hard la=
bor
of an overworked, starved ship the blackened mass of these documents. Massy
kept them under lock and key like a treasure. There was in them, as in the
experience of life, the fascination of hope, the excitement of a
half-penetrated mystery, the longing of a half-satisfied desire.
For days together=
, on
a trip, he would shut himself up in his berth with them: the thump of the
toiling engines pulsated in his ear; and he would weary his brain poring ov=
er
the rows of disconnected figures, bewildering by their senseless sequence,
resembling the hazards of destiny itself. He nourished a conviction that th=
ere
must be some logic lurking somewhere in the results of chance. He thought he
had seen its very form. His head swam; his limbs ached; he puffed at his pi=
pe mechanically;
a contemplative stupor would soothe the fretfulness of his temper, like the
passive bodily quietude procured by a drug, while the intellect remains ten=
sely
on the stretch. Nine, nine, aught, four, two. He made a note. The next winn=
ing
number of the great prize was forty-seven thousand and five. These numbers =
of
course would have to be avoided in the future when writing to Manilla for t=
he
tickets. He mumbled, pencil in hand . . . "and five. Hm . . . hm."=
; He
wetted his finger: the papers rustled. Ha! But what's this? Three years ago=
, in
the September drawing, it was number nine, aught, four, two that took the f=
irst
prize. Most remarkable. There was a hint there of a definite rule! He was a=
fraid
of missing some recondite principle in the overwhelming wealth of his mater=
ial.
What could it be? and for half an hour he would remain dead still, bent low
over the desk, without twitching a muscle. At his back the whole berth woul=
d be
thick with a heavy body of smoke, as if a bomb had burst in there, unnotice=
d,
unheard.
At last he would =
lock
up the desk with the decision of unshaken confidence, jump and go out. He w=
ould
walk swiftly back and forth on that part of the foredeck which was kept cle=
ar
of the lumber and of the bodies of the native passengers. They were a great
nuisance, but they were also a source of profit that could not be disdained=
. He
needed every penny of profit the Sofala could make. Little enough it was, i=
n all
conscience! The incertitude of chance gave him no concern, since he had som=
ehow
arrived at the conviction that, in the course of years, every number was bo=
und
to have his winning turn. It was simply a matter of time and of taking as m=
any
tickets as he could afford for every drawing. He generally took rather more;
all the earnings of the ship went that way, and also the wages he allowed
himself as chief engineer. It was the wages he paid to others that he begru=
dged
with a reasoned and at the same time a passionate regret. He scowled at the
lascars with their deck brooms, at the quartermasters rubbing the brass rai=
ls
with greasy rags; he was eager to shake his fist and roar abuse in bad Mala=
y at
the poor carpenter--a timid, sickly, opium-fuddled Chinaman, in loose blue
drawers for all costume, who invariably dropped his tools and fled below, w=
ith
streaming tail and shaking all over, before the fury of that "devil.&q=
uot;
But it was when he raised up his eyes to the bridge where one of these sail=
or
frauds was always planted by law in charge of his ship that he felt almost
dizzy with rage. He abominated them all; it was an old feud, from the time =
he
first went to sea, an unlicked cub with a great opinion of himself, in the
engine-room. The slights that had been put upon him. The persecutions he had
suffered at the hands of skippers--of absolute nobodies in a steamship after
all. And now that he had risen to be a shipowner they were still a plague to
him: he had absolutely to pay away precious money to the conceited useless =
loafers:--As
if a fully qualified engineer--who was the owner as well--were not fit to be
trusted with the whole charge of a ship. Well! he made it pretty warm for t=
hem;
but it was a poor consolation. He had come in time to hate the ship too for=
the
repairs she required, for the coal-bills he had to pay, for the poor beggar=
ly
freights she earned. He would clench his hand as he walked and hit the rail=
a
sudden blow, viciously, as though she could be made to feel pain. And yet he
could not do without er; he needed her; he must hang on to her tooth and na=
il to
keep his head above water till the expected flood of fortune came sweeping =
up
and landed him safely on the high shore of his ambition.
It was now to do
nothing, nothing whatever, and have plenty of money to do it on. He had tas=
ted
of power, the highest form of it his limited experience was aware of--the p=
ower
of shipowning. What a deception! Vanity of vanities! He wondered at his fol=
ly.
He had thrown away the substance for the shadow. Of the gratification of we=
alth
he did not know enough to excite his imagination with any visions of luxury.
How could he--the child of a drunken boiler-maker--going straight from the =
workshop
into the engine-room of a north-country collier! But the notion of the abso=
lute
idleness of wealth he could very well conceive. He reveled in it, to forget=
his
present troubles; he imagined himself walking about the streets of Hull (he
knew their gutters well as a boy) with his pockets full of sovereigns. He w=
ould
buy himself a house; his married sisters, their husbands, his old workshop
chums, would render him infinite homage. There would be nothing to think of.
His word would be law. He had been out of work for a long time before he won
his prize, and he remembered how Carlo Mariani (commonly known as Paunchy
Charley), the Maltese hotel-keeper at the slummy end of Denham Street, had =
cringed
joyfully before him in the evening, when the news had come. Poor Charley,
though he made his living by ministering to various abject vices, gave cred=
it
for their food to many a piece of white wreckage. He was naively overjoyed =
at
the idea of his old bills being paid, and he reckoned confidently on a spel=
l of
festivities in the cavernous grog-shop downstairs. Massy remembered the
curious, respectful looks of the "trashy" white men in the place.=
His
heart had swelled within him. Massy had left Charley's infamous den directl=
y he
had realized the possibilities open to him, and with his nose in the air.
Afterwards the memory of these adulations was a great sadness.
This was the true
power of money,--and no trouble with it, nor any thinking required either. =
He
thought with difficulty and felt vividly; to his blunt brain the problems
offered by any ordered scheme of life seemed in their cruel toughness to ha=
ve
been put in his way by the obvious malevolence of men. As a shipowner every=
one
had conspired to make him a nobody. How could he have been such a fool as to
purchase that accursed ship. He had been abominably swindled; there was no =
end to
this swindling; and as the difficulties of his improvident ambition gathered
thicker round him, he really came to hate everybody he had ever come in con=
tact
with. A temper naturally irritable and an amazing sensitiveness to the clai=
ms
of his own personality had ended by making of life for him a sort of infern=
o--a
place where his lost soul had been given up to the torment of savage broodi=
ng.
But he had never
hated anyone so much as that old man who had turned up one evening to save =
him
from an utter disaster,--from the conspiracy of the wretched sailors. He se=
emed
to have fallen on board from the sky. His footsteps echoed on the empty
steamer, and the strange deep-toned voice on deck repeating interrogatively=
the
words, "Mr. Massy, Mr. Massy there?" had been startling like a
wonder. And coming up from the depths of the cold engine-room, where he had
been pottering dismally with a candle amongst the enormous shadows, thrown =
on
all sides by the skeleton limbs of machinery, Massy had been struck dumb by
astonishment in the presence of that imposing old man with a beard like a
silver plate, towering in the dusk rendered lurid by the expiring flames of
sunset.
"Want to see=
me
on business? What business? I am doing no business. Can't you see that this
ship is laid up?" Massy had turned at bay before the pursuing irony of=
his
disaster. Afterwards he could not believe his ears. What was that old fellow
getting at? Things don't happen that way. It was a dream. He would presently
wake up and find the man vanished like a shape of mist. The gravity, the di=
gnity,
the firm and courteous tone of that athletic old stranger impressed Massy. =
He
was almost afraid. But it was no dream. Five hundred pounds are no dream. At
once he became suspicious. What did it mean? Of course it was an offer to c=
atch
hold of for dear life. But what could there be behind?
Before they had
parted, after appointing a meeting in a solicitor's office early on the mor=
row,
Massy was asking himself, What is his motive? He spent the night in hammeri=
ng
out the clauses of the agreement--a unique instrument of its sort whose ten=
or
got bruited abroad somehow and became the talk and wonder of the port.
Massy's object had
been to secure for himself as many ways as possible of getting rid of his
partner without being called upon at once to pay back his share. Captain
Whalley's efforts were directed to making the money secure. Was it not Ivy's
money--a part of her fortune whose only other asset was the time-defying bo=
dy
of her old father? Sure of his forbearance in the strength of his love for =
her,
he accepted, with stately serenity, Massy's stupidly cunning paragraphs aga=
inst
his incompetence, his dishonesty, his drunkenness, for the sake of other st=
ringent
stipulations. At the end of three years he was at liberty to withdraw from =
the
partnership, taking his money with him. Provision was made for forming a fu=
nd
to pay him off. But if he left the Sofala before the term, from whatever ca=
use
(barring death), Massy was to have a whole year for paying.
"Illness?" the lawyer had suggested: a young man fresh from Europe
and not overburdened with business, who was rather amused. Massy began to w=
hine
unctuously, "How could he be expected? . . ."
"Let that
go," Captain Whalley had said with a superb confidence in his body.
"Acts of God," he added. In the midst of life we are in death, bu=
t he
trusted his Maker with a still greater fearlessness--his Maker who knew his
thoughts, his human affections, and his motives. His Creator knew what use =
he
was making of his health--how much he wanted it . . . "I trust my firs=
t illness
will be my last. I've never been ill that I can remember," he had
remarked. "Let it go."
But at this early
stage he had already awakened Massy's hostility by refusing to make it six
hundred instead of five. "I cannot do that," was all he had said,
simply, but with so much decision that Massy desisted at once from pressing=
the
point, but had thought to himself, "Can't! Old curmudgeon. Won't He mu=
st
have lots of money, but he would like to get hold of a soft berth and the s=
ixth
part of my profits for nothing if he only could."
And during these
years Massy's dislike grew under the restraint of something resembling fear.
The simplicity of that man appeared dangerous. Of late he had changed, howe=
ver,
had appeared less formidable and with a lessened vigor of life, as though he
had received a secret wound. But still he remained incomprehensible in his
simplicity, fearlessness, and rectitude. And when Massy learned that he mea=
nt
to leave him at the end of the time, to leave him confronted with the probl=
em of
boilers, his dislike blazed up secretly into hate.
It had made him so clear-eyed that for a long time now Mr. Sterne could have told him nothing = he did not know. He had much ado in trying to terrorize that mean sneak into silence; he wanted to deal alone with the situation; and--incredible as it might have appeared to Mr. Sterne--he had not yet given up the desire and t= he hope of inducing that hated old man to stay. Why! there was nothing else to= do, unless he were to abandon his chances of fortune. But now, suddenly, since = the crossing of the bar at Batu Beru things seemed to be coming rapidly to a po= int. It disquieted him so much that the study of the winning numbers failed to soothe his agitation: and the twilight in the cabin deepened, very somber.<= o:p>
He put the list a=
way,
muttering once more, "Oh, no, my boy, you don't. Not if I know it.&quo=
t;
He did not mean the blinking, eavesdropping humbug to force his action. He =
took
his head again into his hands; his immobility confined in the darkness of t=
his
shut-up little place seemed to make him a thing apart infinitely removed fr=
om
the stir and the sounds of the deck.
He heard them: the
passengers were beginning to jabber excitedly; somebody dragged a heavy box
past his door. He heard Captain Whalley's voice above--
"Stations, M=
r.
Sterne." And the answer from somewhere on deck forward--
"Ay, ay,
sir."
"We shall mo=
or
head up stream this time; the ebb has made."
"Head up str=
eam,
sir."
"You will se=
e to
it, Mr. Sterne."
The answer was
covered by the autocratic clang on the engine-room gong. The propeller went=
on
beating slowly: one, two, three; one, two, three--with pauses as if hesitat=
ing
on the turn. The gong clanged time after time, and the water churned this w=
ay
and that by the blades was making a great noisy commotion alongside. Mr. Ma=
ssy
did not move. A shore-light on the other bank, a quarter of a mile across t=
he
river, drifted, no bigger than a tiny star, passing slowly athwart the circ=
le of
the port. Voices from Mr. Van Wyk's jetty answered the hails from the ship;
ropes were thrown and missed and thrown again; the swaying flame of a torch
carried in a large sampan coming to fetch away in state the Rajah from down=
the
coast cast a sudden ruddy glare into his cabin, over his very person. Mr. M=
assy
did not move. After a few last ponderous turns the engines stopped, and the
prolonged clanging of the gong signified that the captain had done with the=
m. A
great number of boats and canoes of all sizes boarded the off-side of the
Sofala. Then after a time the tumult of splashing, of cries, of shuffling f=
eet,
of packages dropped with a thump, the noise of the native passengers going =
away,
subsided slowly. On the shore, a voice, cultivated, slightly authoritative,
spoke very close alongside--
"Brought any
mail for me this time?"
"Yes, Mr. Van
Wyk." This was from Sterne, answering over the rail in a tone of
respectful cordiality. "Shall I bring it up to you?"
But the voice ask=
ed
again--
"Where's the
captain?"
"Still on the
bridge, I believe. He hasn't left his chair. Shall I . . ."
The voice interru=
pted
negligently.
"I will come=
on
board."
"Mr. Van
Wyk," Sterne suddenly broke out with an eager effort, "will you d=
o me
the favor . . ."
The mate walked a=
way
quickly towards the gangway. A silence fell. Mr. Massy in the dark did not
move.
He did not move e=
ven
when he heard slow shuffling footsteps pass his cabin lazily. He contented
himself to bellow out through the closed door--
"You--Jack!&=
quot;
The footsteps came
back without haste; the door handle rattled, and the second engineer appear=
ed
in the opening, shadowy in the sheen of the skylight at his back, with his =
face
apparently as black as the rest of his figure.
"We have been
very long coming up this time," Mr. Massy growled, without changing his
attitude.
"What do you
expect with half the boiler tubes plugged up for leaks." The second
defended himself loquaciously.
"None of your
lip," said Massy.
"None of your
rotten boilers--I say," retorted his faithful subordinate without
animation, huskily. "Go down there and carry a head of steam on them
yourself--if you dare. I don't."
