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The Rescue
By
Joseph Conrad
'Allas!' quod she, 'that ever this =
sholde
happe! For wende I never, by possibilitee, That swich a monstre or merveille
mighte be!'--THE FRANKELEYN'S TALE
TO FREDERIC COURTLAND PENFIELD LAST
AMBASSADOR OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA TO THE LATE AUSTRIAN EMPIRE, THIS
OLD TIME TALE IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED IN MEMORY OF THE RESCUE OF CERTAIN
DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS EFFECTED BY HIM IN THE WORLD'S GREAT STORM OF THE YEAR
1914
Contents
PART I. THE MAN AND T=
HE BRIG
PART IV. THE GIFT OF =
THE
SHALLOWS
PART V. THE POINT OF =
HONOUR
AND THE POINT OF PASSION
PART VI. THE CLAIM OF=
LIFE
AND THE TOLL OF DEATH
Of the three long
novels of mine which suffered an interruption, "The Rescue" was t=
he
one that had to wait the longest for the good pleasure of the Fates. I am
betraying no secret when I state here that it had to wait precisely for twe=
nty
years. I laid it aside at the end of the summer of 1898 and it was about the
end of the summer of 1918 that I took it up again with the firm determinati=
on
to see the end of it and helped by the sudden feeling that I might be equal=
to
the task.
This does not mean
that I turned to it with elation. I was well aware and perhaps even too much
aware of the dangers of such an adventure. The amazingly sympathetic kindne=
ss
which men of various temperaments, diverse views and different literary tas=
tes
have been for years displaying towards my work has done much for me, has do=
ne
all--except giving me that over-weening self-confidence which may assist an=
adventurer
sometimes but in the long run ends by leading him to the gallows.
As the characteri=
stic
I want most to impress upon these short Author's Notes prepared for my first
Collected Edition is that of absolute frankness, I hasten to declare that I
founded my hopes not on my supposed merits but on the continued goodwill of=
my
readers. I may say at once that my hopes have been justified out of all
proportion to my deserts. I met with the most considerate, most delicately
expressed criticism free from all antagonism and in its conclusions showing=
an
insight which in itself could not fail to move me deeply, but was associated
also with enough commendation to make me feel rich beyond the dreams of
avarice--I mean an artist's avarice which seeks its treasure in the hearts =
of
men and women.
No! Whatever the
preliminary anxieties might have been this adventure was not to end in sorr=
ow.
Once more Fortune favoured audacity; and yet I have never forgotten the joc=
ular
translation of Audaces fortuna juvat offered to me by my tutor when I was a
small boy: "The Audacious get bitten." However he took care to
mention that there were various kinds of audacity. Oh, there are, there are=
! .
. . There is, for instance, the kind of audacity almost indistinguishable f=
rom
impudence. . . . I must believe that in this case I have not been impudent =
for
I am not conscious of having been bitten.
The truth is that
when "The Rescue" was laid aside it was not laid aside in despair.
Several reasons contributed to this abandonment and, no doubt, the first of
them was the growing sense of general difficulty in the handling of the sub=
ject.
The contents and the course of the story I had clearly in my mind. But as to
the way of presenting the facts, and perhaps in a certain measure as to the
nature of the facts themselves, I had many doubts. I mean the telling,
representative facts, helpful to carry on the idea, and, at the same time, =
of
such a nature as not to demand an elaborate creation of the atmosphere to t=
he
detriment of the action. I did not see how I could avoid becoming wearisome=
in
the presentation of detail and in the pursuit of clearness. I saw the actio=
n plainly
enough. What I had lost for the moment was the sense of the proper formula =
of
expression, the only formula that would suit. This, of course, weakened my
confidence in the intrinsic worth and in the possible interest of the
story--that is in my invention. But I suspect that all the trouble was, in
reality, the doubt of my prose, the doubt of its adequacy, of its power to
master both the colours and the shades.
It is difficult to
describe, exactly as I remember it, the complex state of my feelings; but t=
hose
of my readers who take an interest in artistic perplexities will understand=
me
best when I point out that I dropped "The Rescue" not to give mys=
elf
up to idleness, regrets, or dreaming, but to begin "The Nigger of the =
'Narcissus'"
and to go on with it without hesitation and without a pause. A comparison of
any page of "The Rescue" with any page of "The Nigger" =
will
furnish an ocular demonstration of the nature and the inward meaning of this
first crisis of my writing life. For it was a crisis undoubtedly. The laying
aside of a work so far advanced was a very awful decision to take. It was w=
rung
from me by a sudden conviction that there only was the road of salvation, t=
he
clear way out for an uneasy conscience. The finishing of "The Nigger&q=
uot;
brought to my troubled mind the comforting sense of an accomplished task, a=
nd
the first consciousness of a certain sort of mastery which could accomplish
something with the aid of propitious stars. Why I did not return to "T=
he
Rescue" at once then, was not for the reason that I had grown afraid of
it. Being able now to assume a firm attitude I said to myself deliberately:
"That thing can wait." At the same time I was just as certain in =
my
mind that "Youth," a story which I had then, so to speak, on the =
tip
of my pen, could not wait. Neither could "Heart of Darkness" be p=
ut
off; for the practical reason that Mr. Wm. Blackwood having requested me to
write something for the No. M of his magazine I had to stir up at once the
subject of that tale which had been long lying quiescent in my mind, becaus=
e,
obviously, the venerable Maga at her patriarchal age of 1000 numbers could =
not
be kept waiting. Then "Lord Jim," with about seventeen pages alre=
ady
written at odd times, put in his claim which was irresistible. Thus every
stroke of the pen was taking me further away from the abandoned
"Rescue," not without some compunction on my part but with a
gradually diminishing resistance; till at last I let myself go as if
recognising a superior influence against which it was useless to contend.
The years passed =
and
the pages grew in number, and the long reveries of which they were the outc=
ome
stretched wide between me and the deserted "Rescue" like the smoo=
th
hazy spaces of a dreamy sea. Yet I never actually lost sight of that dark s=
peck
in the misty distance. It had grown very small but it asserted itself with =
the
appeal of old associations. It seemed to me that it would be a base thing f=
or
me to slip out of the world leaving it out there all alone, waiting for its=
fate--that
would never come?
Sentiment, pure
sentiment as you see, prompted me in the last instance to face the pains and
hazards of that return. As I moved slowly towards the abandoned body of the
tale it loomed up big amongst the glittering shallows of the coast, lonely =
but
not forbidding. There was nothing about it of a grim derelict. It had an ai=
r of
expectant life. One after another I made out the familiar faces watching my
approach with faint smiles of amused recognition. They had known well enough
that I was bound to come back to them. But their eyes met mine seriously as=
was
only to be expected since I, myself, felt very serious as I stood amongst t=
hem
again after years of absence. At once, without wasting words, we went to wo=
rk
together on our renewed life; and every moment I felt more strongly that Th=
ey
Who had Waited bore no grudge to the man who however widely he may have
wandered at times had played truant only once in his life.
1920. J. C.
PART I. THE MAN AND THE B=
RIG
The shallow sea t=
hat
foams and murmurs on the shores of the thousand islands, big and little, wh=
ich
make up the Malay Archipelago has been for centuries the scene of adventuro=
us
undertakings. The vices and the virtues of four nations have been displayed=
in
the conquest of that region that even to this day has not been robbed of all
the mystery and romance of its past--and the race of men who had fought aga=
inst
the Portuguese, the Spaniards, the Dutch and the English, has not been chan=
ged
by the unavoidable defeat. They have kept to this day their love of liberty,
their fanatical devotion to their chiefs, their blind fidelity in friendship
and hate--all their lawful and unlawful instincts. Their country of land and
water--for the sea was as much their country as the earth of their islands-=
-has
fallen a prey to the western race--the reward of superior strength if not of
superior virtue. To-morrow the advancing civilization will obliterate the m=
arks
of a long struggle in the accomplishment of its inevitable victory.
The adventurers w=
ho
began that struggle have left no descendants. The ideas of the world changed
too quickly for that. But even far into the present century they have had
successors. Almost in our own day we have seen one of them--a true adventur=
er
in his devotion to his impulse--a man of high mind and of pure heart, lay t=
he
foundation of a flourishing state on the ideas of pity and justice. He
recognized chivalrously the claims of the conquered; he was a disinterested
adventurer, and the reward of his noble instincts is in the veneration with
which a strange and faithful race cherish his memory.
Misunderstood and
traduced in life, the glory of his achievement has vindicated the purity of=
his
motives. He belongs to history. But there were others--obscure adventurers =
who
had not his advantages of birth, position, and intelligence; who had only h=
is
sympathy with the people of forests and sea he understood and loved so well.
They can not be said to be forgotten since they have not been known at all.
They were lost in the common crowd of seamen-traders of the Archipelago, an=
d if
they emerged from their obscurity it was only to be condemned as law-breake=
rs.
Their lives were thrown away for a cause that had no right to exist in the =
face
of an irresistible and orderly progress--their thoughtless lives guided by a
simple feeling.
But the wasted li=
ves,
for the few who know, have tinged with romance the region of shallow waters=
and
forest-clad islands, that lies far east, and still mysterious between the d=
eep
waters of two oceans.
I
Out of the level =
blue
of a shallow sea Carimata raises a lofty barrenness of grey and yellow tint=
s,
the drab eminence of its arid heights. Separated by a narrow strip of water,
Suroeton, to the west, shows a curved and ridged outline resembling the
backbone of a stooping giant. And to the eastward a troop of insignificant
islets stand effaced, indistinct, with vague features that seem to melt into
the gathering shadows. The night following from the eastward the retreat of=
the
setting sun advanced slowly, swallowing the land and the sea; the land brok=
en,
tormented and abrupt; the sea smooth and inviting with its easy polish of
continuous surface to wanderings facile and endless.
There was no wind,
and a small brig that had lain all the afternoon a few miles to the northwa=
rd
and westward of Carimata had hardly altered its position half a mile during=
all
these hours. The calm was absolute, a dead, flat calm, the stillness of a d=
ead
sea and of a dead atmosphere. As far as the eye could reach there was nothi=
ng
but an impressive immobility. Nothing moved on earth, on the waters, and ab=
ove
them in the unbroken lustre of the sky. On the unruffled surface of the str=
aits
the brig floated tranquil and upright as if bolted solidly, keel to keel, w=
ith
its own image reflected in the unframed and immense mirror of the sea. To t=
he
south and east the double islands watched silently the double ship that see=
med
fixed amongst them forever, a hopeless captive of the calm, a helpless pris=
oner
of the shallow sea.
Since midday, when
the light and capricious airs of these seas had abandoned the little brig to
its lingering fate, her head had swung slowly to the westward and the end of
her slender and polished jib-boom, projecting boldly beyond the graceful cu=
rve
of the bow, pointed at the setting sun, like a spear poised high in the han=
d of
an enemy. Right aft by the wheel the Malay quartermaster stood with his bar=
e,
brown feet firmly planted on the wheel-grating, and holding the spokes at r=
ight
angles, in a solid grasp, as though the ship had been running before a gale=
. He
stood there perfectly motionless, as if petrified but ready to tend the hel=
m as
soon as fate would permit the brig to gather way through the oily sea.
The only other hu=
man
being then visible on the brig's deck was the person in charge: a white man=
of
low stature, thick-set, with shaven cheeks, a grizzled moustache, and a face
tinted a scarlet hue by the burning suns and by the sharp salt breezes of t=
he
seas. He had thrown off his light jacket, and clad only in white trousers a=
nd a
thin cotton singlet, with his stout arms crossed on his breast--upon which =
they
showed like two thick lumps of raw flesh--he prowled about from side to sid=
e of
the half-poop. On his bare feet he wore a pair of straw sandals, and his he=
ad
was protected by an enormous pith hat--once white but now very dirty--which
gave to the whole man the aspect of a phenomenal and animated mushroom. At
times he would interrupt his uneasy shuffle athwart the break of the poop, =
and
stand motionless with a vague gaze fixed on the image of the brig in the ca=
lm
water. He could also see down there his own head and shoulders leaning out =
over
the rail and he would stand long, as if interested by his own features, and
mutter vague curses on the calm which lay upon the ship like an immovable
burden, immense and burning.