"You aren't
worth your salt then," Massy said. The other made a faint noise which
resembled a laugh but might have been a snarl.
"Better go s=
low
than stop the ship altogether," he admonished his admired superior. Mr.
Massy moved at last. He turned in his chair, and grinding his teeth--
"Dam' you and
the ship! I wish she were at the bottom of the sea. Then you would have to
starve."
The trusty second
engineer closed the door gently.
Massy listened.
Instead of passing on to the bathroom where he should have gone to clean
himself, the second entered his cabin, which was next door. Mr. Massy jumpe=
d up
and waited. Suddenly he heard the lock snap in there. He rushed out and gav=
e a
violent kick to the door.
"I believe y=
ou
are locking yourself up to get drunk," he shouted.
A muffled answer =
came
after a while.
"My own
time."
"If you take=
to
boozing on the trip I'll fire you out," Massy cried.
An obstinate sile= nce followed that threat. Massy moved away perplexed. On the bank two figures appeared, approaching the gangway. He heard a voice tinged with contempt--<= o:p>
"I would rat=
her
doubt your word. But I shall certainly speak to him of this."
The other voice,
Sterne's, said with a sort of regretful formality--
"Thanks. Tha=
t's
all I want. I must do my duty."
Mr. Massy was surprised. A short, dapper figure leaped lightly on the deck and nearly bou= nded into him where he stood beyond the circle of light from the gangway lamp. W= hen it had passed towards the bridge, after exchanging a hurried "Good evening," Massy said surlily to Sterne who followed with slow steps--<= o:p>
"What is it
you're making up to Mr. Van Wyk for, now?"
"Far from it,
Mr. Massy. I am not good enough for Mr. Van Wyk. Neither are you, sir, in h=
is
opinion, I am afraid. Captain Whalley is, it seems. He's gone to ask him to
dine up at the house this evening."
Then he murmured =
to
himself darkly--
"I hope he w=
ill
like it."
XII
Mr. Van Wyk, the
white man of Batu Beru, an ex-naval officer who, for reasons best known to
himself, had thrown away the promise of a brilliant career to become the
pioneer of tobacco-planting on that remote part of the coast, had learned to
like Captain Whalley. The appearance of the new skipper had attracted his a=
ttention.
Nothing more unlike all the diverse types he had seen succeeding each other=
on
the bridge of the Sofala could be imagined.
At that time Batu
Beru was not what it has become since: the center of a prosperous
tobacco-growing district, a tropically suburban-looking little settlement of
bungalows in one long street shaded with two rows of trees, embowered by the
flowering and trim luxuriance of the gardens, with a three-mile-long
carriage-road for the afternoon drives and a first-class Resident with a fa=
t,
cheery wife to lead the society of married estate-managers and unmarried yo=
ung
fellows in the service of the big companies.
All this prosperi=
ty
was not yet; and Mr. Van Wyk prospered alone on the left bank on his deep
clearing carved out of the forest, which came down above and below to the
water's edge. His lonely bungalow faced across the river the houses of the
Sultan: a restless and melancholy old ruler who had done with love and war,=
for
whom life no longer held any savor (except of evil forebodings) and time ne=
ver
had any value. He was afraid of death, and hoped he would die before the wh=
ite
men were ready to take his country from him. He crossed the river frequently
(with never less than ten boats crammed full of people), in the wistful hop=
e of
extracting some information on the subject from his own white man. There wa=
s a
certain chair on the veranda he always took: the dignitaries of the court
squatted on the rugs and skins between the furniture: the inferior people
remained below on the grass plot between the house and the river in rows th=
ree
or four deep all along the front. Not seldom the visit began at daybreak. M=
r.
Van Wyk tolerated these inroads. He would nod out of his bedroom window,
tooth-brush or razor in hand, or pass through the throng of courtiers in his
bathing robe. He appeared and disappeared humming a tune, polished his nails
with attention, rubbed his shaved face with eau-de-Cologne, drank his early
tea, went out to see his coolies at work: returned, looked through some pap=
ers
on his desk, read a page or two in a book or sat before his cottage piano l=
eaning
back on the stool, his arms extended, fingers on the keys, his body swaying
slightly from side to side. When absolutely forced to speak he gave evasive
vaguely soothing answers out of pure compassion: the same feeling perhaps m=
ade
him so lavishly hospitable with the aerated drinks that more than once he l=
eft
himself without soda-water for a whole week. That old man had granted him as
much land as he cared to have cleared: it was neither more nor less than a
fortune.
Whether it was
fortune or seclusion from his kind that Mr. Van Wyk sought, he could not ha=
ve
pitched upon a better place. Even the mail-boats of the subsidized company
calling on the veriest clusters of palm-thatched hovels along the coast ste=
amed
past the mouth of Batu Beru river far away in the offing. The contract was =
old:
perhaps in a few years' time, when it had expired, Batu Beru would be inclu=
ded
in the service; meantime all Mr. Van Wyk's mail was addressed to Malacca, w=
hence
his agent sent it across once a month by the Sofala. It followed that whene=
ver
Massy had run short of money (through taking too many lottery tickets), or =
got
into a difficulty about a skipper, Mr. Van Wyk was deprived of his letter a=
nd
newspapers. In so far he had a personal interest in the fortunes of the Sof=
ala.
Though he considered himself a hermit (and for no passing whim evidently, s=
ince
he had stood eight years of it already), he liked to know what went on in t=
he
world.
Handy on the vera=
nda
upon a walnut etagere (it had come last year by the Sofala)--everything cam=
e by
the Sofala there lay, piled up under bronze weights, a pile of the Times'
weekly edition, the large sheets of the Rotterdam Courant, the Graphic in i=
ts
world-wide green wrappers, an illustrated Dutch publication without a cover,
the numbers of a German magazine with covers of the "Bismarck malade&q=
uot;
color. There were also parcels of new music--though the piano (it had come
years ago by the Sofala in the damp atmosphere of the forests was generally=
out
of tune.) It was vexing to be cut off from everything for sixty days at a
stretch sometimes, without any means of knowing what was the matter. And wh=
en the
Sofala reappeared Mr. Van Wyk would descend the steps of the veranda and st=
roll
over the grass plot in front of his house, down to the waterside, with a fr=
own
on his white brow.
"You've been
laid up after an accident, I presume."
He addressed the
bridge, but before anybody could answer Massy was sure to have already
scrambled ashore over the rail and pushed in, squeezing the palms of his ha=
nds
together, bowing his sleek head as if gummed all over the top with black
threads and tapes. And he would be so enraged at the necessity of having to
offer such an explanation that his moaning would be positively pitiful, whi=
le
all the time he tried to compose his big lips into a smile.
"No, Mr. Van
Wyk. You would not believe it. I couldn't get one of those wretches to take=
the
ship out. Not a single one of the lazy beasts could be induced, and the law,
you know, Mr. Van Wyk . . ."
He moaned at great
length apologetically; the words conspiracy, plot, envy, came out prominent=
ly,
whined with greater energy. Mr. Van Wyk, examining with a faint grimace his
polished finger-nails, would say, "H'm. Very unfortunate," and tu=
rn
his back on him.
Fastidious, cleve=
r,
slightly skeptical, accustomed to the best society (he had held a much-envi=
ed
shore appointment at the Ministry of Marine for a year preceding his retreat
from his profession and from Europe), he possessed a latent warmth of feeli=
ng
and a capacity for sympathy which were concealed by a sort of haughty,
arbitrary indifference of manner arising from his early training; and by a
something an enemy might have called foppish, in his aspect--like a distort=
ed
echo of past elegance. He managed to keep an almost military discipline amo=
ngst
the coolies of the estate he had dragged into the light of day out of the t=
angle
and shadows of the jungle; and the white shirt he put on every evening with=
its
stiff glossy front and high collar looked as if he had meant to preserve the
decent ceremony of evening-dress, but had wound a thick crimson sash above =
his
hips as a concession to the wilderness, once his adversary, now his vanquis=
hed
companion.
Moreover, it was a
hygienic precaution. Worn wide open in front, a short jacket of some airy
silken stuff floated from his shoulders. His fluffy, fair hair, thin at the
top, curled slightly at the sides; a carefully arranged mustache, an
ungarnished forehead, the gleam of low patent shoes peeping under the wide
bottom of trowsers cut straight from the same stuff as the gossamer coat,
completed a figure recalling, with its sash, a pirate chief of romance, and=
at
the same time the elegance of a slightly bald dandy indulging, in seclusion=
, a
taste for unorthodox costume.
It was his evening
get-up. The proper time for the Sofala to arrive at Batu Beru was an hour
before sunset, and he looked picturesque, and somehow quite correct too,
walking at the water's edge on the background of grass slope crowned with a=
low
long bungalow with an immensely steep roof of palm thatch, and clad to the
eaves in flowering creepers. While the Sofala was being made fast he stroll=
ed
in the shade of the few trees left near the landing-place, waiting till he
could go on board. Her white men were not of his kind. The old Sultan (thou=
gh
his wistful invasions were a nuisance) was really much more acceptable to h=
is fastidious
taste. But still they were white; the periodical visits of the ship made a
break in the well-filled sameness of the days without disturbing his privac=
y.
Moreover, they were necessary from a business point of view; and through a
strain of preciseness in his nature he was irritated when she failed to app=
ear
at the appointed time.
The cause of the
irregularity was too absurd, and Massy, in his opinion, was a contemptible
idiot. The first time the Sofala reappeared under the new agreement swinging
out of the bend below, after he had almost given up all hope of ever seeing=
her
again, he felt so angry that he did not go down at once to the landing-plac=
e.
His servants had come running to him with the news, and he had dragged a ch=
air
close against the front rail of the veranda, spread his elbows out, rested =
his
chin on his hands, and went on glaring at her fixedly while she was being m=
ade
fast opposite his house. He could make out easily all the white faces on bo=
ard.
Who on earth was that kind of patriarch they had got there on the bridge no=
w?
At last he sprang=
up
and walked down the gravel path. It was a fact that the very gravel for his
paths had been imported by the Sofala. Exasperated out of his quiet
superciliousness, without looking at anyone right or left, he accosted Massy
straightway in so determined a manner that the engineer, taken aback, began=
to
stammer unintelligibly. Nothing could be heard but the words: "Mr. Van=
Wyk
. . . Indeed, Mr. Van Wyk . . . For the future, Mr. Van Wyk"--and by t=
he
suffusion of blood Massy's vast bilious face acquired an unnatural orange t=
int,
out of which the disconcerted coal-black eyes shone in an extraordinary man=
ner.
"Nonsense. I=
am
tired of this. I wonder you have the impudence to come alongside my jetty a=
s if
I had it made for your convenience alone."
Massy tried to
protest earnestly. Mr. Van Wyk was very angry. He had a good mind to ask th=
at
German firm--those people in Malacca--what was their name?--boats with green
funnels. They would be only too glad of the opening to put one of their sma=
ll
steamers on the run. Yes; Schnitzler, Jacob Schnitzler, would in a moment. =
Yes.
He had decided to write without delay.
In his agitation
Massy caught up his falling pipe.
"You don't m=
ean
it, sir!" he shrieked.
"You shouldn=
't
mismanage your business in this ridiculous manner."
Mr. Van Wyk turne=
d on
his heel. The other three whites on the bridge had not stirred during the
scene. Massy walked hastily from side to side, puffed out his cheeks,
suffocated.
"Stuck up
Dutchman!"
And he moaned out
feverishly a long tale of griefs. The efforts he had made for all these yea=
rs
to please that man. This was the return you got for it, eh? Pretty. Write to
Schnitzler--let in the green-funnel boats--get an old Hamburg Jew to ruin h=
im.
No, really he could laugh. . . . He laughed sobbingly. . . . Ha! ha! ha! And
make him carry the letter in his own ship presumably.
He stumbled acros=
s a
grating and swore. He would not hesitate to fling the Dutchman's correspond=
ence
overboard--the whole confounded bundle. He had never, never made any charge=
for
that accommodation. But Captain Whalley, his new partner, would not let him
probably; besides, it would be only putting off the evil day. For his own p=
art
he would make a hole in the water rather than look on tamely at the green
funnels overrunning his trade.
He raved aloud. T=
he China
boys hung back with the dishes at the foot of the ladder. He yelled from the
bridge down at the deck, "Aren't we going to have any chow this evenin=
g at
all?" then turned violently to Captain Whalley, who waited, grave and
patient, at the head of the table, smoothing his beard in silence now and t=
hen
with a forbearing gesture.
"You don't s=
eem
to care what happens to me. Don't you see that this affects your interests =
as
much as mine? It's no joking matter."
He took the foot =
of
the table growling between his teeth.
"Unless you =
have
a few thousands put away somewhere. I haven't."
Mr. Van Wyk dined=
in
his thoroughly lit-up bungalow, putting a point of splendor in the night of=
his
clearing above the dark bank of the river. Afterwards he sat down to his pi=
ano,
and in a pause he became aware of slow footsteps passing on the path along =
the
front. A plank or two creaked under a heavy tread; he swung half round on t=
he
music-stool, listening with his fingertips at rest on the keyboard. His lit=
tle terrier
barked violently, backing in from the veranda. A deep voice apologized grav=
ely
for "this intrusion." He walked out quickly.
At the head of the
steps the patriarchal figure, who was the new captain of the Sofala apparen=
tly
(he had seen a round dozen of them, but not one of that sort), towered with=
out
advancing. The little dog barked unceasingly, till a flick of Mr. Van Wyk's
handkerchief made him spring aside into silence. Captain Whalley, opening t=
he
matter, was met by a punctiliously polite but determined opposition.
They carried on t=
heir
discussion standing where they had come face to face. Mr. Van Wyk observed =
his
visitor with attention. Then at last, as if forced out of his reserve--
"I am surpri=
sed
that you should intercede for such a confounded fool."
This outbreak was
almost complimentary, as if its meaning had been, "That such a man as =
you
should intercede!" Captain Whalley let it pass by without flinching. O=
ne
would have thought he had heard nothing. He simply went on to state that he=
was
personally interested in putting things straight between them. Personally .=
. .
But Mr. Van Wyk,
really carried away by his disgust with Massy, became very incisive--
"Indeed--if =
I am
to be frank with you--his whole character does not seem to me particularly
estimable or trustworthy . . ."
Captain Whalley,
always straight, seemed to grow an inch taller and broader, as if the girth=
of
his chest had suddenly expanded under his beard.
"My dear sir,
you don't think I came here to discuss a man with whom I am--I am--h'm--clo=
sely
associated."
A sort of solemn
silence lasted for a moment. He was not used to asking favors, but the
importance he attached to this affair had made him willing to try. . . . Mr.
Van Wyk, favorably impressed, and suddenly mollified by a desire to laugh,
interrupted--
"That's all
right if you make it a personal matter; but you can do no less than sit down
and smoke a cigar with me."
A slight pause, t=
hen
Captain Whalley stepped forward heavily. As to the regularity of the servic=
e,
for the future he made himself responsible for it; and his name was
Whalley--perhaps to a sailor (he was speaking to a sailor, was he not?) not
altogether unfamiliar. There was a lighthouse now, on an island. Maybe Mr. =
Van
Wyk himself . . .
"Oh yes. Oh
indeed." Mr. Van Wyk caught on at once. He indicated a chair. How very
interesting. For his own part he had seen some service in the last Acheen W=
ar,
but had never been so far East. Whalley Island? Of course. Now that was very
interesting. What changes his guest must have seen since.
"I can look
further back even--on a whole half-century."
Captain Whalley
expanded a bit. The flavor of a good cigar (it was a weakness) had gone
straight to his heart, also the civility of that young man. There was somet=
hing
in that accidental contact of which he had been starved in his years of
struggle.
The front wall
retreating made a square recess furnished like a room. A lamp with a milky
glass shade, suspended below the slope of the high roof at the end of a sle=
nder
brass chain, threw a bright round of light upon a little table bearing an o=
pen
book and an ivory paper-knife. And, in the translucent shadows beyond, other
tables could be seen, a number of easy-chairs of various shapes, with a gre=
at
profusion of skin rugs strewn on the teakwood planking all over the veranda.
The flowering creepers scented the air. Their foliage clipped out between t=
he
uprights made as if several frames of thick unstirring leaves reflecting th=
e lamplight
in a green glow. Through the opening at his elbow Captain Whalley could see=
the
gangway lantern of the Sofala burning dim by the shore, the shadowy masses =
of
the town beyond the open lustrous darkness of the river, and, as if hung al=
ong
the straight edge of the projecting eaves, a narrow black strip of the nigh=
t sky
full of stars--resplendent. The famous cigar in hand he had a moment of
complacency.
"A trifle.
Somebody must lead the way. I just showed that the thing could be done; but=
you
men brought up to the use of steam cannot conceive the vast importance of my
bit of venturesomeness to the Eastern trade of the time. Why, that new route
reduced the average time of a southern passage by eleven days for more than
half the year. Eleven days! It's on record. But the remarkable thing--speak=
ing
to a sailor--I should say was . . ."
He talked well,
without egotism, professionally. The powerful voice, produced without effor=
t,
filled the bungalow even into the empty rooms with a deep and limpid resona=
nce,
seemed to make a stillness outside; and Mr. Van Wyk was surprised by the se=
rene
quality of its tone, like the perfection of manly gentleness. Nursing one s=
mall
foot, in a silk sock and a patent leather shoe, on his knee, he was immense=
ly entertained.
It was as if nobody could talk like this now, and the overshadowed eyes, the
flowing white beard, the big frame, the serenity, the whole temper of the m=
an,
were an amazing survival from the prehistoric times of the world coming up =
to
him out of the sea.
Captain Whalley h=
ad
been also the pioneer of the early trade in the Gulf of Pe-tchi-li. He even
found occasion to mention that he had buried his "dear wife" there
six-and-twenty years ago. Mr. Van Wyk, impassive, could not help speculatin=
g in
his mind swiftly as to the sort of woman that would mate with such a man. D=
id
they make an adventurous and well-matched pair? No. Very possible she had b=
een
small, frail, no doubt very feminine--or most likely commonplace with domes=
tic
instincts, utterly insignificant. But Captain Whalley was no garrulous bore,
and shaking his head as if to dissipate the momentary gloom that had settle=
d on
his handsome old face, he alluded conversationally to Mr. Van Wyk's solitud=
e.
Mr. Van Wyk affir=
med
that sometimes he had more company than he wanted. He mentioned smilingly s=
ome
of the peculiarities of his intercourse with "My Sultan." He made=
his
visits in force. Those people damaged his grass plot in front (it was not e=
asy
to obtain some approach to a lawn in the tropics) and the other day had bro=
ken
down some rare bushes he had planted over there. And Captain Whalley rememb=
ered
immediately that, in 'forty-seven, the then Sultan, "this man's
grandfather," had been notorious as a great protector of the piratical
fleets of praus from farther East. They had a safe refuge in the river at B=
atu
Beru. He financed more especially a Balinini chief called Haji Daman. Capta=
in Whalley,
nodding significantly his bushy white eyebrows, had very good reason to know
something of that. The world had progressed since that time.
Mr. Van Wyk demur=
red
with unexpected acrimony. Progressed in what? he wanted to know.
Why, in knowledge=
of
truth, in decency, in justice, in order--in honesty too, since men harmed e=
ach
other mostly from ignorance. It was, Captain Whalley concluded quaintly, mo=
re
pleasant to live in.
Mr. Van Wyk whims=
ically
would not admit that Mr. Massy, for instance, was more pleasant naturally t=
han
the Balinini pirates.
The river had not
gained much by the change. They were in their way every bit as honest. Massy
was less ferocious than Haji Daman no doubt, but . . .
"And what ab=
out
you, my good sir?" Captain Whalley laughed a deep soft laugh. "You
are an improvement, surely."
He continued in a
vein of pleasantry. A good cigar was better than a knock on the head--the s=
ort
of welcome he would have found on this river forty or fifty years ago. Then
leaning forward slightly, he became earnestly serious. It seems as if, outs=
ide
their own sea-gypsy tribes, these rovers had hated all mankind with an
incomprehensible, bloodthirsty hatred. Meantime their depredations had been
stopped, and what was the consequence? The new generation was orderly,
peaceable, settled in prosperous villages. He could speak from personal
knowledge. And even the few survivors of that time--old men now--had change=
d so
much, that it would have been unkind to remember against them that they had
ever slit a throat in their lives. He had one especially in his mind's eye:=
a
dignified, venerable headman of a certain large coast village about sixty m=
iles
sou'west of Tampasuk. It did one's heart good to see him--to hear that man
speak. He might have been a ferocious savage once. What men wanted was to be
checked by superior intelligence, by superior knowledge, by superior force
too--yes, by force held in trust from God and sanctified by its use in acco=
rdance
with His declared will. Captain Whalley believed a disposition for good exi=
sted
in every man, even if the world were not a very happy place as a whole. In =
the wisdom
of men he had not so much confidence. The disposition had to be helped up
pretty sharply sometimes, he admitted. They might be silly, wrongheaded,
unhappy; but naturally evil--no. There was at bottom a complete harmlessnes=
s at
least . . .
"Is there?&q=
uot;
Mr. Van Wyk snapped acrimoniously.
Captain Whalley
laughed at the interjection, in the good humor of large, tolerating certitu=
de.
He could look back at half a century, he pointed out. The smoke oozed placi=
dly
through the white hairs hiding his kindly lips.
"At all
events," he resumed after a pause, "I am glad that they've had no
time to do you much harm as yet."
This allusion to =
his
comparative youthfulness did not offend Mr. Van Wyk, who got up and wriggled
his shoulders with an enigmatic half-smile. They walked out together amicab=
ly
into the starry night towards the river-side. Their footsteps resounded
unequally on the dark path. At the shore end of the gangway the lantern, hu=
ng
low to the handrail, threw a vivid light on the white legs and the big black
feet of Mr. Massy waiting about anxiously. From the waist upwards he remain=
ed
shadowy, with a row of buttons gleaming up to the vague outline of his chin=
.
"You may tha=
nk
Captain Whalley for this," Mr. Van Wyk said curtly to him before turni=
ng
away.
The lamps on the
veranda flung three long squares of light between the uprights far over the
grass. A bat flitted before his face like a circling flake of velvety
blackness. Along the jasmine hedge the night air seemed heavy with the fall=
of
perfumed dew; flowerbeds bordered the path; the clipped bushes uprose in da=
rk
rounded clumps here and there before the house; the dense foliage of creepe=
rs
filtered the sheen of the lamplight within in a soft glow all along the fro=
nt;
and everything near and far stood still in a great immobility, in a great
sweetness.
Mr. Van Wyk (a few
years before he had had occasion to imagine himself treated more badly than
anybody alive had ever been by a woman) felt for Captain Whalley's optimist=
ic
views the disdain of a man who had once been credulous himself. His disgust
with the world (the woman for a time had filled it for him completely) had
taken the form of activity in retirement, because, though capable of great
depth of feeling, he was energetic and essentially practical. But there was=
in
that uncommon old sailor, drifting on the outskirts of his busy solitude, s=
omething
that fascinated his skepticism. His very simplicity (amusing enough) was li=
ke a
delicate refinement of an upright character. The striking dignity of manner
could be nothing else, in a man reduced to such a humble position, but the
expression of something essentially noble in the character. With all his tr=
ust
in mankind he was no fool; the serenity of his temper at the end of so many
years, since it could not obviously have been appeased by success, wore an =
air
of profound wisdom. Mr. Van Wyk was amused at it sometimes. Even the very
physical traits of the old captain of the Sofala, his powerful frame, his
reposeful mien, his intelligent, handsome face, the big limbs, the benign
courtesy, the touch of rugged severity in the shaggy eyebrows, made up a
seductive personality. Mr. Van Wyk disliked littleness of every kind, but t=
here
was nothing small about that man, and in the exemplary regularity of many t=
rips
an intimacy had grown up between them, a warm feeling at bottom under a kin=
dly
stateliness of forms agreeable to his fastidiousness.
They kept their
respective opinions on all worldly matters. His other convictions Captain
Whalley never intruded. The difference of their ages was like another bond
between them. Once, when twitted with the uncharitableness of his youth, Mr.
Van Wyk, running his eye over the vast proportions of his interlocutor,
retorted in friendly banter--
"Oh. You'll =
come
to my way of thinking yet. You'll have plenty of time. Don't call yourself =
old:
you look good for a round hundred."
But he could not =
help
his stinging incisiveness, and though moderating it by an almost affectiona=
te
smile, he added--
"And by then=
you
will probably consent to die from sheer disgust."
Captain Whalley,
smiling too, shook his head. "God forbid!"
He thought that
perhaps on the whole he deserved something better than to die in such
sentiments. The time of course would have to come, and he trusted to his Ma=
ker
to provide a manner of going out of which he need not be ashamed. For the r=
est
he hoped he would live to a hundred if need be: other men had been known; it
would be no miracle. He expected no miracles.
The pronounced,
argumentative tone caused Mr. Van Wyk to raise his head and look at him
steadily. Captain Whalley was gazing fixedly with a rapt expression, as tho=
ugh
he had seen his Creator's favorable decree written in mysterious characters=
on
the wall. He kept perfectly motionless for a few seconds, then got his vast
bulk on to his feet so impetuously that Mr. Van Wyk was startled.
He struck first a
heavy blow on his inflated chest: and, throwing out horizontally a big arm =
that
remained steady, extended in the air like the limb of a tree on a windless
day--
"Not a pain =
or
an ache there. Can you see this shake in the least?"
His voice was low=
, in
an awing, confident contrast with the headlong emphasis of his movements. He
sat down abruptly.
"This isn't =
to
boast of it, you know. I am nothing," he said in his effortless strong
voice, that seemed to come out as naturally as a river flows. He picked up =
the
stump of the cigar he had laid aside, and added peacefully, with a slight n=
od,
"As it happens, my life is necessary; it isn't my own, it isn't--God
knows."
He did not say mu=
ch
for the rest of the evening, but several times Mr. Van Wyk detected a faint
smile of assurance flitting under the heavy mustache.
Later on Captain
Whalley would now and then consent to dine "at the house." He cou=
ld
even be induced to drink a glass of wine. "Don't think I am afraid of =
it,
my good sir," he explained. "There was a very good reason why I
should give it up."
On another occasi=
on,
leaning back at ease, he remarked, "You have treated me most--most
humanely, my dear Mr. Van Wyk, from the very first."
"You'll admit
there was some merit," Mr. Van Wyk hinted slyly. "An associate of
that excellent Massy. . . . Well, well, my dear captain, I won't say a word
against him."
"It would be=
no
use your saying anything against him," Captain Whalley affirmed a litt=
le
moodily. "As I've told you before, my life--my work, is necessary, not=
for
myself alone. I can't choose" . . . He paused, turned the glass before=
him
right round. . . . "I have an only child--a daughter."
The ample downward
sweep of his arm over the table seemed to suggest a small girl at a vast
distance. "I hope to see her once more before I die. Meantime it's eno=
ugh
to know that she has me sound and solid, thank God. You can't understand how
one feels. Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh; the very image of my poor wi=
fe.
Well, she . . ."
Again he paused, =
then
pronounced stoically the words, "She has a hard struggle."
And his head fell=
on
his breast, his eyebrows remained knitted, as by an effort of meditation. B=
ut
generally his mind seemed steeped in the serenity of boundless trust in a
higher power. Mr. Van Wyk wondered sometimes how much of it was due to the
splendid vitality of the man, to the bodily vigor which seems to impart
something of its force to the soul. But he had learned to like him very muc=
h.