At last, he sighed
profoundly, nerved himself for a great effort, and making a start away from=
the
rail managed to drag his slippers as far as the binnacle. There he stopped
again, exhausted and bored. From under the lifted glass panes of the cabin
skylight near by came the feeble chirp of a canary, which appeared to give =
him
some satisfaction. He listened, smiled faintly muttered "Dicky, poor
Dick--" and fell back into the immense silence of the world. His eyes
closed, his head hung low over the hot brass of the binnacle top. Suddenly =
he
stood up with a jerk and said sharply in a hoarse voice:
"You've been
sleeping--you. Shift the helm. She has got stern way on her."
The Malay, without
the least flinch of feature or pose, as if he had been an inanimate object
called suddenly into life by some hidden magic of the words, spun the wheel
rapidly, letting the spokes pass through his hands; and when the motion had
stopped with a grinding noise, caught hold again and held on grimly. After a
while, however, he turned his head slowly over his shoulder, glanced at the
sea, and said in an obstinate tone:
"No catch
wind--no get way."
"No catch--no catch--that's all you know about it," growled the red-faced seaman. "By and by catch Ali--" he went on with sudden condescension. "By and by catch, and then the helm will be the right way. See?"<= o:p>
The stolid seacan=
nie
appeared to see, and for that matter to hear, nothing. The white man looked=
at
the impassive Malay with disgust, then glanced around the horizon--then aga=
in
at the helmsman and ordered curtly:
"Shift the h=
elm
back again. Don't you feel the air from aft? You are like a dummy standing
there."
The Malay revolved
the spokes again with disdainful obedience, and the red-faced man was moving
forward grunting to himself, when through the open skylight the hail "=
On
deck there!" arrested him short, attentive, and with a sudden change to
amiability in the expression of his face.
"Yes, sir,&q=
uot;
he said, bending his ear toward the opening. "What's the matter up
there?" asked a deep voice from below.
The red-faced man=
in
a tone of surprise said:
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"I hear that
rudder grinding hard up and hard down. What are you up to, Shaw? Any
wind?"
"Ye-es,"
drawled Shaw, putting his head down the skylight and speaking into the gloo=
m of
the cabin. "I thought there was a light air, and--but it's gone now. N=
ot a
breath anywhere under the heavens."
He withdrew his h=
ead
and waited a while by the skylight, but heard only the chirping of the
indefatigable canary, a feeble twittering that seemed to ooze through the
drooping red blossoms of geraniums growing in flower-pots under the glass
panes. He strolled away a step or two before the voice from down below call=
ed
hurriedly:
"Hey, Shaw? =
Are
you there?"
"Yes, Captain
Lingard," he answered, stepping back. "Have we drifted anything t=
his
afternoon?"
"Not an inch,
sir, not an inch. We might as well have been at anchor."
"It's always
so," said the invisible Lingard. His voice changed its tone as he move=
d in
the cabin, and directly afterward burst out with a clear intonation while h=
is
head appeared above the slide of the cabin entrance:
"Always so! =
The
currents don't begin till it's dark, when a man can't see against what
confounded thing he is being drifted, and then the breeze will come. Dead on
end, too, I don't doubt."
Shaw moved his
shoulders slightly. The Malay at the wheel, after making a dive to see the =
time
by the cabin clock through the skylight, rang a double stroke on the small =
bell
aft. Directly forward, on the main deck, a shrill whistle arose long drawn,
modulated, dying away softly. The master of the brig stepped out of the
companion upon the deck of his vessel, glanced aloft at the yards laid dead
square; then, from the door-step, took a long, lingering look round the
horizon.
He was about
thirty-five, erect and supple. He moved freely, more like a man accustomed =
to
stride over plains and hills, than like one who from his earliest youth had
been used to counteract by sudden swayings of his body the rise and roll of
cramped decks of small craft, tossed by the caprice of angry or playful sea=
s.
He wore a grey
flannel shirt, and his white trousers were held by a blue silk scarf wound
tightly round his narrow waist. He had come up only for a moment, but findi=
ng
the poop shaded by the main-topsail he remained on deck bareheaded. The lig=
ht
chestnut hair curled close about his well-shaped head, and the clipped beard
glinted vividly when he passed across a narrow strip of sunlight, as if eve=
ry
hair in it had been a wavy and attenuated gold wire. His mouth was lost in =
the
heavy moustache; his nose was straight, short, slightly blunted at the end;=
a
broad band of deeper red stretched under the eyes, clung to the cheek bones.
The eyes gave the face its remarkable expression. The eyebrows, darker than=
the
hair, pencilled a straight line below the wide and unwrinkled brow much whi=
ter
than the sunburnt face. The eyes, as if glowing with the light of a hidden
fire, had a red glint in their greyness that gave a scrutinizing ardour to =
the
steadiness of their gaze.
That man, once so
well known, and now so completely forgotten amongst the charming and heartl=
ess
shores of the shallow sea, had amongst his fellows the nickname of
"Red-Eyed Tom." He was proud of his luck but not of his good sens=
e.
He was proud of his brig, of the speed of his craft, which was reckoned the
swiftest country vessel in those seas, and proud of what she represented.
She represented a=
run
of luck on the Victorian goldfields; his sagacious moderation; long days of
planning, of loving care in building; the great joy of his youth, the
incomparable freedom of the seas; a perfect because a wandering home; his
independence, his love--and his anxiety. He had often heard men say that Tom
Lingard cared for nothing on earth but for his brig--and in his thoughts he
would smilingly correct the statement by adding that he cared for nothing
living but the brig.
To him she was as
full of life as the great world. He felt her live in every motion, in every
roll, in every sway of her tapering masts, of those masts whose painted tru=
cks
move forever, to a seaman's eye, against the clouds or against the stars. To
him she was always precious--like old love; always desirable--like a strang=
e woman;
always tender--like a mother; always faithful--like the favourite daughter =
of a
man's heart.
For hours he would
stand elbow on rail, his head in his hand and listen--and listen in dreamy
stillness to the cajoling and promising whisper of the sea, that slipped pa=
st
in vanishing bubbles along the smooth black-painted sides of his craft. What
passed in such moments of thoughtful solitude through the mind of that chil=
d of
generations of fishermen from the coast of Devon, who like most of his class
was dead to the subtle voices, and blind to the mysterious aspects of the w=
orld--the
man ready for the obvious, no matter how startling, how terrible or menacin=
g,
yet defenceless as a child before the shadowy impulses of his own heart; wh=
at
could have been the thoughts of such a man, when once surrendered to a drea=
my
mood, it is difficult to say.
No doubt he, like
most of us, would be uplifted at times by the awakened lyrism of his heart =
into
regions charming, empty, and dangerous. But also, like most of us, he was
unaware of his barren journeys above the interesting cares of this earth. Y=
et
from these, no doubt absurd and wasted moments, there remained on the man's
daily life a tinge as that of a glowing and serene half-light. It softened =
the
outlines of his rugged nature; and these moments kept close the bond between
him and his brig.
He was aware that=
his
little vessel could give him something not to be had from anybody or anythi=
ng
in the world; something specially his own. The dependence of that solid man=
of
bone and muscle on that obedient thing of wood and iron, acquired from that
feeling the mysterious dignity of love. She--the craft--had all the qualiti=
es
of a living thing: speed, obedience, trustworthiness, endurance, beauty,
capacity to do and to suffer--all but life. He--the man--was the inspirer of
that thing that to him seemed the most perfect of its kind. His will was its
will, his thought was its impulse, his breath was the breath of its existen=
ce.
He felt all this confusedly, without ever shaping this feeling into the
soundless formulas of thought. To him she was unique and dear, this brig of
three hundred and fourteen tons register--a kingdom!
And now, barehead=
ed
and burly, he walked the deck of his kingdom with a regular stride. He step=
ped
out from the hip, swinging his arms with the free motion of a man starting =
out
for a fifteen-mile walk into open country; yet at every twelfth stride he h=
ad
to turn about sharply and pace back the distance to the taffrail.
Shaw, with his ha=
nds
stuck in his waistband, had hooked himself with both elbows to the rail, and
gazed apparently at the deck between his feet. In reality he was contemplat=
ing
a little house with a tiny front garden, lost in a maze of riverside street=
s in
the east end of London. The circumstance that he had not, as yet, been able=
to
make the acquaintance of his son--now aged eighteen months--worried him
slightly, and was the cause of that flight of his fancy into the murky
atmosphere of his home. But it was a placid flight followed by a quick retu=
rn. In
less than two minutes he was back in the brig. "All there," as hi=
s saying
was. He was proud of being always "all there."
He was abrupt in
manner and grumpy in speech with the seamen. To his successive captains, he=
was
outwardly as deferential as he knew how, and as a rule inwardly hostile--so
very few seemed to him of the "all there" kind. Of Lingard, with =
whom
he had only been a short time--having been picked up in Madras Roads out of=
a
home ship, which he had to leave after a thumping row with the master--he
generally approved, although he recognized with regret that this man, like =
most
others, had some absurd fads; he defined them as "bottom-upwards
notions."
He was a man--as
there were many--of no particular value to anybody but himself, and of no
account but as the chief mate of the brig, and the only white man on board =
of
her besides the captain. He felt himself immeasurably superior to the Malay
seamen whom he had to handle, and treated them with lofty toleration,
notwithstanding his opinion that at a pinch those chaps would be found
emphatically "not there."
As soon as his mi=
nd
came back from his home leave, he detached himself from the rail and, walki=
ng
forward, stood by the break of the poop, looking along the port side of the
main deck. Lingard on his own side stopped in his walk and also gazed
absentmindedly before him. In the waist of the brig, in the narrow spars th=
at
were lashed on each side of the hatchway, he could see a group of men squat=
ting
in a circle around a wooden tray piled up with rice, which stood on the just
swept deck. The dark-faced, soft-eyed silent men, squatting on their hams, =
fed decorously
with an earnestness that did not exclude reserve.
Of the lot, only =
one
or two wore sarongs, the others having submitted--at least at sea--to the
indignity of European trousers. Only two sat on the spars. One, a man with a
childlike, light yellow face, smiling with fatuous imbecility under the wis=
ps
of straight coarse hair dyed a mahogany tint, was the tindal of the crew--a
kind of boatswain's or serang's mate. The other, sitting beside him on the
booms, was a man nearly black, not much bigger than a large ape, and wearin=
g on
his wrinkled face that look of comical truculence which is often characteri=
stic
of men from the southwestern coast of Sumatra.
This was the kass=
ab
or store-keeper, the holder of a position of dignity and ease. The kassab w=
as
the only one of the crew taking their evening meal who noticed the presence=
on
deck of their commander. He muttered something to the tindal who directly
cocked his old hat on one side, which senseless action invested him with an
altogether foolish appearance. The others heard, but went on somnolently
feeding with spidery movements of their lean arms.
The sun was no mo=
re
than a degree or so above the horizon, and from the heated surface of the
waters a slight low mist began to rise; a mist thin, invisible to the human
eye; yet strong enough to change the sun into a mere glowing red disc, a di=
sc
vertical and hot, rolling down to the edge of the horizontal and cold-looki=
ng
disc of the shining sea. Then the edges touched and the circular expanse of
water took on suddenly a tint, sombre, like a frown; deep, like the broodin=
g meditation
of evil.
The falling sun
seemed to be arrested for a moment in his descent by the sleeping waters, w=
hile
from it, to the motionless brig, shot out on the polished and dark surface =
of
the sea a track of light, straight and shining, resplendent and direct; a p=
ath
of gold and crimson and purple, a path that seemed to lead dazzling and
terrible from the earth straight into heaven through the portals of a glori=
ous
death. It faded slowly. The sea vanquished the light. At last only a vestig=
e of
the sun remained, far off, like a red spark floating on the water. It linge=
red,
and all at once--without warning--went out as if extinguished by a treacher=
ous
hand.
"Gone,"
cried Lingard, who had watched intently yet missed the last moment. "G=
one!
Look at the cabin clock, Shaw!"
"Nearly righ=
t, I
think, sir. Three minutes past six."
The helmsman stru=
ck
four bells sharply. Another barefooted seacannie glided on the far side of =
the
poop to relieve the wheel, and the serang of the brig came up the ladder to
take charge of the deck from Shaw. He came up to the compass, and stood wai=
ting
silently.
"The course =
is
south by east when you get the wind, serang," said Shaw, distinctly.
"Sou' by
eas'," repeated the elderly Malay with grave earnestness.
"Let me know
when she begins to steer," added Lingard.
"Ya, Tuan,&q=
uot;
answered the man, glancing rapidly at the sky. "Wind coming," he
muttered.
"I think so,
too," whispered Lingard as if to himself.
The shadows were
gathering rapidly round the brig. A mulatto put his head out of the compani=
on
and called out:
"Ready,
sir."
"Let's get a
mouthful of something to eat, Shaw," said Lingard. "I say, just t=
ake
a look around before coming below. It will be dark when we come up again.&q=
uot;
"Certainly,
sir," said Shaw, taking up a long glass and putting it to his eyes.
"Blessed thing," he went on in snatches while he worked the tubes=
in
and out, "I can't--never somehow--Ah! I've got it right at last!"=
He revolved slowl=
y on
his heels, keeping the end of the tube on the sky-line. Then he shut the
instrument with a click, and said decisively:
"Nothing in
sight, sir."
He followed his
captain down below rubbing his hands cheerfully.
For a good while
there was no sound on the poop of the brig. Then the seacannie at the wheel
spoke dreamily:
"Did the mal=
im
say there was no one on the sea?"
"Yes,"
grunted the serang without looking at the man behind him.
"Between the
islands there was a boat," pronounced the man very softly.
The serang, his h=
ands
behind his back, his feet slightly apart, stood very straight and stiff by =
the
side of the compass stand. His face, now hardly visible, was as inexpressiv=
e as
the door of a safe.
"Now, listen=
to
me," insisted the helmsman in a gentle tone.
The man in author=
ity
did not budge a hair's breadth. The seacannie bent down a little from the
height of the wheel grating.
"I saw a
boat," he murmured with something of the tender obstinacy of a lover
begging for a favour. "I saw a boat, O Haji Wasub! Ya! Haji Wasub!&quo=
t;
The serang had be=
en
twice a pilgrim, and was not insensible to the sound of his rightful title.
There was a grim smile on his face.
"You saw a
floating tree, O Sali," he said, ironically.
"I am Sali, =
and
my eyes are better than the bewitched brass thing that pulls out to a great
length," said the pertinacious helmsman. "There was a boat, just
clear of the easternmost island. There was a boat, and they in her could see
the ship on the light of the west--unless they are blind men lost on the se=
a. I
have seen her. Have you seen her, too, O Haji Wasub?"
"Am I a fat
white man?" snapped the serang. "I was a man of the sea before you
were born, O Sali! The order is to keep silence and mind the rudder, lest e=
vil
befall the ship."
After these words=
he
resumed his rigid aloofness. He stood, his legs slightly apart, very stiff =
and
straight, a little on one side of the compass stand. His eyes travelled
incessantly from the illuminated card to the shadowy sails of the brig and =
back
again, while his body was motionless as if made of wood and built into the
ship's frame. Thus, with a forced and tense watchfulness, Haji Wasub, seran=
g of
the brig Lightning, kept the captain's watch unwearied and wakeful, a slave=
to duty.
In half an hour a=
fter
sunset the darkness had taken complete possession of earth and heavens. The
islands had melted into the night. And on the smooth water of the Straits, =
the
little brig lying so still, seemed to sleep profoundly, wrapped up in a sce=
nted
mantle of star light and silence.
II
It was half-past
eight o'clock before Lingard came on deck again. Shaw--now with a coat
on--trotted up and down the poop leaving behind him a smell of tobacco smok=
e.
An irregularly glowing spark seemed to run by itself in the darkness before=
the
rounded form of his head. Above the masts of the brig the dome of the clear
heaven was full of lights that flickered, as if some mighty breathings high=
up
there had been swaying about the flame of the stars. There was no sound alo=
ng
the brig's decks, and the heavy shadows that lay on it had the aspect, in t=
hat
silence, of secret places concealing crouching forms that waited in perfect=
stillness
for some decisive event. Lingard struck a match to light his cheroot, and h=
is
powerful face with narrowed eyes stood out for a moment in the night and
vanished suddenly. Then two shadowy forms and two red sparks moved backward=
and
forward on the poop. A larger, but a paler and oval patch of light from the
compass lamps lay on the brasses of the wheel and on the breast of the Malay
standing by the helm. Lingard's voice, as if unable altogether to master the
enormous silence of the sea, sounded muffled, very calm--without the usual =
deep
ring in it.
"Not much
change, Shaw," he said.
"No, sir, not
much. I can just see the island--the big one--still in the same place. It
strikes me, sir, that, for calms, this here sea is a devil of locality.&quo=
t;
He cut "loca=
lity"
in two with an emphatic pause. It was a good word. He was pleased with hims=
elf
for thinking of it. He went on again:
"Now--since
noon, this big island--"
"Carimata,
Shaw," interrupted Lingard.
"Aye, sir;
Carimata--I mean. I must say--being a stranger hereabouts--I haven't got the
run of those--"
He was going to s=
ay
"names" but checked himself and said, "appellations,"
instead, sounding every syllable lovingly.
"Having for
these last fifteen years," he continued, "sailed regularly from
London in East-Indiamen, I am more at home over there--in the Bay."
He pointed into t=
he
night toward the northwest and stared as if he could see from where he stood
that Bay of Bengal where--as he affirmed--he would be so much more at home.=
"You'll soon=
get
used--" muttered Lingard, swinging in his rapid walk past his mate. Th=
en
he turned round, came back, and asked sharply.
"You said th=
ere
was nothing afloat in sight before dark? Hey?"
"Not that I
could see, sir. When I took the deck again at eight, I asked that serang
whether there was anything about; and I understood him to say there was no =
more
as when I went below at six. This is a lonely sea at times--ain't it, sir? =
Now,
one would think at this time of the year the homeward-bounders from China w=
ould
be pretty thick here."
"Yes," =
said
Lingard, "we have met very few ships since we left Pedra Branca over t=
he
stern. Yes; it has been a lonely sea. But for all that, Shaw, this sea, if
lonely, is not blind. Every island in it is an eye. And now, since our squa=
dron
has left for the China waters--"
He did not finish=
his
sentence. Shaw put his hands in his pockets, and propped his back against t=
he
sky-light, comfortably.
"They say th=
ere
is going to be a war with China," he said in a gossiping tone, "a=
nd
the French are going along with us as they did in the Crimea five years ago=
. It
seems to me we're getting mighty good friends with the French. I've not muc=
h of
an opinion about that. What do you think, Captain Lingard?"
"I have met
their men-of-war in the Pacific," said Lingard, slowly. "The ships
were fine and the fellows in them were civil enough to me--and very curious
about my business," he added with a laugh. "However, I wasn't the=
re
to make war on them. I had a rotten old cutter then, for trade, Shaw,"=
he
went on with animation.
"Had you,
sir?" said Shaw without any enthusiasm. "Now give me a big ship--a
ship, I say, that one may--"
"And later o=
n,
some years ago," interrupted Lingard, "I chummed with a French
skipper in Ampanam--being the only two white men in the whole place. He was=
a
good fellow, and free with his red wine. His English was difficult to
understand, but he could sing songs in his own language about ah-moor--Ah-m=
oor
means love, in French--Shaw."
"So it does,
sir--so it does. When I was second mate of a Sunderland barque, in forty-on=
e,
in the Mediterranean, I could pay out their lingo as easy as you would a
five-inch warp over a ship's side--"
"Yes, he was=
a
proper man," pursued Lingard, meditatively, as if for himself only.
"You could not find a better fellow for company ashore. He had an affa=
ir
with a Bali girl, who one evening threw a red blossom at him from within a
doorway, as we were going together to pay our respects to the Rajah's nephe=
w.
He was a good-looking Frenchman, he was--but the girl belonged to the Rajah=
's
nephew, and it was a serious matter. The old Rajah got angry and said the g=
irl
must die. I don't think the nephew cared particularly to have her krissed; =
but
the old fellow made a great fuss and sent one of his own chief men to see t=
he
thing done--and the girl had enemies--her own relations approved! We could =
do
nothing. Mind, Shaw, there was absolutely nothing else between them but that
unlucky flower which the Frenchman pinned to his coat--and afterward, when =
the girl
was dead, wore under his shirt, hung round his neck in a small box. I suppo=
se
he had nothing else to put it into."
"Would those
savages kill a woman for that?" asked Shaw, incredulously.
"Aye! They a=
re
pretty moral there. That was the first time in my life I nearly went to war=
on
my own account, Shaw. We couldn't talk those fellows over. We couldn't bribe
them, though the Frenchman offered the best he had, and I was ready to back=
him
to the last dollar, to the last rag of cotton, Shaw! No use--they were that
blamed respectable. So, says the Frenchman to me: 'My friend, if they won't
take our gunpowder for a gift let us burn it to give them lead.' I was arme=
d as
you see now; six eight-pounders on the main deck and a long eighteen on the=
forecastle--and
I wanted to try 'em. You may believe me! However, the Frenchman had nothing=
but
a few old muskets; and the beggars got to windward of us by fair words, till
one morning a boat's crew from the Frenchman's ship found the girl lying de=
ad
on the beach. That put an end to our plans. She was out of her trouble anyh=
ow,
and no reasonable man will fight for a dead woman. I was never vengeful, Sh=
aw,
and--after all--she didn't throw that flower at me. But it broke the French=
man
up altogether. He began to mope, did no business, and shortly afterward sai=
led
away. I cleared a good many pence out of that trip, I remember."
With these words =
he
seemed to come to the end of his memories of that trip. Shaw stifled a yawn=
.
"Women are t=
he
cause of a lot of trouble," he said, dispassionately. "In the
Morayshire, I remember, we had once a passenger--an old gentleman--who was
telling us a yarn about them old-time Greeks fighting for ten years about s=
ome
woman. The Turks kidnapped her, or something. Anyway, they fought in Turkey;
which I may well believe. Them Greeks and Turks were always fighting. My fa=
ther
was master's mate on board one of the three-deckers at the battle of
Navarino--and that was when we went to help those Greeks. But this affair a=
bout
a woman was long before that time."
"I should th=
ink
so," muttered Lingard, hanging over the rail, and watching the fleeting
gleams that passed deep down in the water, along the ship's bottom.
"Yes. Times =
are
changed. They were unenlightened in those old days. My grandfather was a
preacher and, though my father served in the navy, I don't hold with war.
Sinful the old gentleman called it--and I think so, too. Unless with Chinam=
en,
or niggers, or such people as must be kept in order and won't listen to rea=
son;
having not sense enough to know what's good for them, when it's explained to
them by their betters--missionaries, and such like au-tho-ri-ties. But to f=
ight
ten years. And for a woman!"