XIII
This was the reas=
on
why Mr. Sterne's confidential communication, delivered hurriedly on the sho=
re
alongside the dark silent ship, had disturbed his equanimity. It was the mo=
st
incomprehensible and unexpected thing that could happen; and the perturbati=
on
of his spirit was so great that, forgetting all about his letters, he ran
rapidly up the bridge ladder.
The portable table
was being put together for dinner to the left of the wheel by two pig-tailed
"boys," who as usual snarled at each other over the job, while
another, a doleful, burly, very yellow Chinaman, resembling Mr. Massy, wait=
ed
apathetically with the cloth over his arm and a pile of thick dinner-plates
against his chest. A common cabin lamp with its globe missing, brought up f=
rom
below, had been hooked to the wooden framework of the awning; the side-scre=
ens
had been lowered all round; Captain Whalley filling the depths of the
wicker-chair seemed to sit benumbed in a canvas tent crudely lighted, and u=
sed
for the storing of nautical objects; a shabby steering-wheel, a battered br=
ass
binnacle on a stout mahogany stand, two dingy life-buoys, an old cork fende=
r lying
in a corner, dilapidated deck-lockers with loops of thin rope instead of
door-handles.
He shook off the
appearance of numbness to return Mr. Van Wyk's unusually brisk greeting, but
relapsed directly afterwards. To accept a pressing invitation to dinner
"up at the house" cost him another very visible physical effort. =
Mr.
Van Wyk, perplexed, folded his arms, and leaning back against the rail, with
his little, black, shiny feet well out, examined him covertly.
"I've notice=
d of
late that you are not quite yourself, old friend."
He put an
affectionate gentleness into the last two words. The real intimacy of their
intercourse had never been so vividly expressed before.
"Tut, tut,
tut!"
The wicker-chair
creaked heavily.
"Irritable,&=
quot;
commented Mr. Van Wyk to himself; and aloud, "I'll expect to see you in
half an hour, then," he said negligently, moving off.
"In half an
hour," Captain Whalley's rigid silvery head repeated behind him as if =
out
of a trance.
Amidships, below,=
two
voices, close against the engineroom, could be heard answering each other--=
one
angry and slow, the other alert.
"I tell you =
the
beast has locked himself in to get drunk."
"Can't help =
it
now, Mr. Massy. After all, a man has a right to shut himself up in his cabi=
n in
his own time."
"Not to get
drunk."
"I heard him
swear that the worry with the boilers was enough to drive any man to
drink," Sterne said maliciously.
Massy hissed out
something about bursting the door in. Mr. Van Wyk, to avoid them, crossed in
the dark to the other side of the deserted deck. The planking of the little
wharf rattled faintly under his hasty feet.
"Mr. Van Wyk!
Mr. Van Wyk!"
He walked on:
somebody was running on the path. "You've forgotten to get your
mail."
Sterne, holding a
bundle of papers in his hand, caught up with him.
"Oh,
thanks."
But, as the other
continued at his elbow, Mr. Van Wyk stopped short. The overhanging eaves,
descending low upon the lighted front of the bungalow, threw their black
straight-edged shadow into the great body of the night on that side. Everyt=
hing
was very still. A tinkle of cutlery and a slight jingle of glasses were hea=
rd.
Mr. Van Wyk's servants were laying the table for two on the veranda.
"I'm afraid =
you
give me no credit whatever for my good intentions in the matter I've spoken=
to
you about," said Sterne.
"I simply do=
n't
understand you."
"Captain Wha=
lley
is a very audacious man, but he will understand that his game is up. That's=
all
that anybody need ever know of it from me. Believe me, I am very considerat=
e in
this, but duty is duty. I don't want to make a fuss. All I ask you, as his
friend, is to tell him from me that the game's up. That will be
sufficient."
Mr. Van Wyk felt a
loathsome dismay at this queer privilege of friendship. He would not demean
himself by asking for the slightest explanation; to drive the other away wi=
th
contumely he did not think prudent--as yet, at any rate. So much assurance
staggered him. Who could tell what there could be in it, he thought? His re=
gard
for Captain Whalley had the tenacity of a disinterested sentiment, and his
practical instinct coming to his aid, he concealed his scorn.
"I gather, t=
hen,
that this is something grave."
"Very
grave," Sterne assented solemnly, delighted at having produced an effe=
ct
at last. He was ready to add some effusive protestations of regret at the
"unavoidable necessity," but Mr. Van Wyk cut him short--very civi=
lly,
however.
Once on the veran=
da
Mr. Van Wyk put his hands in his pockets, and, straddling his legs, stared =
down
at a black panther skin lying on the floor before a rocking-chair. "It
looks as if the fellow had not the pluck to play his own precious game
openly," he thought.
This was true eno=
ugh.
In the face of Massy's last rebuff Sterne dared not declare his knowledge. =
His
object was simply to get charge of the steamer and keep it for some time. M=
assy
would never forgive him for forcing himself on; but if Captain Whalley left=
the
ship of his own accord, the command would devolve upon him for the rest of =
the
trip; so he hit upon the brilliant idea of scaring the old man away. A vagu=
e menace,
a mere hint, would be enough in such a brazen case; and, with a strange
admixture of compassion, he thought that Batu Beru was a very good place for
throwing up the sponge. The skipper could go ashore quietly, and stay with =
that
Dutchman of his. Weren't these two as thick as thieves together? And on
reflection he seemed to see that there was a way to work the whole thing
through that great friend of the old man's. This was another brilliant idea=
. He
had an inborn preference for circuitous methods. In this particular case he
desired to remain in the background as much as possible, to avoid exasperat=
ing
Massy needlessly. No fuss! Let it all happen naturally.
Mr. Van Wyk all
through the dinner was conscious of a sense of isolation that invades somet=
imes
the closeness of human intercourse. Captain Whalley failed lamentably and
obviously in his attempts to eat something. He seemed overcome by a strange=
absentmindedness.
His hand would hover irresolutely, as if left without guidance by a preoccu=
pied
mind. Mr. Van Wyk had heard him coming up from a long way off in the profou=
nd
stillness of the river-side, and had noticed the irresolute character of the
footfalls. The toe of his boot had struck the bottom stair as though he had
come along mooning with his head in the air right up to the steps of the
veranda. Had the captain of the Sofala been another sort of man he would ha=
ve
suspected the work of age there. But one glance at him was enough. Time--af=
ter,
indeed, marking him for its own--had given him up to his usefulness, in whi=
ch
his simple faith would see a proof of Divine mercy. "How could I contr=
ive
to warn him?" Mr. Van Wyk wondered, as if Captain Whalley had been mil=
es
and miles away, out of sight and earshot of all evil. He was sickened by an
immense disgust of Sterne. To even mention his threat to a man like Whalley
would be positively indecent. There was something more vile and insulting i=
n its
hint than in a definite charge of crime--the debasing taint of blackmailing.
"What could anyone bring against him?" he asked himself. This was=
a
limpid personality. "And for what object?" The Power that man tru=
sted
had thought fit to leave him nothing on earth that envy could lay hold of,
except a bare crust of bread.
"Won't you t=
ry
some of this?" he asked, pushing a dish slightly. Suddenly it seemed to
Mr. Van Wyk that Sterne might possibly be coveting the command of the Sofal=
a.
His cynicism was quite startled by what looked like a proof that no man may
count himself safe from his kind unless in the very abyss of misery. An
intrigue of that sort was hardly worth troubling about, he judged; but stil=
l,
with such a fool as Massy to deal with, Whalley ought to and must be warned=
.
At this moment
Captain Whalley, bolt upright, the deep cavities of the eyes overhung by a
bushy frown, and one large brown hand resting on each side of his empty pla=
te,
spoke across the tablecloth abruptly--"Mr. Van Wyk, you've always trea=
ted
me with the most humane consideration."
"My dear
captain, you make too much of a simple fact that I am not a savage." M=
r.
Van Wyk, utterly revolted by the thought of Sterne's obscure attempt, raised
his voice incisively, as if the mate had been hiding somewhere within earsh=
ot.
"Any consideration I have been able to show was no more than the right=
ful
due of a character I've learned to regard by this time with an esteem that
nothing can shake."
A slight ring of
glass made him lift his eyes from the slice of pine-apple he was cutting in=
to
small pieces on his plate. In changing his position Captain Whalley had
contrived to upset an empty tumbler.
Without looking t=
hat
way, leaning sideways on his elbow, his other hand shading his brow, he gro=
ped
shakily for it, then desisted. Van Wyk stared blankly, as if something
momentous had happened all at once. He did not know why he should feel so
startled; but he forgot Sterne utterly for the moment.
"Why, what's=
the
matter?"
And Captain Whall=
ey,
half-averted, in a deadened, agitated voice, muttered--
"Esteem!&quo=
t;
"And I may a=
dd
something more," Mr. Van Wyk, very steady-eyed, pronounced slowly.
"Hold!
Enough!" Captain Whalley did not change his attitude or raise his voic=
e.
"Say no more! I can make you no return. I am too poor even for that no=
w.
Your esteem is worth having. You are not a man that would stoop to deceive =
the
poorest sort of devil on earth, or make a ship unseaworthy every time he ta=
kes
her to sea."
Mr. Van Wyk, lean=
ing
forward, his face gone pink all over, with the starched table-napkin over h=
is
knees, was inclined to mistrust his senses, his power of comprehension, the
sanity of his guest.
"Where? Why?=
In
the name of God!--what's this? What ship? I don't understand who . . ."=
;
"Then, in the
name of God, it is I! A ship's unseaworthy when her captain can't see. I am
going blind."
Mr. Van Wyk made a
slight movement, and sat very still afterwards for a few seconds; then, with
the thought of Sterne's "The game's up," he ducked under the tabl=
e to
pick up the napkin which had slipped off his knees. This was the game that =
was
up. And at the same time the muffled voice of Captain Whalley passed over h=
im--
"I've deceiv=
ed
them all. Nobody knows."
He emerged flushe=
d to
the eyes. Captain Whalley, motionless under the full blaze of the lamp, sha=
ded
his face with his hand.
"And you had
that courage?"
"Call it by =
what
name you like. But you are a humane man--a--a--gentleman, Mr. Van Wyk. You =
may
have asked me what I had done with my conscience."
He seemed to muse,
profoundly silent, very still in his mournful pose.
"I began to
tamper with it in my pride. You begin to see a lot of things when you are g=
oing
blind. I could not be frank with an old chum even. I was not frank with
Massy--no, not altogether. I knew he took me for a wealthy sailor fool, and=
I
let him. I wanted to keep up my importance--because there was poor Ivy away
there--my daughter. What did I want to trade on his misery for? I did trade=
on
it--for her. And now, what mercy could I expect from him? He would trade on
mine if he knew it. He would hunt the old fraud out, and stick to the money=
for
a year. Ivy's money. And I haven't kept a penny for myself. How am I going =
to live
for a year. A year! In a year there will be no sun in the sky for her fathe=
r."
His deep voice ca=
me
out, awfully veiled, as though he had been overwhelmed by the earth of a
landslide, and talking to you of the thoughts that haunt the dead in their
graves. A cold shudder ran down Mr. Van Wyk's back.
"And how lon=
g is
it since you have . . .?" he began.
"It was a lo=
ng
time before I could bring myself to believe in this--this visitation."
Captain Whalley spoke with gloomy patience from under his hand.
He had not though=
t he
had deserved it. He had begun by deceiving himself from day to day, from we=
ek
to week. He had the Serang at hand there--an old servant. It came on gradua=
lly,
and when he could no longer deceive himself . . .
His voice died out
almost.
"Rather than
give her up I set myself to deceive you all."
"It's
incredible," whispered Mr. Van Wyk. Captain Whalley's appalling murmur
flowed on.
"Not even the
sign of God's anger could make me forget her. How could I forsake my child,
feeling my vigor all the time--the blood warm within me? Warm as yours. It
seems to me that, like the blinded Samson, I would find the strength to sha=
ke
down a temple upon my head. She's a struggling woman--my own child that we =
used
to pray over together, my poor wife and I. Do you remember that day I as we=
ll
as told you that I believed God would let me live to a hundred for her sake?
What sin is there in loving your child? Do you see it? I was ready for her =
sake
to live for ever. I half believed I would. I've been praying for death sinc=
e.
Ha! Presumptuous man--you wanted to live . . ."
A tremendous, shu=
ddering
upheaval of that big frame, shaken by a gasping sob, set the glasses jingli=
ng
all over the table, seemed to make the whole house tremble to the roof-tree.
And Mr. Van Wyk, whose feeling of outraged love had been translated into a =
form
of struggle with nature, understood very well that, for that man whose whole
life had been conditioned by action, there could exist no other expression =
for
all the emotions; that, to voluntarily cease venturing, doing, enduring, for
his child's sake, would have been exactly like plucking his warm love for h=
er
out of his living heart. Something too monstrous, too impossible, even to
conceive.
Captain Whalley h=
ad
not changed his attitude, that seemed to express something of shame, sorrow,
and defiance.
"I have even=
deceived
you. If it had not been for that word 'esteem.' These are not the words for=
me.
I would have lied to you. Haven't I lied to you? Weren't you going to trust
your property on board this very trip?"
"I have a
floating yearly policy," Mr. Van Wyk said almost unwittingly, and was
amazed at the sudden cropping up of a commercial detail.
"The ship is
unseaworthy, I tell you. The policy would be invalid if it were known . .
."
"We shall sh=
are
the guilt, then."
"Nothing cou=
ld
make mine less," said Captain Whalley.