"I have read=
the
tale in a book," said Lingard, speaking down over the side as if setti=
ng
his words gently afloat upon the sea. "I have read the tale. She was v=
ery
beautiful."
"That only m=
akes
it worse, sir--if anything. You may depend on it she was no good. Those pag=
an
times will never come back, thank God. Ten years of murder and unrighteousn=
ess!
And for a woman! Would anybody do it now? Would you do it, sir? Would
you--"
The sound of a be=
ll
struck sharply interrupted Shaw's discourse. High aloft, some dry block sent
out a screech, short and lamentable, like a cry of pain. It pierced the
quietness of the night to the very core, and seemed to destroy the reserve
which it had imposed upon the tones of the two men, who spoke now loudly.
"Throw the c=
over
over the binnacle," said Lingard in his duty voice. "The thing sh=
ines
like a full moon. We mustn't show more lights than we can help, when becalm=
ed
at night so near the land. No use in being seen if you can't see yourself--=
is
there? Bear that in mind, Mr. Shaw. There may be some vagabonds prying
about--"
"I thought a=
ll
this was over and done for," said Shaw, busying himself with the cover,
"since Sir Thomas Cochrane swept along the Borneo coast with his squad=
ron
some years ago. He did a rare lot of fighting--didn't he? We heard about it
from the chaps of the sloop Diana that was refitting in Calcutta when I was=
there
in the Warwick Castle. They took some king's town up a river hereabouts. The
chaps were full of it."
"Sir Thomas =
did
good work," answered Lingard, "but it will be a long time before
these seas are as safe as the English Channel is in peace time. I spoke abo=
ut
that light more to get you in the way of things to be attended to in these =
seas
than for anything else. Did you notice how few native craft we've sighted f=
or
all these days we have been drifting about--one may say--in this sea?"=
"I can't say=
I have
attached any significance to the fact, sir."
"It's a sign
that something is up. Once set a rumour afloat in these waters, and it will
make its way from island to island, without any breeze to drive it along.&q=
uot;
"Being mysel=
f a
deep-water man sailing steadily out of home ports nearly all my life,"
said Shaw with great deliberation, "I cannot pretend to see through the
peculiarities of them out-of-the-way parts. But I can keep a lookout in an
ordinary way, and I have noticed that craft of any kind seemed scarce, for =
the
last few days: considering that we had land aboard of us--one side or
another--nearly every day."
"You will ge=
t to
know the peculiarities, as you call them, if you remain any time with me,&q=
uot;
remarked Lingard, negligently.
"I hope I sh=
all give
satisfaction, whether the time be long or short!" said Shaw, accentuat=
ing
the meaning of his words by the distinctness of his utterance. "A man =
who
has spent thirty-two years of his life on saltwater can say no more. If bei=
ng
an officer of home ships for the last fifteen years I don't understand the
heathen ways of them there savages, in matters of seamanship and duty, you =
will
find me all there, Captain Lingard."
"Except, jud=
ging
from what you said a little while ago--except in the matter of fighting,&qu=
ot;
said Lingard, with a short laugh.
"Fighting! I=
am
not aware that anybody wants to fight me. I am a peaceable man, Captain
Lingard, but when put to it, I could fight as well as any of them flat-nosed
chaps we have to make shift with, instead of a proper crew of decent
Christians. Fighting!" he went on with unexpected pugnacity of tone,
"Fighting! If anybody comes to fight me, he will find me all there, I
swear!"
"That's all
right. That's all right," said Lingard, stretching his arms above his =
head
and wriggling his shoulders. "My word! I do wish a breeze would come to
let us get away from here. I am rather in a hurry, Shaw."
"Indeed, sir!
Well, I never yet met a thorough seafaring man who was not in a hurry when a
con-demned spell of calm had him by the heels. When a breeze comes . . . ju=
st
listen to this, sir!"
"I hear
it," said Lingard. "Tide-rip, Shaw."
"So I presum=
e,
sir. But what a fuss it makes. Seldom heard such a--"
On the sea, upon =
the
furthest limits of vision, appeared an advancing streak of seething foam,
resembling a narrow white ribbon, drawn rapidly along the level surface of =
the
water by its two ends, which were lost in the darkness. It reached the brig,
passed under, stretching out on each side; and on each side the water became
noisy, breaking into numerous and tiny wavelets, a mimicry of an immense
agitation. Yet the vessel in the midst of this sudden and loud disturbance
remained as motionless and steady as if she had been securely moored between
the stone walls of a safe dock. In a few moments the line of foam and ripple
running swiftly north passed at once beyond sight and earshot, leaving no t=
race
on the unconquerable calm.
"Now this is
very curious--" began Shaw.
Lingard made a
gesture to command silence. He seemed to listen yet, as if the wash of the
ripple could have had an echo which he expected to hear. And a man's voice =
that
was heard forward had something of the impersonal ring of voices thrown back
from hard and lofty cliffs upon the empty distances of the sea. It spoke in
Malay--faintly.
"What?"
hailed Shaw. "What is it?"
Lingard put a
restraining hand for a moment on his chief officer's shoulder, and moved
forward smartly. Shaw followed, puzzled. The rapid exchange of incomprehens=
ible
words thrown backward and forward through the shadows of the brig's main de=
ck
from his captain to the lookout man and back again, made him feel sadly out=
of
it, somehow.
Lingard had called
out sharply--"What do you see?" The answer direct and quick
was--"I hear, Tuan. I hear oars."
"Whereabouts=
?"
"The night is
all around us. I hear them near."
"Port or
starboard?"
There was a short
delay in answer this time. On the quarter-deck, under the poop, bare feet
shuffled. Somebody coughed. At last the voice forward said doubtfully:
"Kanan."=
;
"Call the
serang, Mr. Shaw," said Lingard, calmly, "and have the hands turn=
ed
up. They are all lying about the decks. Look sharp now. There's something n=
ear
us. It's annoying to be caught like this," he added in a vexed tone.
He crossed over to
the starboard side, and stood listening, one hand grasping the royal back-s=
tay,
his ear turned to the sea, but he could hear nothing from there. The
quarter-deck was filled with subdued sounds. Suddenly, a long, shrill whist=
le
soared, reverberated loudly amongst the flat surfaces of motionless sails, =
and
gradually grew faint as if the sound had escaped and gone away, running upon
the water. Haji Wasub was on deck and ready to carry out the white man's
commands. Then silence fell again on the brig, until Shaw spoke quietly.
"I am going
forward now, sir, with the tindal. We're all at stations."
"Aye, Mr. Sh=
aw.
Very good. Mind they don't board you--but I can hear nothing. Not a sound. =
It
can't be much."
"The fellow =
has
been dreaming, no doubt. I have good ears, too, and--"
He went forward a=
nd
the end of his sentence was lost in an indistinct growl. Lingard stood
attentive. One by one the three seacannies off duty appeared on the poop and
busied themselves around a big chest that stood by the side of the cabin
companion. A rattle and clink of steel weapons turned out on the deck was
heard, but the men did not even whisper. Lingard peered steadily into the
night, then shook his head.
"Serang!&quo=
t;
he called, half aloud.
The spare old man=
ran
up the ladder so smartly that his bony feet did not seem to touch the steps=
. He
stood by his commander, his hands behind his back; a figure indistinct but
straight as an arrow.
"Who was loo=
king
out?" asked Lingard.
"Badroon, the
Bugis," said Wasub, in his crisp, jerky manner.
"I can hear
nothing. Badroon heard the noise in his mind."
"The night h=
ides
the boat."
"Have you se=
en
it?"
"Yes, Tuan.
Small boat. Before sunset. By the land. Now coming here--near. Badroon heard
him."
"Why didn't =
you
report it, then?" asked Lingard, sharply.
"Malim spoke=
. He
said: 'Nothing there,' while I could see. How could I know what was in his =
mind
or yours, Tuan?"
"Do you hear
anything now?"
"No. They
stopped now. Perhaps lost the ship--who knows? Perhaps afraid--"
"Well!"
muttered Lingard, moving his feet uneasily. "I believe you lie. What k=
ind
of boat?"
"White men's
boat. A four-men boat, I think. Small. Tuan, I hear him now! There!"
He stretched his =
arm
straight out, pointing abeam for a time, then his arm fell slowly.
"Coming this
way," he added with decision.
From forward Shaw
called out in a startled tone:
"Something on
the water, sir! Broad on this bow!"
"All
right!" called back Lingard.
A lump of blacker
darkness floated into his view. From it came over the water English
words--deliberate, reaching him one by one; as if each had made its own
difficult way through the profound stillness of the night.
"What--ship-=
-is--that--pray?"
"English
brig," answered Lingard, after a short moment of hesitation.
"A brig! I
thought you were something bigger," went on the voice from the sea wit=
h a
tinge of disappointment in its deliberate tone. "I am coming
alongside--if--you--please."
"No! you
don't!" called Lingard back, sharply. The leisurely drawl of the invis=
ible
speaker seemed to him offensive, and woke up a hostile feeling. "No! y=
ou
don't if you care for your boat. Where do you spring from? Who are you--any=
how?
How many of you are there in that boat?"
After these empha=
tic
questions there was an interval of silence. During that time the shape of t=
he
boat became a little more distinct. She must have carried some way on her y=
et,
for she loomed up bigger and nearly abreast of where Lingard stood, before =
the
self-possessed voice was heard again:
"I will show
you."
Then, after anoth=
er
short pause, the voice said, less loud but very plain:
"Strike on t=
he
gunwale. Strike hard, John!" and suddenly a blue light blazed out,
illuminating with a livid flame a round patch in the night. In the smoke and
splutter of that ghastly halo appeared a white, four-oared gig with five men
sitting in her in a row. Their heads were turned toward the brig with a str=
ong
expression of curiosity on their faces, which, in this glare, brilliant and
sinister, took on a deathlike aspect and resembled the faces of interested
corpses. Then the bowman dropped into the water the light he held above his
head and the darkness, rushing back at the boat, swallowed it with a loud a=
nd
angry hiss.
"Five of
us," said the composed voice out of the night that seemed now darker t=
han
before. "Four hands and myself. We belong to a yacht--a British
yacht--"
"Come on
board!" shouted Lingard. "Why didn't you speak at once? I thought=
you
might have been some masquerading Dutchmen from a dodging gunboat."
"Do I speak =
like
a blamed Dutchman? Pull a stroke, boys--oars! Tend bow, John."
The boat came
alongside with a gentle knock, and a man's shape began to climb at once up =
the
brig's side with a kind of ponderous agility. It poised itself for a moment=
on
the rail to say down into the boat--"Sheer off a little, boys," t=
hen
jumped on deck with a thud, and said to Shaw who was coming aft: "Good
evening . . . Captain, sir?"
"No. On the
poop!" growled Shaw.
"Come up her=
e.
Come up," called Lingard, impatiently.
The Malays had le=
ft
their stations and stood clustered by the mainmast in a silent group. Not a
word was spoken on the brig's decks, while the stranger made his way to the
waiting captain. Lingard saw approaching him a short, dapper man, who touch=
ed
his cap and repeated his greeting in a cool drawl:
"Good evenin=
g. .
. Captain, sir?"
"Yes, I am t=
he
master--what's the matter? Adrift from your ship? Or what?"
"Adrift? No!=
We
left her four days ago, and have been pulling that gig in a calm, nearly ev=
er
since. My men are done. So is the water. Lucky thing I sighted you."
"You sighted
me!" exclaimed Lingard. "When? What time?"
"Not in the
dark, you may be sure. We've been knocking about amongst some islands to the
southward, breaking our hearts tugging at the oars in one channel, then in
another--trying to get clear. We got round an islet--a barren thing, in sha=
pe
like a loaf of sugar--and I caught sight of a vessel a long way off. I took=
her
bearing in a hurry and we buckled to; but another of them currents must have
had hold of us, for it was a long time before we managed to clear that isle=
t. I
steered by the stars, and, by the Lord Harry, I began to think I had missed=
you
somehow--because it must have been you I saw."
"Yes, it must
have been. We had nothing in sight all day," assented Lingard.
"Where's your vessel?" he asked, eagerly.
"Hard and fa=
st
on middling soft mud--I should think about sixty miles from here. We are the
second boat sent off for assistance. We parted company with the other on
Tuesday. She must have passed to the northward of you to-day. The chief off=
icer
is in her with orders to make for Singapore. I am second, and was sent off
toward the Straits here on the chance of falling in with some ship. I have a
letter from the owner. Our gentry are tired of being stuck in the mud and w=
ish for
assistance."
"What assist=
ance
did you expect to find down here?"
"The letter =
will
tell you that. May I ask, Captain, for a little water for the chaps in my b=
oat?
And I myself would thank you for a drink. We haven't had a mouthful since t=
his
afternoon. Our breaker leaked out somehow."
"See to it, =
Mr.
Shaw," said Lingard. "Come down the cabin, Mr.--"
"Carter is my
name."
"Ah! Mr. Car=
ter.
Come down, come down," went on Lingard, leading the way down the cabin
stairs.
The steward had
lighted the swinging lamp, and had put a decanter and bottles on the table.=
The
cuddy looked cheerful, painted white, with gold mouldings round the panels.
Opposite the curtained recess of the stern windows there was a sideboard wi=
th a
marble top, and, above it, a looking-glass in a gilt frame. The semicircular
couch round the stern had cushions of crimson plush. The table was covered =
with
a black Indian tablecloth embroidered in vivid colours. Between the beams of
the poop-deck were fitted racks for muskets, the barrels of which glinted in
the light. There were twenty-four of them between the four beams. As many
sword-bayonets of an old pattern encircled the polished teakwood of the
rudder-casing with a double belt of brass and steel. All the doors of the
state-rooms had been taken off the hinges and only curtains closed the
doorways. They seemed to be made of yellow Chinese silk, and fluttered all
together, the four of them, as the two men entered the cuddy.
Carter took in al=
l at
a glance, but his eyes were arrested by a circular shield hung slanting abo=
ve
the brass hilts of the bayonets. On its red field, in relief and brightly g=
ilt,
was represented a sheaf of conventional thunderbolts darting down the middle
between the two capitals T. L. Lingard examined his guest curiously. He saw=
a
young man, but looking still more youthful, with a boyish smooth face much =
sunburnt,
twinkling blue eyes, fair hair and a slight moustache. He noticed his arres=
ted
gaze.
"Ah, you're
looking at that thing. It's a present from the builder of this brig. The be=
st
man that ever launched a craft. It's supposed to be the ship's name between=
my
initials--flash of lightning--d'you see? The brig's name is Lightning and m=
ine
is Lingard."
"Very pretty
thing that: shows the cabin off well," murmured Carter, politely.
They drank, noddi=
ng
at each other, and sat down.
"Now for the
letter," said Lingard.
Carter passed it =
over
the table and looked about, while Lingard took the letter out of an open
envelope, addressed to the commander of any British ship in the Java Sea. T=
he
paper was thick, had an embossed heading: "Schooner-yacht Hermit"=
and
was dated four days before. The message said that on a hazy night the yacht=
had
gone ashore upon some outlying shoals off the coast of Borneo. The land was
low. The opinion of the sailing-master was that the vessel had gone ashore =
at
the top of high water, spring tides. The coast was completely deserted to a=
ll appearance.
During the four days they had been stranded there they had sighted in the
distance two small native vessels, which did not approach. The owner conclu=
ded
by asking any commander of a homeward-bound ship to report the yacht's posi=
tion
in Anjer on his way through Sunda Straits--or to any British or Dutch
man-of-war he might meet. The letter ended by anticipatory thanks, the offe=
r to
pay any expenses in connection with the sending of messages from Anjer, and=
the
usual polite expressions.
Folding the paper
slowly in the old creases, Lingard said--"I am not going to Anjer--nor
anywhere near."
"Any place w=
ill do,
I fancy," said Carter.
"Not the pla=
ce
where I am bound to," answered Lingard, opening the letter again and
glancing at it uneasily. "He does not describe very well the coast, and
his latitude is very uncertain," he went on. "I am not clear in my
mind where exactly you are stranded. And yet I know every inch of that
land--over there."
Carter cleared his
throat and began to talk in his slow drawl. He seemed to dole out facts, to
disclose with sparing words the features of the coast, but every word showed
the minuteness of his observation, the clear vision of a seaman able to mas=
ter
quickly the aspect of a strange land and of a strange sea. He presented, wi=
th
concise lucidity, the picture of the tangle of reefs and sandbanks, through
which the yacht had miraculously blundered in the dark before she took the
ground.
"The weather
seems clear enough at sea," he observed, finally, and stopped to drink=
a
long draught. Lingard, bending over the table, had been listening with eager
attention. Carter went on in his curt and deliberate manner:
"I noticed s=
ome
high trees on what I take to be the mainland to the south--and whoever has
business in that bight was smart enough to whitewash two of them: one on the
point, and another farther in. Landmarks, I guess. . . . What's the matter,
Captain?"
Lingard had jumpe=
d to
his feet, but Carter's exclamation caused him to sit down again.
"Nothing,
nothing . . . Tell me, how many men have you in that yacht?"
"Twenty-thre=
e,
besides the gentry, the owner, his wife and a Spanish gentleman--a friend t=
hey
picked up in Manila."
"So you were
coming from Manila?"
"Aye. Bound =
for
Batavia. The owner wishes to study the Dutch colonial system. Wants to expo=
se
it, he says. One can't help hearing a lot when keeping watch aft--you know =
how
it is. Then we are going to Ceylon to meet the mail-boat there. The owner is
going home as he came out, overland through Egypt. The yacht would return r=
ound
the Cape, of course."
"A lady?&quo= t; said Lingard. "You say there is a lady on board. Are you armed?"<= o:p>
"Not much,&q=
uot;
replied Carter, negligently. "There are a few muskets and two sporting
guns aft; that's about all--I fancy it's too much, or not enough," he
added with a faint smile.
Lingard looked at=
him
narrowly.
"Did you come
out from home in that craft?" he asked.
"Not I! I am=
not
one of them regular yacht hands. I came out of the hospital in Hongkong. I'=
ve
been two years on the China coast."
He stopped, then
added in an explanatory murmur:
"Opium
clippers--you know. Nothing of brass buttons about me. My ship left me behi=
nd,
and I was in want of work. I took this job but I didn't want to go home
particularly. It's slow work after sailing with old Robinson in the Ly-e-mo=
on.
That was my ship. Heard of her, Captain?"
"Yes, yes,&q=
uot;
said Lingard, hastily. "Look here, Mr. Carter, which way was your chief
officer trying for Singapore? Through the Straits of Rhio?"
"I suppose
so," answered Carter in a slightly surprised tone; "why do you
ask?"
"Just to kno=
w .
. . What is it, Mr. Shaw?"
"There's a b=
lack
cloud rising to the northward, sir, and we shall get a breeze directly,&quo=
t;
said Shaw from the doorway.
He lingered there
with his eyes fixed on the decanters.
"Will you ha=
ve a
glass?" said Lingard, leaving his seat. "I will go up and have a
look."
He went on deck. =
Shaw
approached the table and began to help himself, handling the bottles in
profound silence and with exaggerated caution, as if he had been measuring =
out
of fragile vessels a dose of some deadly poison. Carter, his hands in his
pockets, and leaning back, examined him from head to foot with a cool stare.
The mate of the brig raised the glass to his lips, and glaring above the ri=
m at
the stranger, drained the contents slowly.
"You have a =
fine
nose for finding ships in the dark, Mister," he said, distinctly, putt=
ing
the glass on the table with extreme gentleness.
"Eh? What's
that? I sighted you just after sunset."
"And you knew
where to look, too," said Shaw, staring hard.
"I looked to=
the
westward where there was still some light, as any sensible man would do,&qu=
ot;
retorted the other a little impatiently. "What are you trying to get
at?"
"And you hav=
e a
ready tongue to blow about yourself--haven't you?"
"Never saw s=
uch
a man in my life," declared Carter, with a return of his nonchalant
manner. "You seem to be troubled about something."
"I don't like
boats to come sneaking up from nowhere in particular, alongside a ship when=
I
am in charge of the deck. I can keep a lookout as well as any man out of ho=
me
ports, but I hate to be circumvented by muffled oars and such ungentlemanli=
ke
tricks. Yacht officer--indeed. These seas must be full of such yachtsmen. I
consider you played a mean trick on me. I told my old man there was nothing=
in
sight at sunset--and no more there was. I believe you blundered upon us by
chance--for all your boasting about sunsets and bearings. Gammon! I know you
came on blindly on top of us, and with muffled oars, too. D'ye call that de=
cent?"
"If I did mu=
ffle
the oars it was for a good reason. I wanted to slip past a cove where some =
native
craft were moored. That was common prudence in such a small boat, and not
armed--as I am. I saw you right enough, but I had no intention to startle
anybody. Take my word for it."
"I wish you =
had
gone somewhere else," growled Shaw. "I hate to be put in the wrong
through accident and untruthfulness--there! Here's my old man calling
me--"
He left the cabin
hurriedly and soon afterward Lingard came down, and sat again facing Carter
across the table. His face was grave but resolute.
"We shall get
the breeze directly," he said.
"Then,
sir," said Carter, getting up, "if you will give me back that let=
ter
I shall go on cruising about here to speak some other ship. I trust you will
report us wherever you are going."
"I am going =
to
the yacht and I shall keep the letter," answered Lingard with decision.
"I know exactly where she is, and I must go to the rescue of those peo=
ple.
It's most fortunate you've fallen in with me, Mr. Carter. Fortunate for them
and fortunate for me," he added in a lower tone.
"Yes," =
drawled
Carter, reflectively. "There may be a tidy bit of salvage money if you
should get the vessel off, but I don't think you can do much. I had better =
stay
out here and try to speak some gunboat--"
"You must co=
me
back to your ship with me," said Lingard, authoritatively. "Never
mind the gunboats."
"That wouldn=
't
be carrying out my orders," argued Carter. "I've got to speak a
homeward-bound ship or a man-of-war--that's plain enough. I am not anxious =
to
knock about for days in an open boat, but--let me fill my fresh-water break=
er,
Captain, and I will be off."
"Nonsense,&q=
uot;
said Lingard, sharply. "You've got to come with me to show the place
and--and help. I'll take your boat in tow."
Carter did not se=
em
convinced. Lingard laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Look here,
young fellow. I am Tom Lingard and there's not a white man among these isla=
nds,
and very few natives, that have not heard of me. My luck brought you into my
ship--and now I've got you, you must stay. You must!"
The last
"must" burst out loud and sharp like a pistol-shot. Carter stepped
back.
"Do you mean=
you
would keep me by force?" he asked, startled.
"Force,"
repeated Lingard. "It rests with you. I cannot let you speak any vesse=
l.
Your yacht has gone ashore in a most inconvenient place--for me; and with y=
our
boats sent off here and there, you would bring every infernal gunboat buzzi=
ng
to a spot that was as quiet and retired as the heart of man could wish. You
stranding just on that spot of the whole coast was my bad luck. And that I
could not help. You coming upon me like this is my good luck. And that I
hold!"
He dropped his
clenched fist, big and muscular, in the light of the lamp on the black clot=
h,
amongst the glitter of glasses, with the strong fingers closed tight upon t=
he
firm flesh of the palm. He left it there for a moment as if showing Carter =
that
luck he was going to hold. And he went on:
"Do you know
into what hornet's nest your stupid people have blundered? How much d'ye th=
ink
their lives are worth, just now? Not a brass farthing if the breeze fails me
for another twenty-four hours. You may well open your eyes. It is so! And it
may be too late now, while I am arguing with you here."