He had not dared =
to
consult a doctor; the man would have perhaps asked who he was, what he was
doing; Massy might have heard something. He had lived on without any help,
human or divine. The very prayers stuck in his throat. What was there to pr=
ay
for? and death seemed as far as ever. Once he got into his cabin he dared n=
ot
come out again; when he sat down he dared not get up; he dared not raise his
eyes to anybody's face; he felt reluctant to look upon the sea or up to the
sky. The world was fading before his great fear of giving himself away. The=
old
ship was his last friend; he was not afraid of her; he knew every inch of h=
er deck;
but at her too he hardly dared to look, for fear of finding he could see le=
ss
than the day before. A great incertitude enveloped him. The horizon was gon=
e;
the sky mingled darkly with the sea. Who was this figure standing over yond=
er?
what was this thing lying down there? And a frightful doubt of the reality =
of
what he could see made even the remnant of sight that remained to him an ad=
ded
torment, a pitfall always open for his miserable pretense. He was afraid to
stumble inexcusably over something--to say a fatal Yes or No to a question.=
The
hand of God was upon him, but it could not tear him away from his child. An=
d,
as if in a nightmare of humiliation, every featureless man seemed an enemy.=
He let his hand f=
all
heavily on the table. Mr. Van Wyk, arms down, chin on breast, with a gleam =
of
white teeth pressing on the lower lip, meditated on Sterne's "The game=
's
up."
"The Serang =
of
course does not know."
"Nobody,&quo=
t;
said Captain Whalley, with assurance.
"Ah yes. Nob=
ody.
Very well. Can you keep it up to the end of the trip? That is the last under
the agreement with Massy."
Captain Whalley g=
ot
up and stood erect, very stately, with the great white beard lying like a
silver breastplate over the awful secret of his heart. Yes; that was the on=
ly
hope there was for him of ever seeing her again, of securing the money, the
last he could do for her, before he crept away somewhere--useless, a burden=
, a
reproach to himself. His voice faltered.
"Think of it!
Never see her any more: the only human being besides myself now on earth th=
at
can remember my wife. She's just like her mother. Lucky the poor woman is w=
here
there are no tears shed over those they loved on earth and that remain to p=
ray
not to be led into temptation--because, I suppose, the blessed know the sec=
ret
of grace in God's dealings with His created children."
He swayed a littl=
e,
said with austere dignity--
"I don't. I =
know
only the child He has given me."
And he began to w=
alk.
Mr. Van Wyk, jumping up, saw the full meaning of the rigid head, the hesita=
ting
feet, the vaguely extended hand. His heart was beating fast; he moved a cha=
ir
aside, and instinctively advanced as if to offer his arm. But Captain Whall=
ey
passed him by, making for the stairs quite straight.
"He could not
see me at all out of his line," Van Wyk thought, with a sort of awe. T=
hen
going to the head of the stairs, he asked a little tremulously--
"What is it
like--like a mist--like . . ."
Captain Whalley,
half-way down, stopped, and turned round undismayed to answer.
"It is as if=
the
light were ebbing out of the world. Have you ever watched the ebbing sea on=
an
open stretch of sands withdrawing farther and farther away from you? It is =
like
this--only there will be no flood to follow. Never. It is as if the sun were
growing smaller, the stars going out one by one. There can't be many left t=
hat
I can see by this. But I haven't had the courage to look of late . . ."=
; He
must have been able to make out Mr. Van Wyk, because he checked him by an
authoritative gesture and a stoical--
"I can get a=
bout
alone yet."
It was as if he h=
ad
taken his line, and would accept no help from men, after having been cast o=
ut,
like a presumptuous Titan, from his heaven. Mr. Van Wyk, arrested, seemed to
count the footsteps right out of earshot. He walked between the tables, tap=
ping
smartly with his heels, took up a paper-knife, dropped it after a vague gla=
nce
along the blade; then happening upon the piano, struck a few chords again a=
nd
again, vigorously, standing up before the keyboard with an attentive poise =
of
the head like a piano-tuner; closing it, he pivoted on his heels brusquely,
avoided the little terrier sleeping trustfully on crossed forepaws, came up=
on
the stairs next, and, as though he had lost his balance on the top step, ran
down headlong out of the house. His servants, beginning to clear the table,
heard him mutter to himself (evil words no doubt) down there, and then afte=
r a
pause go away with a strolling gait in the direction of the wharf.
The bulwarks of t=
he
Sofala lying alongside the bank made a low, black wall on the undulating
contour of the shore. Two masts and a funnel uprose from behind it with a g=
reat
rake, as if about to fall: a solid, square elevation in the middle bore the
ghostly shapes of white boats, the curves of davits, lines of rail and
stanchions, all confused and mingling darkly everywhere; but low down,
amidships, a single lighted port stared out on the night, perfectly round, =
like
a small, full moon, whose yellow beam caught a patch of wet mud, the edge of
trodden grass, two turns of heavy cable wound round the foot of a thick woo=
den
post in the ground.
Mr. Van Wyk, peer=
ing
alongside, heard a muzzy boastful voice apparently jeering at a person call=
ed
Prendergast. It mouthed abuse thickly, choked; then pronounced very distinc=
tly
the word "Murphy," and chuckled. Glass tinkled tremulously. All t=
hese
sounds came from the lighted port. Mr. Van Wyk hesitated, stooped; it was
impossible to look through unless he went down into the mud.
"Sterne,&quo=
t;
he said, half aloud.
The drunken voice
within said gladly--
"Sterne--of
course. Look at him blink. Look at him! Sterne, Whalley, Massy. Massy, Whal=
ley,
Sterne. But Massy's the best. You can't come over him. He would just love to
see you starve."
Mr. Van Wyk moved
away, made out farther forward a shadowy head stuck out from under the awni=
ngs
as if on the watch, and spoke quietly in Malay, "Is the mate asleep?&q=
uot;
"No. Here, at
your service."
In a moment Sterne
appeared, walking as noiselessly as a cat on the wharf.
"It's so jol=
ly
dark, and I had no idea you would be down to-night."
"What's this
horrible raving?" asked Mr. Van Wyk, as if to explain the cause of a
shudder than ran over him audibly.
"Jack's brok=
en
out on a drunk. That's our second. It's his way. He will be right enough by
to-morrow afternoon, only Mr. Massy will keep on worrying up and down the d=
eck.
We had better get away."
He muttered sugge=
stively
of a talk "up at the house." He had long desired to effect an
entrance there, but Mr. Van Wyk nonchalantly demurred: it would not, he fea=
red,
be quite prudent, perhaps; and the opaque black shadow under one of the two=
big
trees left at the landing-place swallowed them up, impenetrably dense, by t=
he
side of the wide river, that seemed to spin into threads of glitter the lig=
ht
of a few big stars dropped here and there upon its outspread and flowing st=
illness.
"The situati=
on
is grave beyond doubt," Mr. Van Wyk said. Ghost-like in their white
clothes they could not distinguish each others' features, and their feet ma=
de
no sound on the soft earth. A sort of purring was heard. Mr. Sterne felt
gratified by such a beginning.
"I thought, =
Mr.
Van Wyk, a gentleman of your sort would see at once how awkwardly I was
situated."
"Yes, very.
Obviously his health is bad. Perhaps he's breaking up. I see, and he himsel=
f is
well aware--I assume I am speaking to a man of sense--he is well aware that=
his
legs are giving out."
"His
legs--ah!" Mr. Sterne was disconcerted, and then turned sulky. "Y=
ou
may call it his legs if you like; what I want to know is whether he intends=
to
clear out quietly. That's a good one, too! His legs! Pooh!"
"Why, yes. O=
nly
look at the way he walks." Mr. Van Wyk took him up in a perfectly cool=
and
undoubting tone. "The question, however, is whether your sense of duty
does not carry you too far from your true interest. After all, I too could =
do
something to serve you. You know who I am."
"Everybody a=
long
the Straits has heard of you, sir."
Mr. Van Wyk presu=
med
that this meant something favorable. Sterne had a soft laugh at this
pleasantry. He should think so! To the opening statement, that the partners=
hip
agreement was to expire at the end of this very trip, he gave an attentive
assent. He was aware. One heard of nothing else on board all the blessed day
long. As to Massy, it was no secret that he was in a jolly deep hole with t=
hese
worn-out boilers. He would have to borrow somewhere a couple of hundred fir=
st
of all to pay off the captain; and then he would have to raise money on
mortgage upon the ship for the new boilers--that is, if he could find a len=
der
at all. At best it meant loss of time, a break in the trade, short earnings=
for
the year--and there was always the danger of having his connection filched =
away
from him by the Germans. It was whispered about that he had already tried t=
wo
firms. Neither would have anything to do with him. Ship too old, and the man
too well known in the place. . . . Mr. Sterne's final rapid winking remained
buried in the deep darkness sibilating with his whispers.
"Supposing,
then, he got the loan," Mr. Van Wyk resumed in a deliberate undertone,
"on your own showing he's more than likely to get a mortgagee's man th=
rust
upon him as captain. For my part, I know that I would make that very
stipulation myself if I had to find the money. And as a matter of fact I am
thinking of doing so. It would be worth my while in many ways. Do you see h=
ow
this would bear on the case under discussion?"
"Thank you, =
sir.
I am sure you couldn't get anybody that would care more for your
interests."
"Well, it su=
its
my interest that Captain Whalley should finish his time. I shall probably t=
ake
a passage with you down the Straits. If that can be done, I'll be on the sp=
ot
when all these changes take place, and in a position to look after your
interests."
"Mr. Van Wyk=
, I
want nothing better. I am sure I am infinitely . . ."
"I take it,
then, that this may be done without any trouble."
"Well, sir, =
what
risk there is can't be helped; but (speaking to you as my employer now) the
thing is more safe than it looks. If anybody had told me of it I wouldn't h=
ave
believed it, but I have been looking on myself. That old Serang has been
trained up to the game. There's nothing the matter with his--his--limbs, si=
r.
He's got used to doing things himself in a remarkable way. And let me tell =
you,
sir, that Captain Whalley, poor man, is by no means useless. Fact. Let me
explain to you, sir. He stiffens up that old monkey of a Malay, who knows w=
ell
enough what to do. Why, he must have kept captain's watches in all sorts of=
country
ships off and on for the last five-and-twenty years. These natives, sir, as
long as they have a white man close at the back, will go on doing the right
thing most surprisingly well--even if left quite to themselves. Only the wh=
ite
man must be of the sort to put starch into them, and the captain is just the
one for that. Why, sir, he has drilled him so well that now he needs hardly
speak at all. I have seen that little wrinkled ape made to take the ship ou=
t of
Pangu Bay on a blowy morning and on all through the islands; take her out
first-rate, sir, dodging under the old man's elbow, and in such quiet style
that you could not have told for the life of you which of the two was doing=
the
work up there. That's where our poor friend would be still of use to the sh=
ip
even if--if--he could no longer lift a foot, sir. Provided the Serang does =
not
know that there's anything wrong."
"He
doesn't."
"Naturally n=
ot.
Quite beyond his apprehension. They aren't capable of finding out anything
about us, sir."
"You seem to=
be
a shrewd man," said Mr. Van Wyk in a choked mutter, as though he were
feeling sick.
"You'll find=
me
a good enough servant, sir."
Mr. Sterne hoped =
now
for a handshake at least, but unexpectedly, with a "What's this? Better
not to be seen together," Mr. Van Wyk's white shape wavered, and insta=
ntly
seemed to melt away in the black air under the roof of boughs. The mate was
startled. Yes. There was that faint thumping clatter.
He stole out sile=
ntly
from under the shade. The lighted port-hole shone from afar. His head swam =
with
the intoxication of sudden success. What a thing it was to have a gentleman=
to
deal with! He crept aboard, and there was something weird in the shadowy
stretch of empty decks, echoing with shouts and blows proceeding from a dar=
ker
part amidships. Mr. Massy was raging before the door of the berth: the drun=
ken
voice within flowed on undisturbed in the violent racket of kicks.
"Shut up! Put
your light out and turn in, you confounded swilling pig--you! D'you hear me,
you beast?"
The kicking stopp=
ed,
and in the pause the muzzy oracular voice announced from within--
"Ah! Massy,
now--that's another thing. Massy's deep."
"Who's that =
aft
there? You, Sterne? He'll drink himself into a fit of horrors." The ch=
ief
engineer appeared vague and big at the corner of the engineroom.
"He will be =
good
enough for duty to-morrow. I would let him be, Mr. Massy."
Sterne slipped aw=
ay
into his berth, and at once had to sit down. His head swam with exultation.=
He
got into his bunk as if in a dream. A feeling of profound peace, of pacific
joy, came over him. On deck all was quiet.
Mr. Massy, with h=
is
ear against the door of Jack's cabin, listened critically to a deep stertor=
ous
breathing within. This was a dead-drunk sleep. The bout was over: tranquili=
zed
on that score, he too went in, and with slow wriggles got out of his old tw=
eed
jacket. It was a garment with many pockets, which he used to put on at odd
times of the day, being subject to sudden chilly fits, and when he felt war=
med
he would take it off and hang it about anywhere all over the ship. It would=
be
seen swinging on belaying-pins, thrown over the heads of winches, suspended=
on
people's very door-handles for that matter. Was he not the owner? But his
favorite place was a hook on a wooden awning stanchion on the bridge, almost
against the binnacle. He had even in the early days more than one tussle on
that point with Captain Whalley, who desired the bridge to be kept tidy. He=
had
been overawed then. Of late, though, he had been able to defy his partner w=
ith
impunity. Captain Whalley never seemed to notice anything now. As to the
Malays, in their awe of that scowling man not one of the crew would dream of
laying a hand on the thing, no matter where or what it swung from.
With an
unexpectedness which made Mr. Massy jump and drop the coat at his feet, the=
re
came from the next berth the crash and thud of a headlong, jingling, clatte=
ring
fall. The faithful Jack must have dropped to sleep suddenly as he sat at his
revels, and now had gone over chair and all, breaking, as it seemed by the
sound, every single glass and bottle in the place. After the terrific smash=
all
was still for a time in there, as though he had killed himself outright on =
the
spot. Mr. Massy held his breath. At last a sleepy uneasy groaning sigh was
exhaled slowly on the other side of the bulkhead.
"I hope to
goodness he's too drunk to wake up now," muttered Mr. Massy.
The sound of a so=
ftly
knowing laugh nearly drove him to despair. He swore violently under his bre=
ath.
The fool would keep him awake all night now for certain. He cursed his luck=
. He
wanted to forget his maddening troubles in sleep sometimes. He could detect=
no
movements. Without apparently making the slightest attempt to get up, Jack =
went
on sniggering to himself where he lay; then began to speak, where he had le=
ft
off as it were--
"Massy! I lo=
ve
the dirty rascal. He would like to see his poor old Jack starve--but just y=
ou
look where he has climbed to." . . . He hiccoughed in a superior,
leisurely manner. . . . "Ship-owning it with the best. A lottery ticket
you want. Ha! ha! I will give you lottery tickets, my boy. Let the old ship
sink and the old chum starve--that's right. He don't go wrong--Massy don't.=
Not
he. He's a genius--that man is. That's the way to win your money. Ship and =
chum
must go."
"The silly f=
ool
has taken it to heart," muttered Massy to himself. And, listening with=
a
softened expression of face for any slight sign of returning drowsiness, he=
was
discouraged profoundly by a burst of laughter full of joyful irony.
"Would like =
to
see her at the bottom of the sea! Oh, you clever, clever devil! Wish her su=
nk,
eh? I should think you would, my boy; the damned old thing and all your
troubles with her. Rake in the insurance money --turn your back on your old
chum--all's well--gentleman again."
A grim stillness =
had
come over Massy's face. Only his big black eyes rolled uneasily. The raving
fool. And yet it was all true. Yes. Lottery tickets, too. All true. What?
Beginning again? He wished he wouldn't. . . .
But it was even s=
o.
The imaginative drunkard on the other side of the bulkhead shook off the
deathlike stillness that after his last words had fallen on the dark ship
moored to a silent shore.
"Don't you d=
are
to say anything against George Massy, Esquire. When he's tired of waiting he
will do away with her. Look out! Down she goes--chum and all. He'll know ho=
w to
. . ."
The voice hesitat=
ed,
weary, dreamy, lost, as if dying away in a vast open space.
". . . Find a
trick that will work. He's up to it--never fear . . ."
He must have been
very drunk, for at last the heavy sleep gripped him with the suddenness of a
magic spell, and the last word lengthened itself into an interminable, nois=
y,
in-drawn snore. And then even the snoring stopped, and all was still.
But it seemed as
though Mr. Massy had suddenly come to doubt the efficacy of sleep as agains=
t a
man's troubles; or perhaps he had found the relief he needed in the stillne=
ss
of a calm contemplation that may contain the vivid thoughts of wealth, of a
stroke of luck, of long idleness, and may bring before you the imagined for=
m of
every desire; for, turning about and throwing his arms over the edge of his
bunk, he stood there with his feet on his favorite old coat, looking out
through the round port into the night over the river. Sometimes a breath of
wind would enter and touch his face, a cool breath charged with the damp, f=
resh
feel from a vast body of water. A glimmer here and there was all he could s=
ee
of it; and once he might after all suppose he had dozed off, since there
appeared before his vision, unexpectedly and connected with no dream, a row=
of
flaming and gigantic figures--three naught seven one two--making up a number
such as you may see on a lottery ticket. And then all at once the port was =
no
longer black: it was pearly gray, framing a shore crowded with houses, that=
ched
roof beyond thatched roof, walls of mats and bamboo, gables of carved teak
timber. Rows of dwellings raised on a forest of piles lined the steely band=
of
the river, brimful and still, with the tide at the turn. This was Batu Beru=
--and
the day had come.
Mr. Massy shook
himself, put on the tweed coat, and, shivering nervously as if from some gr=
eat
shock, made a note of the number. A fortunate, rare hint that. Yes; but to
pursue fortune one wanted money--ready cash.
Then he went out =
and
prepared to descend into the engine-room. Several small jobs had to be seen=
to,
and Jack was lying dead drunk on the floor of his cabin, with the door lock=
ed
at that. His gorge rose at the thought of work. Ay! But if you wanted to do
nothing you had to get first a good bit of money. A ship won't save you. He
cursed the Sofala. True, all true. He was tired of waiting for some chance =
that
would rid him at last of that ship that had turned out a curse on his life.=
XIV
The deep, interminable hoot of the steam-whistle had, in its grave, vibrating note, something intolerable, which sent a slight shudder down Mr. Van Wyk's back.= It was the early afternoon; the Sofala was leaving Batu Beru for Pangu, the ne= xt place of call. She swung in the stream, scantily attended by a few canoes, = and, gliding on the broad river, became lost to view from the Van Wyk bungalow.<= o:p>
Its owner had not
gone this time to see her off. Generally he came down to the wharf, exchang=
ed a
few words with the bridge while she cast off, and waved his hand to Captain
Whalley at the last moment. This day he did not even go as far as the
balustrade of the veranda. "He couldn't see me if I did," he said=
to
himself. "I wonder whether he can make out the house at all." And
this thought somehow made him feel more alone than he had ever felt for all
these years. What was it? six or seven? Seven. A long time.
He sat on the ver=
anda
with a closed book on his knee, and, as it were, looked out upon his solitu=
de,
as if the fact of Captain Whalley's blindness had opened his eyes to his ow=
n.
There were many sorts of heartaches and troubles, and there was no place wh=
ere
they could not find a man out. And he felt ashamed, as though he had for six
years behaved like a peevish boy.
His thought follo=
wed
the Sofala on her way. On the spur of the moment he had acted impulsively,
turning to the thing most pressing. And what else could he have done? Later=
on
he should see. It seemed necessary that he should come out into the world, =
for
a time at least. He had money--something could be arranged; he would grudge=
no
time, no trouble, no loss of his solitude. It weighed on him now--and Capta=
in
Whalley appeared to him as he had sat shading his eyes, as if, being deceiv=
ed
in the trust of his faith, he were beyond all the good and evil that can be=
wrought
by the hands of men.
Mr. Van Wyk's
thoughts followed the Sofala down the river, winding about through the belt=
of
the coast forest, between the buttressed shafts of the big trees, through t=
he
mangrove strip, and over the bar. The ship crossed it easily in broad dayli=
ght,
piloted, as it happened, by Mr. Sterne, who took the watch from four to six,
and then went below to hug himself with delight at the prospect of being
virtually employed by a rich man--like Mr. Van Wyk. He could not see how any
hitch could occur now. He did not seem able to get over the feeling of being
"fixed up at last." From six to eight, in the course of duty, the
Serang looked alone after the ship. She had a clear road before her now till
about three in the morning, when she would close with the Pangu group. At e=
ight
Mr. Sterne came out cheerily to take charge again till midnight. At ten he =
was
still chirruping and humming to himself on the bridge, and about that time =
Mr.
Van Wyk's thought abandoned the Sofala. Mr. Van Wyk had fallen asleep at la=
st.
Massy, blocking t=
he
engine-room companion, jerked himself into his tweed jacket surlily, while =
the
second waited with a scowl.
"Oh. You came
out? You sot! Well, what have you got to say for yourself?"
He had been in ch=
arge
of the engines till then. A somber fury darkened his mind: a hot anger agai=
nst
the ship, against the facts of life, against the men for their cheating,
against himself too--because of an inward tremor of his heart.
An incomprehensib=
le
growl answered him.
"What? Can't=
you
open your mouth now? You yelp out your infernal rot loud enough when you are
drunk. What do you mean by abusing people in that way?--you old useless boo=
zer,
you!"
"Can't help =
it.
Don't remember anything about it. You shouldn't listen."
"You dare to
tell me! What do you mean by going on a drunk like this!"
"Don't ask m=
e.
Sick of the dam' boilers--you would be. Sick of life."
"I wish you =
were
dead, then. You've made me sick of you. Don't you remember the uproar you m=
ade
last night? You miserable old soaker!"
"No; I don't.
Don't want to. Drink is drink."
"I wonder wh=
at
prevents me from kicking you out. What do you want here?"
"Relieve you.
You've been long enough down there, George."
"Don't you
George me--you tippling old rascal, you! If I were to die to-morrow you wou=
ld
starve. Remember that. Say Mr. Massy."
"Mr.
Massy," repeated the other stolidly.
Disheveled, with =
dull
blood-shot eyes, a snuffy, grimy shirt, greasy trowsers, naked feet thrust =
into
ragged slippers, he bolted in head down directly Massy had made way for him=
.
The chief engineer
looked around. The deck was empty as far as the taffrail. All the native
passengers had left in Batu Beru this time, and no others had joined. The d=
ial
of the patent log tinkled periodically in the dark at the end of the ship. =
It
was a dead calm, and, under the clouded sky, through the still air that see=
med
to cling warm, with a seaweed smell, to her slim hull, on a sea of somber g=
ray
and unwrinkled, the ship moved on an even keel, as if floating detached in
empty space. But Mr. Massy slapped his forehead, tottered a little, caught =
hold
of a belaying-pin at the foot of the mast.
"I shall go
mad," he muttered, walking across the deck unsteadily. A shovel was
scraping loose coal down below--a fire-door clanged. Sterne on the bridge b=
egan
whistling a new tune.
Captain Whalley,
sitting on the couch, awake and fully dressed, heard the door of his cabin
open. He did not move in the least, waiting to recognize the voice, with an
appalling strain of prudence.
A bulkhead lamp
blazed on the white paint, the crimson plush, the brown varnish of mahogany
tops. The white wood packing-case under the bed-place had remained unopened=
for
three years now, as though Captain Whalley had felt that, after the Fair Ma=
id
was gone, there could be no abiding-place on earth for his affections. His =
hands
rested on his knees; his handsome head with big eyebrows presented a rigid
profile to the doorway. The expected voice spoke out at last.
"Once more,
then. What am I to call you?"
Ha! Massy. Again.=
The
weariness of it crushed his heart--and the pain of shame was almost more th=
an
he could bear without crying out.
"Well. Is it=
to
be 'partner' still?"
"You don't k=
now
what you ask."
"I know what=
I
want . . ."
Massy stepped in =
and
closed the door.
". . . And I=
am
going to have a try for it with you once more."
His whine was half
persuasive, half menacing.
"For it's no
manner of use to tell me that you are poor. You don't spend anything on
yourself, that's true enough; but there's another name for that. You think =
you
are going to have what you want out of me for three years, and then cast me=
off
without hearing what I think of you. You think I would have submitted to yo=
ur
airs if I had known you had only a beggarly five hundred pounds in the worl=
d.
You ought to have told me."
"Perhaps,&qu=
ot;
said Captain Whalley, bowing his head. "And yet it has saved you."=
; .
. . Massy laughed scornfully. . . . "I have told you often enough
since."
"And I don't
believe you now. When I think how I let you lord it over my ship! Do you
remember how you used to bullyrag me about my coat and your bridge? It was =
in
his way. His bridge! 'And I won't be a party to this--and I couldn't think =
of
doing that.' Honest man! And now it all comes out. 'I am poor, and I can't.=
I
have only this five hundred in the world.'"
He contemplated t=
he
immobility of Captain Whalley, that seemed to present an inconquerable obst=
acle
in his path. His face took a mournful cast.
"You are a h=
ard
man."
"Enough,&quo=
t;
said Captain Whalley, turning upon him. "You shall get nothing from me,
because I have nothing of mine to give away now."
"Tell that to
the marines!"
Mr. Massy, going =
out,
looked back once; then the door closed, and Captain Whalley, alone, sat as
still as before. He had nothing of his own--even his past of honor, of trut=
h,
of just pride, was gone. All his spotless life had fallen into the abyss. He
had said his last good-by to it. But what belonged to her, that he meant to
save. Only a little money. He would take it to her in his own hands--this l=
ast
gift of a man that had lasted too long. And an immense and fierce impulse, =
the
very passion of paternity, flamed up with all the unquenched vigor of his w=
orthless
life in a desire to see her face.
Just across the d=
eck
Massy had gone straight to his cabin, struck a light, and hunted up the not=
e of
the dreamed number whose figures had flamed up also with the fierceness of
another passion. He must contrive somehow not to miss a drawing. That number
meant something. But what expedient could he contrive to keep himself going=
?
"Wretched
miser!" he mumbled.
If Mr. Sterne cou=
ld
at no time have told him anything new about his partner, he could have told=
Mr.
Sterne that another use could be made of a man's affliction than just to ki=
ck
him out, and thus defer the term of a difficult payment for a year. To keep=
the
secret of the affliction and induce him to stay was a better move. If witho=
ut
means, he would be anxious to remain; and that settled the question of
refunding him his share. He did not know exactly how much Captain Whalley w=
as
disabled; but if it so happened that he put the ship ashore somewhere for g=
ood
and all, it was not the owner's fault--was it? He was not obliged to know t=
hat
there was anything wrong. But probably nobody would raise such a point, and=
the
ship was fully insured. He had had enough self-restraint to pay up the
premiums. But this was not all. He could not believe Captain Whalley to be =
so
confoundedly destitute as not to have some more money put away somewhere. If
he, Massy, could get hold of it, that would pay for the boilers, and everyt=
hing
went on as before. And if she got lost in the end, so much the better. He h=
ated
her: he loathed the troubles that took his mind off the chances of fortune.=
He
wished her at the bottom of the sea, and the insurance money in his pocket.=
And
as, baffled, he left Captain Whalley's cabin, he enveloped in the same hatr=
ed
the ship with the worn-out boilers and the man with the dimmed eyes.
And our conduct a=
fter
all is so much a matter of outside suggestion, that had it not been for his
Jack's drunken gabble he would have there and then had it out with this
miserable man, who would neither help, nor stay, nor yet lose the ship. The=
old
fraud! He longed to kick him out. But he restrained himself. Time enough for
that--when he liked. There was a fearful new thought put into his head. Was=
n't
he up to it after all? How that beast Jack had raved! "Find a safe tri=
ck
to get rid of her." Well, Jack was not so far wrong. A very clever tri=
ck
had occurred to him. Aye! But what of the risk?