He tapped the tab=
le
with his knuckles, and the glasses, waking up, jingled a thin, plaintive fi=
nale
to his speech. Carter stood leaning against the sideboard. He was amazed by=
the
unexpected turn of the conversation; his jaw dropped slightly and his eyes
never swerved for a moment from Lingard's face. The silence in the cabin la=
sted
only a few seconds, but to Carter, who waited breathlessly, it seemed very
long. And all at once he heard in it, for the first time, the cabin clock t=
ick distinctly,
in pulsating beats, as though a little heart of metal behind the dial had b=
een
started into sudden palpitation.
"A
gunboat!" shouted Lingard, suddenly, as if he had seen only in that
moment, by the light of some vivid flash of thought, all the difficulties of
the situation. "If you don't go back with me there will be nothing left
for you to go back to--very soon. Your gunboat won't find a single ship's r=
ib
or a single corpse left for a landmark. That she won't. It isn't a gunboat
skipper you want. I am the man you want. You don't know your luck when you =
see
it, but I know mine, I do--and--look here--"
He touched Carter=
's
chest with his forefinger, and said with a sudden gentleness of tone:
"I am a white
man inside and out; I won't let inoffensive people--and a woman, too--come =
to
harm if I can help it. And if I can't help, nobody can. You understand--nob=
ody!
There's no time for it. But I am like any other man that is worth his salt:=
I
won't let the end of an undertaking go by the board while there is a chance=
to
hold on--and it's like this--"
His voice was
persuasive--almost caressing; he had hold now of a coat button and tugged a=
t it
slightly as he went on in a confidential manner:
"As it turns
out, Mr. Carter, I would--in a manner of speaking--I would as soon shoot you
where you stand as let you go to raise an alarm all over this sea about your
confounded yacht. I have other lives to consider--and friends--and
promises--and--and myself, too. I shall keep you," he concluded, sharp=
ly.
Carter drew a long
breath. On the deck above, the two men could hear soft footfalls, short
murmurs, indistinct words spoken near the skylight. Shaw's voice rang out
loudly in growling tones:
"Furl the
royals, you tindal!"
"It's the
queerest old go," muttered Carter, looking down on to the floor. "=
;You
are a strange man. I suppose I must believe what you say--unless you and th=
at
fat mate of yours are a couple of escaped lunatics that got hold of a brig =
by
some means. Why, that chap up there wanted to pick a quarrel with me for co=
ming
aboard, and now you threaten to shoot me rather than let me go. Not that I =
care
much about that; for some time or other you would get hanged for it; and you
don't look like a man that will end that way. If what you say is only half
true, I ought to get back to the yacht as quick as ever I can. It strikes me
that your coming to them will be only a small mercy, anyhow--and I may be of
some use--But this is the queerest. . . . May I go in my boat?"
"As you
like," said Lingard. "There's a rain squall coming."
"I am in cha=
rge
and will get wet along of my chaps. Give us a good long line, Captain."=
;
"It's done
already," said Lingard. "You seem a sensible sailorman and can see
that it would be useless to try and give me the slip."
"For a man so
ready to shoot, you seem very trustful," drawled Carter. "If I cut
adrift in a squall, I stand a pretty fair chance not to see you again."=
;
"You just
try," said Lingard, drily. "I have eyes in this brig, young man, =
that
will see your boat when you couldn't see the ship. You are of the kind I li=
ke,
but if you monkey with me I will find you--and when I find you I will run y=
ou
down as surely as I stand here."
Carter slapped his
thigh and his eyes twinkled.
"By the Lord
Harry!" he cried. "If it wasn't for the men with me, I would try =
for
sport. You are so cocksure about the lot you can do, Captain. You would
aggravate a saint into open mutiny."
His easy good hum=
our
had returned; but after a short burst of laughter, he became serious.
"Never fear," he said, "I won't slip away. If there is to be any throat-= cutting--as you seem to hint--mine will be there, too, I promise you, and. . . ."<= o:p>
He stretched his =
arms
out, glanced at them, shook them a little.
"And this pa=
ir
of arms to take care of it," he added, in his old, careless drawl.
But the master of=
the
brig sitting with both his elbows on the table, his face in his hands, had
fallen unexpectedly into a meditation so concentrated and so profound that =
he
seemed neither to hear, see, nor breathe. The sight of that man's complete
absorption in thought was to Carter almost more surprising than any other
occurrence of that night. Had his strange host vanished suddenly from before
his eyes, it could not have made him feel more uncomfortably alone in that
cabin where the pertinacious clock kept ticking off the useless minutes of =
the
calm before it would, with the same steady beat, begin to measure the aimle=
ss disturbance
of the storm.
III
After waiting a
moment, Carter went on deck. The sky, the sea, the brig itself had disappea=
red
in a darkness that had become impenetrable, palpable, and stifling. An imme=
nse
cloud had come up running over the heavens, as if looking for the little cr=
aft,
and now hung over it, arrested. To the south there was a livid trembling gl=
eam,
faint and sad, like a vanishing memory of destroyed starlight. To the north=
, as
if to prove the impossible, an incredibly blacker patch outlined on the tre=
mendous
blackness of the sky the heart of the coming squall. The glimmers in the wa=
ter
had gone out and the invisible sea all around lay mute and still as if it h=
ad
died suddenly of fright.
Carter could see
nothing. He felt about him people moving; he heard them in the darkness
whispering faintly as if they had been exchanging secrets important or
infamous. The night effaced even words, and its mystery had captured everyt=
hing
and every sound--had left nothing free but the unexpected that seemed to ho=
ver
about one, ready to stretch out its stealthy hand in a touch sudden, famili=
ar,
and appalling. Even the careless disposition of the young ex-officer of an
opium-clipper was affected by the ominous aspect of the hour. What was this
vessel? What were those people? What would happen to-morrow? To the yacht? =
To himself?
He felt suddenly without any additional reason but the darkness that it was=
a
poor show, anyhow, a dashed poor show for all hands. The irrational convict=
ion made
him falter for a second where he stood and he gripped the slide of the
companionway hard.
Shaw's voice right
close to his ear relieved and cleared his troubled thoughts.
"Oh! it's yo=
u,
Mister. Come up at last," said the mate of the brig slowly. "It a=
ppears
we've got to give you a tow now. Of all the rum incidents, this beats all. A
boat sneaks up from nowhere and turns out to be a long-expected friend! For=
you
are one of them friends the skipper was going to meet somewhere here. Ain't=
you
now? Come! I know more than you may think. Are we off to--you may just as w=
ell
tell--off to--h'm ha . . . you know?"
"Yes. I know.
Don't you?" articulated Carter, innocently.
Shaw remained very
quiet for a minute.
"Where's my
skipper?" he asked at last.
"I left him =
down
below in a kind of trance. Where's my boat?"
"Your boat is
hanging astern. And my opinion is that you are as uncivil as I've proved yo=
u to
be untruthful. Egzz-actly."
Carter stumbled
toward the taffrail and in the first step he made came full against somebody
who glided away. It seemed to him that such a night brings men to a lower
level. He thought that he might have been knocked on the head by anybody st=
rong
enough to lift a crow-bar. He felt strangely irritated. He said loudly, aim=
ing
his words at Shaw whom he supposed somewhere near:
"And my opin=
ion
is that you and your skipper will come to a sudden bad end before--"
"I thought y=
ou
were in your boat. Have you changed your mind?" asked Lingard in his d=
eep
voice close to Carter's elbow.
Carter felt his w=
ay
along the rail, till his hand found a line that seemed, in the calm, to str=
eam
out of its own accord into the darkness. He hailed his boat, and directly h=
eard
the wash of water against her bows as she was hauled quickly under the coun=
ter.
Then he loomed up shapeless on the rail, and the next moment disappeared as=
if
he had fallen out of the universe. Lingard heard him say:
"Catch hold =
of
my leg, John." There were hollow sounds in the boat; a voice growled,
"All right."
"Keep clear =
of
the counter," said Lingard, speaking in quiet warning tones into the
night. "The brig may get a lot of sternway on her should this squall n=
ot
strike her fairly."
"Aye, aye. I
will mind," was the muttered answer from the water.
Lingard crossed o=
ver
to the port side, and looked steadily at the sooty mass of approaching vapo=
urs.
After a moment he said curtly, "Brace up for the port tack, Mr.
Shaw," and remained silent, with his face to the sea. A sound, sorrowf=
ul
and startling like the sigh of some immense creature, travelling across the
starless space, passed above the vertical and lofty spars of the motionless
brig.
It grew louder, t=
hen
suddenly ceased for a moment, and the taut rigging of the brig was heard
vibrating its answer in a singing note to this threatening murmur of the wi=
nds.
A long and slow undulation lifted the level of the waters, as if the sea had
drawn a deep breath of anxious suspense. The next minute an immense disturb=
ance
leaped out of the darkness upon the sea, kindling upon it a livid clearness=
of
foam, and the first gust of the squall boarded the brig in a stinging flick=
of rain
and spray. As if overwhelmed by the suddenness of the fierce onset, the ves=
sel
remained for a second upright where she floated, shaking with tremendous je=
rks
from trucks to keel; while high up in the night the invisible canvas was he=
ard
rattling and beating about violently.
Then, with a quick
double report, as of heavy guns, both topsails filled at once and the brig =
fell
over swiftly on her side. Shaw was thrown headlong against the skylight, and
Lingard, who had encircled the weather rail with his arm, felt the vessel u=
nder
his feet dart forward smoothly, and the deck become less slanting--the spee=
d of
the brig running off a little now, easing the overturning strain of the wind
upon the distended surfaces of the sails. It was only the fineness of the l=
ittle
vessel's lines and the perfect shape of her hull that saved the canvas, and
perhaps the spars, by enabling the ready craft to get way upon herself with
such lightning-like rapidity. Lingard drew a long breath and yelled jubilan=
tly
at Shaw who was struggling up against wind and rain to his commander's side=
.
"She'll do. =
Hold
on everything."
Shaw tried to spe=
ak.
He swallowed great mouthfuls of tepid water which the wind drove down his
throat. The brig seemed to sail through undulating waves that passed swishi=
ng
between the masts and swept over the decks with the fierce rush and noise o=
f a
cataract. From every spar and every rope a ragged sheet of water streamed
flicking to leeward. The overpowering deluge seemed to last for an age; bec=
ame
unbearable--and, all at once, stopped. In a couple of minutes the shower had
run its length over the brig and now could be seen like a straight grey wal=
l, going
away into the night under the fierce whispering of dissolving clouds. The w=
ind
eased. To the northward, low down in the darkness, three stars appeared in a
row, leaping in and out between the crests of waves like the distant heads =
of
swimmers in a running surf; and the retreating edge of the cloud, perfectly
straight from east to west, slipped along the dome of the sky like an immen=
se
hemispheric, iron shutter pivoting down smoothly as if operated by some mig=
hty
engine. An inspiring and penetrating freshness flowed together with the shi=
mmer
of light, through the augmented glory of the heaven, a glory exalted, undim=
med,
and strangely startling as if a new world had been created during the short
flight of the stormy cloud. It was a return to life, a return to space; the
earth coming out from under a pall to take its place in the renewed and imm=
ense
scintillation of the universe.
The brig, her yar=
ds
slightly checked in, ran with an easy motion under the topsails, jib and
driver, pushing contemptuously aside the turbulent crowd of noisy and agita=
ted
waves. As the craft went swiftly ahead she unrolled behind her over the une=
asy
darkness of the sea a broad ribbon of seething foam shot with wispy gleams =
of
dark discs escaping from under the rudder. Far away astern, at the end of a
line no thicker than a black thread, which dipped now and then its long cur=
ve
in the bursting froth, a toy-like object could be made out, elongated and d=
ark,
racing after the brig over the snowy whiteness of her wake.