A feeling of
pride--the pride of superiority to common prejudices--crept into his breast,
made his heart beat fast, his mouth turn dry. Not everybody would dare; but=
he
was Massy, and he was up to it!
Six bells were st=
ruck
on deck. Eleven! He drank a glass of water, and sat down for ten minutes or=
so
to calm himself. Then he got out of his chest a small bull's-eye lantern of=
his
own and lit it.
Almost opposite h=
is
berth, across the narrow passage under the bridge, there was, in the iron
deck-structure covering the stokehold fiddle and the boiler-space, a storer=
oom
with iron sides, iron roof, iron-plated floor, too, on account of the heat
below. All sorts of rubbish was shot there: it had a mound of scrap-iron in=
a
corner; rows of empty oil-cans; sacks of cotton-waste, with a heap of charc=
oal,
a deck-forge, fragments of an old hencoop, winch-covers all in rags, remnan=
ts
of lamps, and a brown felt hat, discarded by a man dead now (of a fever on =
the
Brazil coast), who had been once mate of the Sofala, had remained for years=
jammed
forcibly behind a length of burst copper pipe, flung at some time or other =
out
of the engine-room. A complete and imperious blackness pervaded that Caphar=
naum
of forgotten things. A small shaft of light from Mr. Massy's bull's-eye fell
slanting right through it.
His coat was
unbuttoned; he shot the bolt of the door (there was no other opening), and,
squatting before the scrap-heap, began to pack his pockets with pieces of i=
ron.
He packed them carefully, as if the rusty nuts, the broken bolts, the links=
of
cargo chain, had been so much gold he had that one chance to carry away. He
packed his side-pockets till they bulged, the breast pocket, the pockets
inside. He turned over the pieces. Some he rejected. A small mist of powder=
ed
rust began to rise about his busy hands. Mr. Massy knew something of the
scientific basis of his clever trick. If you want to deflect the magnetic
needle of a ship's compass, soft iron is the best; likewise many small piec=
es
in the pockets of a jacket would have more effect than a few large ones, be=
cause
in that way you obtain a greater amount of surface for weight in your iron,=
and
it's surface that tells.
He slipped out
swiftly--two strides sufficed--and in his cabin he perceived that his hands
were all red--red with rust. It disconcerted him, as though he had found th=
em
covered with blood: he looked himself over hastily. Why, his trowsers too! =
He
had been rubbing his rusty palms on his legs.
He tore off the
waistband button in his haste, brushed his coat, washed his hands. Then the=
air
of guilt left him, and he sat down to wait.
He sat bolt uprig=
ht
and weighted with iron in his chair. He had a hard, lumpy bulk against each
hip, felt the scrappy iron in his pockets touch his ribs at every breath, t=
he
downward drag of all these pounds hanging upon his shoulders. He looked very
dull too, sitting idle there, and his yellow face, with motionless black ey=
es,
had something passive and sad in its quietness.
When he heard eig=
ht
bells struck above his head, he rose and made ready to go out. His movements
seemed aimless, his lower lip had dropped a little, his eyes roamed about t=
he
cabin, and the tremendous tension of his will had robbed them of every vest=
ige
of intelligence.
With the last str=
oke
of the bell the Serang appeared noiselessly on the bridge to relieve the ma=
te.
Sterne overflowed with good nature, since he had nothing more to desire.
"Got your ey=
es
well open yet, Serang? It's middling dark; I'll wait till you get your sight
properly."
The old Malay
murmured, looked up with his worn eyes, sidled away into the light of the
binnacle, and, crossing his hands behind his back, fixed his eyes on the
compass-card.
"You'll have=
to
keep a good look-out ahead for land, about half-past three. It's fairly cle=
ar,
though. You have looked in on the captain as you came along--eh? He knows t=
he
time? Well, then, I am off."
At the foot of the
ladder he stood aside for the captain. He watched him go up with an even,
certain tread, and remained thoughtful for a moment. "It's funny,"=
; he
said to himself, "but you can never tell whether that man has seen you=
or
not. He might have heard me breathe this time."
He was a wonderful
man when all was said and done. They said he had had a name in his day. Mr.
Sterne could well believe it; and he concluded serenely that Captain Whalley
must be able to see people more or less --as himself just now, for
instance--but not being certain of anybody, had to keep up that unnoticing
silence of manner for fear of giving himself away. Mr. Sterne was a shrewd
guesser.
This necessity of
every moment brought home to Captain Whalley's heart the humiliation of his
falsehood. He had drifted into it from paternal love, from incredulity, from
boundless trust in divine justice meted out to men's feelings on this earth=
. He
would give his poor Ivy the benefit of another month's work; perhaps the
affliction was only temporary. Surely God would not rob his child of his po=
wer
to help, and cast him naked into a night without end. He had caught at every
hope; and when the evidence of his misfortune was stronger than hope, he tr=
ied
not to believe the manifest thing.
In vain. In the
steadily darkening universe a sinister clearness fell upon his ideas. In the
illuminating moments of suffering he saw life, men, all things, the whole e=
arth
with all her burden of created nature, as he had never seen them before.
Sometimes he was
seized with a sudden vertigo and an overwhelming terror; and then the image=
of
his daughter appeared. Her, too, he had never seen so clearly before. Was it
possible that he should ever be unable to do anything whatever for her?
Nothing. And not see her any more? Never.
Why? The punishme=
nt
was too great for a little presumption, for a little pride. And at last he =
came
to cling to his deception with a fierce determination to carry it out to the
end, to save her money intact, and behold her once more with his own eyes.
Afterwards--what? The idea of suicide was revolting to the vigor of his
manhood. He had prayed for death till the prayers had stuck in his throat. =
All
the days of his life he had prayed for daily bread, and not to be led into
temptation, in a childlike humility of spirit. Did words mean anything? Whe=
nce
did the gift of speech come? The violent beating of his heart reverberated =
in his
head--seemed to shake his brain to pieces.
He sat down heavi=
ly
in the deck-chair to keep the pretense of his watch. The night was dark. All
the nights were dark now.
"Serang,&quo=
t;
he said, half aloud.
"Ada, Tuan. =
I am
here."
"There are
clouds on the sky?"
"There are,
Tuan."
"Let her be =
steered
straight. North."
"She is going
north, Tuan."
The Serang stepped
back. Captain Whalley recognized Massy's footfalls on the bridge.
The engineer walk=
ed
over to port and returned, passing behind the chair several times. Captain
Whalley detected an unusual character as of prudent care in this prowling. =
The
near presence of that man brought with it always a recrudescence of moral
suffering for Captain Whalley. It was not remorse. After all, he had done
nothing but good to the poor devil. There was also a sense of danger--the
necessity of a greater care.
Massy stopped and
said--
"So you still
say you must go?"
"I must
indeed."
"And you
couldn't at least leave the money for a term of years?"
"Impossible.=
"
"Can't trust=
it
with me without your care, eh?"
Captain Whalley
remained silent. Massy sighed deeply over the back of the chair.
"It would ju=
st
do to save me," he said in a tremulous voice.
"I've saved =
you
once."
The chief engineer
took off his coat with careful movements, and proceeded to feel for the bra=
ss
hook screwed into the wooden stanchion. For this purpose he placed himself
right in front of the binnacle, thus hiding completely the compass-card from
the quartermaster at the wheel. "Tuan!" the lascar at last murmur=
ed
softly, meaning to let the white man know that he could not see to steer.
Mr. Massy had
accomplished his purpose. The coat was hanging from the nail, within six in=
ches
of the binnacle. And directly he had stepped aside the quartermaster, a
middle-aged, pock-marked, Sumatra Malay, almost as dark as a negro, perceiv=
ed
with amazement that in that short time, in this smooth water, with no wind =
at
all, the ship had gone swinging far out of her course. He had never known h=
er
get away like this before. With a slight grunt of astonishment he turned the
wheel hastily to bring her head back north, which was the course. The grind=
ing of
the steering-chains, the chiding murmurs of the Serang, who had come over to
the wheel, made a slight stir, which attracted Captain Whalley's anxious
attention. He said, "Take better care." Then everything settled to
the usual quiet on the bridge. Mr. Massy had disappeared.
But the iron in t=
he
pockets of the coat had done its work; and the Sofala, heading north by the
compass, made untrue by this simple device, was no longer making a safe cou=
rse
for Pangu Bay.
The hiss of water
parted by her stem, the throb of her engines, all the sounds of her faithful
and laborious life, went on uninterrupted in the great calm of the sea join=
ing
on all sides the motionless layer of cloud over the sky. A gentle stillness=
as
vast as the world seemed to wait upon her path, enveloping her lovingly in a
supreme caress. Mr. Massy thought there could be no better night for an
arranged shipwreck.
Run up high and d=
ry
on one of the reefs east of Pangu--wait for daylight--hole in the bottom--o=
ut
boats--Pangu Bay same evening. That's about it. As soon as she touched he w=
ould
hasten on the bridge, get hold of the coat (nobody would notice in the dark=
),
and shake it upside-down over the side, or even fling it into the sea. A
detail. Who could guess? Coat been seen hanging there from that hook hundre=
ds
of times. Nevertheless, when he sat down on the lower step of the bridge-la=
dder
his knees knocked together a little. The waiting part was the worst of it. =
At
times he would begin to pant quickly, as though he had been running, and th=
en
breathe largely, swelling with the intimate sense of a mastered fate. Now a=
nd
then he would hear the shuffle of the Serang's bare feet up there: quiet, l=
ow
voices would exchange a few words, and lapse almost at once into silence. .=
. .
"Tell me
directly you see any land, Serang."
"Yes, Tuan. =
Not
yet."
"No, not
yet," Captain Whalley would agree.
The ship had been=
the
best friend of his decline. He had sent all the money he had made by and in=
the
Sofala to his daughter. His thought lingered on the name. How often he and =
his
wife had talked over the cot of the child in the big stern-cabin of the Con=
dor;
she would grow up, she would marry, she would love them, they would live ne=
ar
her and look at her happiness--it would go on without end. Well, his wife w=
as
dead, to the child he had given all he had to give; he wished he could come=
near
her, see her, see her face once, live in the sound of her voice, that could
make the darkness of the living grave ready for him supportable. He had been
starved of love too long. He imagined her tenderness.
The Serang had be=
en
peering forward, and now and then glancing at the chair. He fidgeted
restlessly, and suddenly burst out close to Captain Whalley--
"Tuan, do you
see anything of the land?"
The alarmed voice
brought Captain Whalley to his feet at once. He! See! And at the question, =
the
curse of his blindness seemed to fall on him with a hundredfold force.
"What's the
time?" he cried.
"Half-past
three, Tuan."
"We are clos=
e.
You must see. Look, I say. Look."
Mr. Massy, awaken=
ed
by the sudden sound of talking from a short doze on the lowest step, wonder=
ed
why he was there. Ah! A faintness came over him. It is one thing to sow the
seed of an accident and another to see the monstrous fruit hanging over your
head ready to fall in the sound of agitated voices.
"There's no
danger," he muttered thickly.
The horror of
incertitude had seized upon Captain Whalley, the miserable mistrust of men,=
of
things--of the very earth. He had steered that very course thirty-six times=
by
the same compass--if anything was certain in this world it was its absolute,
unerring correctness. Then what had happened? Did the Serang lie? Why lie? =
Why?
Was he going blind too?
"Is there a
mist? Look low on the water. Low down, I say."
"Tuan, there=
's
no mist. See for yourself."
Captain Whalley
steadied the trembling of his limbs by an effort. Should he stop the engine=
s at
once and give himself away. A gust of irresolution swayed all sorts of biza=
rre
notions in his mind. The unusual had come, and he was not fit to deal with =
it.
In this passage of inexpressible anguish he saw her face--the face of a you=
ng
girl--with an amazing strength of illusion. No, he must not give himself aw=
ay
after having gone so far for her sake. "You steered the course? You ma=
de
it? Speak the truth."
"Ya, Tuan. On
the course now. Look."
Captain Whalley
strode to the binnacle, which to him made such a dim spot of light in an
infinity of shapeless shadow. By bending his face right down to the glass he
had been able before . . .
Having to stoop so
low, he put out, instinctively, his arm to where he knew there was a stanch=
ion
to steady himself against. His hand closed on something that was not wood b=
ut
cloth. The slight pull adding to the weight, the loop broke, and Mr. Massy's
coat falling, struck the deck heavily with a dull thump, accompanied by a l=
ot
of clicks.
"What's
this?"
Captain Whalley f=
ell
on his knees, with groping hands extended in a frank gesture of blindness. =
They
trembled, these hands feeling for the truth. He saw it. Iron near the compa=
ss.
Wrong course. Wreck her! His ship. Oh no. Not that.
"Jump and st=
op
her!" he roared out in a voice not his own.
He ran himself--h=
ands
forward, a blind man, and while the clanging of the gong echoed still all o=
ver
the ship, she seemed to butt full tilt into the side of a mountain.
It was low water
along the north side of the strait. Mr. Massy had not reckoned on that. Ins=
tead
of running aground for half her length, the Sofala butted the sheer ridge o=
f a
stone reef which would have been awash at high water. This made the shock
absolutely terrific. Everybody in the ship that was standing was thrown down
headlong: the shaken rigging made a great rattling to the very trucks. All =
the
lights went out: several chain-guys, snapping, clattered against the funnel:
there were crashes, pings of parted wire-rope, splintering sounds, loud cra=
cks,
the masthead lamp flew over the bows, and all the doors about the deck bega=
n to
bang heavily. Then, after having hit, she rebounded, hit the second time the
very same spot like a battering-ram. This completed the havoc: the funnel, =
with
all the guys gone, fell over with a hollow sound of thunder, smashing the w=
heel
to bits, crushing the frame of the awnings, breaking the lockers, filling t=
he
bridge with a mass of splinters, sticks, and broken wood. Captain Whalley
picked himself up and stood knee-deep in wreckage, torn, bleeding, knowing =
the nature
of the danger he had escaped mostly by the sound, and holding Mr. Massy's c=
oat
in his arms.