Lingard walked af=
t,
and, with both his hands on the taffrail, looked eagerly for Carter's boat.=
The
first glance satisfied him that the yacht's gig was towing easily at the en=
d of
the long scope of line, and he turned away to look ahead and to leeward wit=
h a
steady gaze. It was then half an hour past midnight and Shaw, relieved by
Wasub, had gone below. Before he went, he said to Lingard, "I will be =
off,
sir, if you're not going to make more sail yet." "Not yet for a
while," had answered Lingard in a preoccupied manner; and Shaw departed
aggrieved at such a neglect of making the best of a good breeze.
On the main deck
dark-skinned men, whose clothing clung to their shivering limbs as if they =
had
been overboard, had finished recoiling the braces, and clearing the gear. T=
he
kassab, after having hung the fore-topsail halyards in the becket, strutted
into the waist toward a row of men who stood idly with their shoulders agai=
nst
the side of the long boat amidships. He passed along looking up close at the
stolid faces. Room was made for him, and he took his place at the end.
"It was a gr=
eat
rain and a mighty wind, O men," he said, dogmatically, "but no wi=
nd
can ever hurt this ship. That I knew while I stood minding the sail which is
under my care."
A dull and
inexpressive murmur was heard from the men. Over the high weather rail, a
topping wave flung into their eyes a handful of heavy drops that stung like
hail. There were low groans of indignation. A man sighed. Another emitted a
spasmodic laugh through his chattering teeth. No one moved away. The little=
kassab
wiped his face and went on in his cracked voice, to the accompaniment of the
swishing sounds made by the seas that swept regularly astern along the ship=
's
side.
"Have you he=
ard
him shout at the wind--louder than the wind? I have heard, being far forwar=
d.
And before, too, in the many years I served this white man I have heard him
often cry magic words that make all safe. Ya-wa! This is truth. Ask Wasub w=
ho
is a Haji, even as I am."
"I have seen
white men's ships with their masts broken--also wrecked like our own
praus," remarked sadly a lean, lank fellow who shivered beside the kas=
sab,
hanging his head and trying to grasp his shoulder blades.
"True,"
admitted the kassab. "They are all the children of Satan but to some m=
ore
favour is shown. To obey such men on the sea or in a fight is good. I saw h=
im
who is master here fight with wild men who eat their enemies--far away to t=
he
eastward--and I dealt blows by his side without fear; for the charms he, no
doubt, possesses protect his servants also. I am a believer and the Stoned =
One
can not touch my forehead. Yet the reward of victory comes from the accurse=
d.
For six years have I sailed with that white man; first as one who minds the
rudder, for I am a man of the sea, born in a prau, and am skilled in such w=
ork.
And now, because of my great knowledge of his desires, I have the care of a=
ll things
in this ship."
Several voices
muttered, "True. True." They remained apathetic and patient, in t=
he
rush of wind, under the repeated short flights of sprays. The slight roll of
the ship balanced them stiffly all together where they stood propped against
the big boat. The breeze humming between the inclined masts enveloped their
dark and silent figures in the unceasing resonance of its breath.
The brig's head h=
ad
been laid so as to pass a little to windward of the small islands of the
Carimata group. They had been till then hidden in the night, but now both m=
en
on the lookout reported land ahead in one long cry. Lingard, standing to
leeward abreast of the wheel, watched the islet first seen. When it was nea=
rly
abeam of the brig he gave his orders, and Wasub hurried off to the main dec=
k.
The helm was put down, the yards on the main came slowly square and the wet
canvas of the main-topsail clung suddenly to the mast after a single heavy
flap. The dazzling streak of the ship's wake vanished. The vessel lost her =
way and
began to dip her bows into the quick succession of the running head seas. A=
nd
at every slow plunge of the craft, the song of the wind would swell louder
amongst the waving spars, with a wild and mournful note.
Just as the brig's
boat had been swung out, ready for lowering, the yacht's gig hauled up by i=
ts
line appeared tossing and splashing on the lee quarter. Carter stood up in =
the
stern sheets balancing himself cleverly to the disordered motion of his
cockleshell. He hailed the brig twice to know what was the matter, not being
able from below and in the darkness to make out what that confused group of=
men
on the poop were about. He got no answer, though he could see the shape of a
man standing by himself aft, and apparently watching him. He was going to
repeat his hail for the third time when he heard the rattling of tackles
followed by a heavy splash, a burst of voices, scrambling hollow sounds--an=
d a dark
mass detaching itself from the brig's side swept past him on the crest of a
passing wave. For less than a second he could see on the shimmer of the nig=
ht
sky the shape of a boat, the heads of men, the blades of oars pointing upwa=
rd
while being got out hurriedly. Then all this sank out of sight, reappeared =
once
more far off and hardly discernible, before vanishing for good.
"Why, they've
lowered a boat!" exclaimed Carter, falling back in his seat. He rememb=
ered
that he had seen only a few hours ago three native praus lurking amongst th=
ose
very islands. For a moment he had the idea of casting off to go in chase of
that boat, so as to find out. . . . Find out what? He gave up his idea at o=
nce.
What could he do?
The conviction th=
at
the yacht, and everything belonging to her, were in some indefinite but very
real danger, took afresh a strong hold of him, and the persuasion that the
master of the brig was going there to help did not by any means assuage his
alarm. The fact only served to complicate his uneasiness with a sense of
mystery.
The white man who
spoke as if that sea was all his own, or as if people intruded upon his pri=
vacy
by taking the liberty of getting wrecked on a coast where he and his friends
did some queer business, seemed to him an undesirable helper. That the boat=
had
been lowered to communicate with the praus seen and avoided by him in the
evening he had no doubt. The thought had flashed on him at once. It had an =
ugly
look. Yet the best thing to do after all was to hang on and get back to the=
yacht
and warn them. . . . Warn them against whom? The man had been perfectly open
with him. Warn them against what? It struck him that he hadn't the slightes=
t conception
of what would happen, of what was even likely to happen. That strange rescu=
er
himself was bringing the news of danger. Danger from the natives of course.=
And
yet he was in communication with those natives. That was evident. That boat
going off in the night. . . . Carter swore heartily to himself. His perplex=
ity
became positive bodily pain as he sat, wet, uncomfortable, and still, one h=
and
on the tiller, thrown up and down in headlong swings of his boat. And before
his eyes, towering high, the black hull of the brig also rose and fell, set=
ting
her stern down in the sea, now and again, with a tremendous and foaming spl=
ash.
Not a sound from her reached Carter's ears. She seemed an abandoned craft b=
ut
for the outline of a man's head and body still visible in a watchful attitu=
de
above the taffrail.
Carter told his
bowman to haul up closer and hailed:
"Brig ahoy.
Anything wrong?"
He waited, listen=
ing.
The shadowy man still watched. After some time a curt "No" came b=
ack
in answer.
"Are you goi=
ng
to keep hove-to long?" shouted Carter.
"Don't know.=
Not
long. Drop your boat clear of the ship. Drop clear. Do damage if you
don't."
"Slack away,
John!" said Carter in a resigned tone to the elderly seaman in the bow.
"Slack away and let us ride easy to the full scope. They don't seem ve=
ry
talkative on board there."
Even while he was
speaking the line ran out and the regular undulations of the passing seas d=
rove
the boat away from the brig. Carter turned a little in his seat to look at =
the
land. It loomed up dead to leeward like a lofty and irregular cone only a m=
ile
or a mile and a half distant. The noise of the surf beating upon its base w=
as
heard against the wind in measured detonations. The fatigue of many days sp=
ent
in the boat asserted itself above the restlessness of Carter's thoughts and=
, gradually,
he lost the notion of the passing time without altogether losing the
consciousness of his situation.
In the intervals =
of
that benumbed stupor--rather than sleep--he was aware that the interrupted
noise of the surf had grown into a continuous great rumble, swelling
periodically into a loud roar; that the high islet appeared now bigger, and
that a white fringe of foam was visible at its feet. Still there was no sti=
r or
movement of any kind on board the brig. He noticed that the wind was modera=
ting
and the sea going down with it, and then dozed off again for a minute. When
next he opened his eyes with a start, it was just in time to see with surpr=
ise
a new star soar noiselessly straight up from behind the land, take up its
position in a brilliant constellation--and go out suddenly. Two more follow=
ed, ascending
together, and after reaching about the same elevation, expired side by side=
.
"Them's rock=
ets,
sir--ain't they?" said one of the men in a muffled voice.
"Aye,
rockets," grunted Carter. "And now, what's the next move?" h=
e muttered
to himself dismally.
He got his answer=
in
the fierce swishing whirr of a slender ray of fire that, shooting violently
upward from the sombre hull of the brig, dissolved at once into a dull red
shower of falling sparks. Only one, white and brilliant, remained alone poi=
sed
high overhead, and after glowing vividly for a second, exploded with a feeb=
le
report. Almost at the same time he saw the brig's head fall off the wind, m=
ade
out the yards swinging round to fill the main topsail, and heard distinctly=
the
thud of the first wave thrown off by the advancing bows. The next minute the
tow-line got the strain and his boat started hurriedly after the brig with a
sudden jerk.
Leaning forward, =
wide
awake and attentive, Carter steered. His men sat one behind another with
shoulders up, and arched backs, dozing, uncomfortable but patient, upon the
thwarts. The care requisite to steer the boat properly in the track of the
seething and disturbed water left by the brig in her rapid course prevented=
him
from reflecting much upon the incertitude of the future and upon his own
unusual situation.
Now he was only
exceedingly anxious to see the yacht again, and it was with a feeling of ve=
ry
real satisfaction that he saw all plain sail being made on the brig. Through
the remaining hours of the night he sat grasping the tiller and keeping his
eyes on the shadowy and high pyramid of canvas gliding steadily ahead of his
boat with a slight balancing movement from side to side.
IV
It was noon before
the brig, piloted by Lingard through the deep channels between the outer co=
ral
reefs, rounded within pistol-shot a low hummock of sand which marked the en=
d of
a long stretch of stony ledges that, being mostly awash, showed a black head
only, here and there amongst the hissing brown froth of the yellow sea. As =
the
brig drew clear of the sandy patch there appeared, dead to windward and bey=
ond
a maze of broken water, sandspits, and clusters of rocks, the black hull of=
the
yacht heeling over, high and motionless upon the great expanse of glittering
shallows. Her long, naked spars were inclined slightly as if she had been
sailing with a good breeze. There was to the lookers-on aboard the brig
something sad and disappointing in the yacht's aspect as she lay perfectly
still in an attitude that in a seaman's mind is associated with the idea of
rapid motion.
"Here she
is!" said Shaw, who, clad in a spotless white suit, came just then from
forward where he had been busy with the anchors. "She is well on,
sir--isn't she? Looks like a mudflat to me from here."
"Yes. It is a
mudflat," said Lingard, slowly, raising the long glass to his eye.
"Haul the mainsail up, Mr. Shaw," he went on while he took a stea=
dy
look at the yacht. "We will have to work in short tacks here."