By this time Ster= ne (he had been flung out of his bunk) had set the engines astern. They worked= for a few turns, then a voice bawled out, "Get out of the damned engine-ro= om, Jack!"--and they stopped; but the ship had gone clear of the reef and = lay still, with a heavy cloud of steam issuing from the broken deckpipes, and vanishing in wispy shapes into the night. Notwithstanding the suddenness of= the disaster there was no shouting, as if the very violence of the shock had half-stunned the shadowy lot of people swaying here and there about her dec= ks. The voice of the Serang pronounced distinctly above the confused murmurs--<= o:p>
"Eight
fathom." He had heaved the lead.
Mr. Sterne cried =
out
next in a strained pitch--
"Where the d=
evil
has she got to? Where are we?"
Captain Whalley
replied in a calm bass--
"Amongst the
reefs to the eastward."
"You know it,
sir? Then she will never get out again."
"She will be
sunk in five minutes. Boats, Sterne. Even one will save you all in this
calm."
The Chinaman stok=
ers
went in a disorderly rush for the port boats. Nobody tried to check them. T=
he
Malays, after a moment of confusion, became quiet, and Mr. Sterne showed a =
good
countenance. Captain Whalley had not moved. His thoughts were darker than t=
his
night in which he had lost his first ship.
"He made me =
lose
a ship."
Another tall figu=
re
standing before him amongst the litter of the smash on the bridge whispered
insanely--
"Say nothing=
of
it."
Massy stumbled
closer. Captain Whalley heard the chattering of his teeth.
"I have the
coat."
"Throw it do=
wn
and come along," urged the chattering voice. "B-b-b-b-boat!"=
"You will get
fifteen years for this."
Mr. Massy had lost
his voice. His speech was a mere dry rustling in his throat.
"Have
mercy!"
"Had you any
when you made me lose my ship? Mr. Massy, you shall get fifteen years for
this!"
"I wanted mo=
ney!
Money! My own money! I will give you some money. Take half of it. You love
money yourself."
"There's a
justice . . ."
Massy made an awf=
ul
effort, and in a strange, half choked utterance--
"You blind
devil! It's you that drove me to it."
Captain Whalley,
hugging the coat to his breast, made no sound. The light had ebbed for ever
from the world--let everything go. But this man should not escape scot-free=
.
Sterne's voice
commanded--
"Lower
away!"
The blocks rattle=
d.
"Now then,&q=
uot;
he cried, "over with you. This way. You, Jack, here. Mr. Massy! Mr. Ma=
ssy!
Captain! Quick, sir! Let's get--
"I shall go =
to
prison for trying to cheat the insurance, but you'll get exposed; you, hone=
st
man, who has been cheating me. You are poor. Aren't you? You've nothing but=
the
five hundred pounds. Well, you have nothing at all now. The ship's lost, and
the insurance won't be paid."
Captain Whalley d=
id
not move. True! Ivy's money! Gone in this wreck. Again he had a flash of
insight. He was indeed at the end of his tether.
Urgent voices cri=
ed
out together alongside. Massy did not seem able to tear himself away from t=
he
bridge. He chattered and hissed despairingly--
"Give it up =
to
me! Give it up!"
"No," s=
aid
Captain Whalley; "I could not give it up. You had better go. Don't wai=
t,
man, if you want to live. She's settling down by the head fast. No; I shall
keep it, but I shall stay on board."
Massy did not see=
m to
understand; but the love of life, awakened suddenly, drove him away from the
bridge.
Captain Whalley l=
aid
the coat down, and stumbled amongst the heaps of wreckage to the side.
"Is Mr. Mass=
y in
with you?" he called out into the night.
Sterne from the b=
oat
shouted--
"Yes; we've =
got
him. Come along, sir. It's madness to stay longer."
Captain Whalley f=
elt
along the rail carefully, and, without a word, cast off the painter. They w=
ere
expecting him still down there. They were waiting, till a voice suddenly
exclaimed--
"We are adri=
ft!
Shove off!"
"Captain
Whalley! Leap! . . . pull up a little . . . leap! You can swim."
In that old heart=
, in
that vigorous body, there was, that nothing should be wanting, a horror of
death that apparently could not be overcome by the horror of blindness. But
after all, for Ivy he had carried his point, walking in his darkness to the
very verge of a crime. God had not listened to his prayers. The light had
finished ebbing out of the world; not a glimmer. It was a dark waste; but it
was unseemly that a Whalley who had gone so far to carry a point should
continue to live. He must pay the price.
"Leap as far=
as
you can, sir; we will pick you up."
They did not hear=
him
answer. But their shouting seemed to remind him of something. He groped his=
way
back, and sought for Mr. Massy's coat. He could swim indeed; people sucked =
down
by the whirlpool of a sinking ship do come up sometimes to the surface, and=
it
was unseemly that a Whalley, who had made up his mind to die, should be
beguiled by chance into a struggle. He would put all these pieces of iron i=
nto
his own pockets.
They, looking from
the boat, saw the Sofala, a black mass upon a black sea, lying still at an
appalling cant. No sound came from her. Then, with a great bizarre shuffling
noise, as if the boilers had broken through the bulkheads, and with a faint
muffled detonation, where the ship had been there appeared for a moment
something standing upright and narrow, like a rock out of the sea. Then that
too disappeared.
When the Sofala failed to come back=
to
Batu Beru at the proper time, Mr. Van Wyk understood at once that he would
never see her any more. But he did not know what had happened till some mon=
ths
afterwards, when, in a native craft lent him by his Sultan, he had made his=
way
to the Sofala's port of registry, where already her existence and the offic=
ial
inquiry into her loss was beginning to be forgotten.
It had not been a
very remarkable or interesting case, except for the fact that the captain h=
ad
gone down with his sinking ship. It was the only life lost; and Mr. Van Wyk
would not have been able to learn any details had it not been for Sterne, w=
hom
he met one day on the quay near the bridge over the creek, almost on the ve=
ry
spot where Captain Whalley, to preserve his daughter's five hundred pounds
intact, had turned to get a sampan which would take him on board the Sofala=
.
From afar Mr. Van=
Wyk
saw Sterne blink straight at him and raise his hand to his hat. They drew i=
nto
the shade of a building (it was a bank), and the mate related how the boat =
with
the crew got into Pangu Bay about six hours after the accident, and how they
had lived for a fortnight in a state of destitution before they found an
opportunity to get away from that beastly place. The inquiry had exonerated
everybody from all blame. The loss of the ship was put down to an unusual s=
et
of the current. Indeed, it could not have been anything else: there was no
other way to account for the ship being set seven miles to the eastward of =
her position
during the middle watch.
"A piece of =
bad
luck for me, sir."
Sterne passed his
tongue on his lips, and glanced aside. "I lost the advantage of being
employed by you, sir. I can never be sorry enough. But here it is: one man's
poison, another man's meat. This could not have been handier for Mr. Massy =
if
he had arranged that shipwreck himself. The most timely total loss I've ever
heard of."
"What became=
of
that Massy?" asked Mr. Van Wyk.
"He, sir? Ha!
ha! He would keep on telling me that he meant to buy another ship; but as s=
oon
as he had the money in his pocket he cleared out for Manilla by mail-boat e=
arly
in the morning. I gave him chase right aboard, and he told me then he was g=
oing
to make his fortune dead sure in Manilla. I could go to the devil for all he
cared. And yet he as good as promised to give me the command if I didn't ta=
lk
too much."
"You never s=
aid
anything . . ." Mr. Van Wyk began.
"Not I, sir.=
Why
should I? I mean to get on, but the dead aren't in my way," said Stern=
e.
His eyelids were beating rapidly, then drooped for an instant. "Beside=
s,
sir, it would have been an awkward business. You made me hold my tongue jus=
t a
bit too long."
"Do you know=
how
it was that Captain Whalley remained on board? Did he really refuse to leav=
e?
Come now! Or was it perhaps an accidental . . .?"
"Nothing!&qu=
ot;
Sterne interrupted with energy. "I tell you I yelled for him to leap
overboard. He simply must have cast off the painter of the boat himself. We=
all
yelled to him--that is, Jack and I. He wouldn't even answer us. The ship wa=
s as
silent as a grave to the last. Then the boilers fetched away, and down she
went. Accident! Not it! The game was up, sir, I tell you."
This was all that
Sterne had to say.
Mr. Van Wyk had b=
een of
course made the guest of the club for a fortnight, and it was there that he=
met
the lawyer in whose office had been signed the agreement between Massy and
Captain Whalley.
"Extraordina=
ry
old man," he said. "He came into my office from nowhere in partic=
ular
as you may say, with his five hundred pounds to place, and that engineer fe=
llow
following him anxiously. And now he is gone out a little inexplicably, just=
as
he came. I could never understand him quite. There was no mystery at all ab=
out
that Massy, eh? I wonder whether Whalley refused to leave the ship. It would
have been foolish. He was blameless, as the court found."
Mr. Van Wyk had k=
nown
him well, he said, and he could not believe in suicide. Such an act would n=
ot
have been in character with what he knew of the man.
"It is my
opinion, too," the lawyer agreed. The general theory was that the capt=
ain
had remained too long on board trying to save something of importance. Perh=
aps
the chart which would clear him, or else something of value in his cabin. T=
he
painter of the boat had come adrift of itself it was supposed. However, str=
ange
to say, some little time before that voyage poor Whalley had called in his
office and had left with him a sealed envelope addressed to his daughter, t=
o be
forwarded to her in case of his death. Still it was nothing very unusual,
especially in a man of his age. Mr. Van Wyk shook his head. Captain Whalley
looked good for a hundred years.
"Perfectly
true," assented the lawyer. "The old fellow looked as though he h=
ad
come into the world full-grown and with that long beard. I could never,
somehow, imagine him either younger or older--don't you know. There was a s=
ense
of physical power about that man too. And perhaps that was the secret of th=
at
something peculiar in his person which struck everybody who came in contact
with him. He looked indestructible by any ordinary means that put an end to=
the
rest of us. His deliberate, stately courtesy of manner was full of
significance. It was as though he were certain of having plenty of time for
everything. Yes, there was something indestructible about him; and the way =
he
talked sometimes you might have thought he believed it himself. When he cal=
led
on me last with that letter he wanted me to take charge of, he was not
depressed at all. Perhaps a shade more deliberate in his talk and manner. N=
ot depressed
in the least. Had he a presentiment, I wonder? Perhaps! Still it seems a
miserable end for such a striking figure."
"Oh yes! It =
was
a miserable end," Mr. Van Wyk said, with so much fervor that the lawyer
looked up at him curiously; and afterwards, after parting with him, he rema=
rked
to an acquaintance--
"Queer person
that Dutch tobacco-planter from Batu Beru. Know anything of him?"
"Heaps of
money," answered the bank manager. "I hear he's going home by the
next mail to form a company to take over his estates. Another tobacco distr=
ict
thrown open. He's wise, I think. These good times won't last for ever."=
;
In the southern
hemisphere Captain Whalley's daughter had no presentiment of evil when she
opened the envelope addressed to her in the lawyer's handwriting. She had
received it in the afternoon; all the boarders had gone out, her boys were =
at
school, her husband sat upstairs in his big arm-chair with a book, thin-fac=
ed,
wrapped up in rugs to the waist. The house was still, and the grayness of a
cloudy day lay against the panes of three lofty windows.
In a shabby
dining-room, where a faint cold smell of dishes lingered all the year round,
sitting at the end of a long table surrounded by many chairs pushed in with
their backs close against the edge of the perpetually laid table-cloth, she
read the opening sentence: "Most profound regret--painful duty--your
father is no more--in accordance with his instructions--fatal
casualty--consolation--no blame attached to his memory. . . ."
Her face was thin,
her temples a little sunk under the smooth bands of black hair, her lips
remained resolutely compressed, while her dark eyes grew larger, till at la=
st,
with a low cry, she stood up, and instantly stooped to pick up another enve=
lope
which had slipped off her knees on to the floor.
She tore it open,
snatched out the inclosure. . . .
"My dearest
child," it said, "I am writing this while I am able yet to write
legibly. I am trying hard to save for you all the money that is left; I have
only kept it to serve you better. It is yours. It shall not be lost: it sha=
ll
not be touched. There's five hundred pounds. Of what I have earned I have k=
ept
nothing back till now. For the future, if I live, I must keep back some--a
little--to bring me to you. I must come to you. I must see you once more.
"It is hard =
to
believe that you will ever look on these lines. God seems to have forgotten=
me.
I want to see you--and yet death would be a greater favor. If you ever read
these words, I charge you to begin by thanking a God merciful at last, for I
shall be dead then, and it will be well. My dear, I am at the end of my
tether."
The next paragraph
began with the words: "My sight is going . . ."
She read no more =
that
day. The hand holding up the paper to her eyes fell slowly, and her slender
figure in a plain black dress walked rigidly to the window. Her eyes were d=
ry:
no cry of sorrow or whisper of thanks went up to heaven from her lips. Life=
had
been too hard, for all the efforts of his love. It had silenced her emotion=
s.
But for the first time in all these years its sting had departed, the carki=
ng
care of poverty, the meanness of a hard struggle for bread. Even the image =
of her
husband and of her children seemed to glide away from her into the gray
twilight; it was her father's face alone that she saw, as though he had com=
e to
see her, always quiet and big, as she had seen him last, but with something
more august and tender in his aspect.
She slipped his
folded letter between the two buttons of her plain black bodice, and leaning
her forehead against a window-pane remained there till dusk, perfectly
motionless, giving him all the time she could spare. Gone! Was it possible?=
My
God, was it possible! The blow had come softened by the spaces of the earth=
, by
the years of absence. There had been whole days when she had not thought of=
him
at all--had no time. But she had loved him, she felt she had loved him, aft=
er
all.