He put the glass =
down
and moved away from the rail. For the next hour he handled his little vesse=
l in
the intricate and narrow channel with careless certitude, as if every stone,
every grain of sand upon the treacherous bottom had been plainly disclosed =
to
his sight. He handled her in the fitful and unsteady breeze with a
matter-of-fact audacity that made Shaw, forward at his station, gasp in she=
er
alarm. When heading toward the inshore shoals the brig was never put round =
till
the quick, loud cries of the leadsmen announced that there were no more tha=
n three
feet of water under her keel; and when standing toward the steep inner edge=
of
the long reef, where the lead was of no use, the helm would be put down only
when the cutwater touched the faint line of the bordering foam. Lingard's l=
ove
for his brig was a man's love, and was so great that it could never be appe=
ased
unless he called on her to put forth all her qualities and her power, to re=
pay
his exacting affection by a faithfulness tried to the very utmost limit of
endurance. Every flutter of the sails flew down from aloft along the taut
leeches, to enter his heart in a sense of acute delight; and the gentle mur=
mur
of water alongside, which, continuous and soft, showed that in all her wind=
ings
his incomparable craft had never, even for an instant, ceased to carry her =
way,
was to him more precious and inspiring than the soft whisper of tender words
would have been to another man. It was in such moments that he lived intens=
ely,
in a flush of strong feeling that made him long to press his little vessel =
to
his breast. She was his perfect world full of trustful joy.
The people on boa=
rd
the yacht, who watched eagerly the first sail they had seen since they had =
been
ashore on that deserted part of the coast, soon made her out, with some
disappointment, to be a small merchant brig beating up tack for tack along =
the
inner edge of the reef--probably with the intention to communicate and offer
assistance. The general opinion among the seafaring portion of her crew was
that little effective assistance could be expected from a vessel of that
description. Only the sailing-master of the yacht remarked to the boatswain
(who had the advantage of being his first cousin): "This man is well
acquainted here; you can see that by the way he handles his brig. I shan't =
be
sorry to have somebody to stand by us. Can't tell when we will get off this
mud, George."
A long board, sai=
led
very close, enabled the brig to fetch the southern limit of discoloured wat=
er
over the bank on which the yacht had stranded. On the very edge of the muddy
patch she was put in stays for the last time. As soon as she had paid off on
the other tack, sail was shortened smartly, and the brig commenced the stre=
tch
that was to bring her to her anchorage, under her topsails, lower staysails=
and
jib. There was then less than a quarter of a mile of shallow water between =
her
and the yacht; but while that vessel had gone ashore with her head to the e=
astward
the brig was moving slowly in a west-northwest direction, and consequently,
sailed--so to speak--past the whole length of the yacht. Lingard saw every =
soul
in the schooner on deck, watching his advent in a silence which was as unbr=
oken
and perfect as that on board his own vessel.
A little man with=
a
red face framed in white whiskers waved a gold-laced cap above the rail in =
the
waist of the yacht. Lingard raised his arm in return. Further aft, under the
white awnings, he could see two men and a woman. One of the men and the lady
were in blue. The other man, who seemed very tall and stood with his arm
entwined round an awning stanchion above his head, was clad in white. Linga=
rd
saw them plainly. They looked at the brig through binoculars, turned their
faces to one another, moved their lips, seemed surprised. A large dog put h=
is forepaws
on the rail, and, lifting up his big, black head, sent out three loud and
plaintive barks, then dropped down out of sight. A sudden stir and an
appearance of excitement amongst all hands on board the yacht was caused by
their perceiving that the boat towing astern of the stranger was their own =
second
gig.
Arms were
outstretched with pointing fingers. Someone shouted out a long sentence of
which not a word could be made out; and then the brig, having reached the
western limit of the bank, began to move diagonally away, increasing her
distance from the yacht but bringing her stern gradually into view. The peo=
ple
aft, Lingard noticed, left their places and walked over to the taffrail so =
as
to keep him longer in sight.
When about a mile= off the bank and nearly in line with the stern of the yacht the brig's topsails fluttered and the yards came down slowly on the caps; the fore and aft canv= as ran down; and for some time she floated quietly with folded wings upon the transparent sheet of water, under the radiant silence of the sky. Then her anchor went to the bottom with a rumbling noise resembling the roll of dist= ant thunder. In a moment her head tended to the last puffs of the northerly airs and the ensign at the peak stirred, unfurled itself slowly, collapsed, flew= out again, and finally hung down straight and still, as if weighted with lead.<= o:p>
"Dead calm,
sir," said Shaw to Lingard. "Dead calm again. We got into this fu=
nny
place in the nick of time, sir."
They stood for a
while side by side, looking round upon the coast and the sea. The brig had =
been
brought up in the middle of a broad belt of clear water. To the north rocky
ledges showed in black and white lines upon the slight swell setting in from
there. A small island stood out from the broken water like the square tower=
of
some submerged building. It was about two miles distant from the brig. To t=
he
eastward the coast was low; a coast of green forests fringed with dark
mangroves. There was in its sombre dullness a clearly defined opening, as i=
f a
small piece had been cut out with a sharp knife. The water in it shone like=
a
patch of polished silver. Lingard pointed it out to Shaw.
"This is the
entrance to the place where we are going," he said.
Shaw stared,
round-eyed.
"I thought y=
ou
came here on account of this here yacht," he stammered, surprised.
"Ah. The
yacht," said Lingard, musingly, keeping his eyes on the break in the
coast. "The yacht--" He stamped his foot suddenly. "I would =
give
all I am worth and throw in a few days of life into the bargain if I could =
get
her off and away before to-night."
He calmed down, a=
nd
again stood gazing at the land. A little within the entrance from behind the
wall of forests an invisible fire belched out steadily the black and heavy
convolutions of thick smoke, which stood out high, like a twisted and shive=
ring
pillar against the clear blue of the sky.
"We must stop
that game, Mr. Shaw," said Lingard, abruptly.
"Yes, sir. W=
hat
game?" asked Shaw, looking round in wonder.
"This
smoke," said Lingard, impatiently. "It's a signal."
"Certainly,
sir--though I don't see how we can do it. It seems far inland. A signal for
what, sir?"
"It was not
meant for us," said Lingard in an unexpectedly savage tone. "Here,
Shaw, make them put a blank charge into that forecastle gun. Tell 'em to ram
hard the wadding and grease the mouth. We want to make a good noise. If old
Jorgenson hears it, that fire will be out before you have time to turn round
twice. . . . In a minute, Mr. Carter."
The yacht's boat =
had
come alongside as soon as the brig had been brought up, and Carter had been
waiting to take Lingard on board the yacht. They both walked now to the
gangway. Shaw, following his commander, stood by to take his last orders.
"Put all the
boats in the water, Mr. Shaw," Lingard was saying, with one foot on the
rail, ready to leave his ship, "and mount the four-pounder swivel in t=
he
longboat's bow. Cast off the sea lashings of the guns, but don't run 'em out
yet. Keep the topsails loose and the jib ready for setting, I may want the
sails in a hurry. Now, Mr. Carter, I am ready for you."
"Shove off,
boys," said Carter as soon as they were seated in the boat. "Shove
off, and give way for a last pull before you get a long rest."
The men lay back =
on
their oars, grunting. Their faces were drawn, grey and streaked with the dr=
ied
salt sprays. They had the worried expression of men who had a long call made
upon their endurance. Carter, heavy-eyed and dull, steered for the yacht's
gangway. Lingard asked as they were crossing the brig's bows:
"Water enough
alongside your craft, I suppose?"
"Yes. Eight =
to
twelve feet," answered Carter, hoarsely. "Say, Captain! Where's y=
our
show of cutthroats? Why! This sea is as empty as a church on a week-day.&qu=
ot;
The booming repor=
t,
nearly over his head, of the brig's eighteen-pounder interrupted him. A rou=
nd
puff of white vapour, spreading itself lazily, clung in fading shreds about=
the
foreyard. Lingard, turning half round in the stern sheets, looked at the sm=
oke
on the shore. Carter remained silent, staring sleepily at the yacht they we=
re
approaching. Lingard kept watching the smoke so intensely that he almost fo=
rgot
where he was, till Carter's voice pronouncing sharply at his ear the words
"way enough," recalled him to himself.
They were in the
shadow of the yacht and coming alongside her ladder. The master of the brig
looked upward into the face of a gentleman, with long whiskers and a shaved
chin, staring down at him over the side through a single eyeglass. As he put
his foot on the bottom step he could see the shore smoke still ascending,
unceasing and thick; but even as he looked the very base of the black pillar
rose above the ragged line of tree-tops. The whole thing floated clear away
from the earth, and rolling itself into an irregularly shaped mass, drifted=
out
to seaward, travelling slowly over the blue heavens, like a threatening and=
lonely
cloud.
PART II. THE SHORE OF REF=
UGE
I
The coast off whi=
ch
the little brig, floating upright above her anchor, seemed to guard the high
hull of the yacht has no distinctive features. It is land without form. It
stretches away without cape or bluff, long and low--indefinitely; and when =
the
heavy gusts of the northeast monsoon drive the thick rain slanting over the
sea, it is seen faintly under the grey sky, black and with a blurred outline
like the straight edge of a dissolving shore. In the long season of uncloud=
ed
days, it presents to view only a narrow band of earth that appears crushed =
flat
upon the vast level of waters by the weight of the sky, whose immense dome
rests on it in a line as fine and true as that of the sea horizon itself.
Notwithstanding i=
ts
nearness to the centres of European power, this coast has been known for ag=
es
to the armed wanderers of these seas as "The Shore of Refuge." It=
has
no specific name on the charts, and geography manuals don't mention it at a=
ll;
but the wreckage of many defeats unerringly drifts into its creeks. Its
approaches are extremely difficult for a stranger. Looked at from seaward, =
the
innumerable islets fringing what, on account of its vast size, may be called
the mainland, merge into a background that presents not a single landmark to
point the way through the intricate channels. It may be said that in a belt=
of
sea twenty miles broad along that low shore there is much more coral, mud, =
sand,
and stones than actual sea water. It was amongst the outlying shoals of this
stretch that the yacht had gone ashore and the events consequent upon her
stranding took place.
The diffused ligh=
t of
the short daybreak showed the open water to the westward, sleeping, smooth =
and
grey, under a faded heaven. The straight coast threw a heavy belt of gloom
along the shoals, which, in the calm of expiring night, were unmarked by the
slightest ripple. In the faint dawn the low clumps of bushes on the sandban=
ks
appeared immense.
Two figures,
noiseless like two shadows, moved slowly over the beach of a rocky islet, a=
nd
stopped side by side on the very edge of the water. Behind them, between the
mats from which they had arisen, a small heap of black embers smouldered
quietly. They stood upright and perfectly still, but for the slight movemen=
t of
their heads from right to left and back again as they swept their gaze thro=
ugh
the grey emptiness of the waters where, about two miles distant, the hull of
the yacht loomed up to seaward, black and shapeless, against the wan sky.
The two figures
looked beyond without exchanging as much as a murmur. The taller of the two
grounded, at arm's length, the stock of a gun with a long barrel; the hair =
of
the other fell down to its waist; and, near by, the leaves of creepers droo=
ping
from the summit of the steep rock stirred no more than the festooned stone.=
The
faint light, disclosing here and there a gleam of white sandbanks and the
blurred hummocks of islets scattered within the gloom of the coast, the pro=
found
silence, the vast stillness all round, accentuated the loneliness of the tw=
o human
beings who, urged by a sleepless hope, had risen thus, at break of day, to =
look
afar upon the veiled face of the sea.
"Nothing!&qu=
ot;
said the man with a sigh, and as if awakening from a long period of musing.=
He was clad in a
jacket of coarse blue cotton, of the kind a poor fisherman might own, and he
wore it wide open on a muscular chest the colour and smoothness of bronze. =
From
the twist of threadbare sarong wound tightly on the hips protruded outward =
to
the left the ivory hilt, ringed with six bands of gold, of a weapon that wo=
uld
not have disgraced a ruler. Silver glittered about the flintlock and the
hardwood stock of his gun. The red and gold handkerchief folded round his h=
ead
was of costly stuff, such as is woven by high-born women in the households =
of chiefs,
only the gold threads were tarnished and the silk frayed in the folds. His =
head
was thrown back, the dropped eyelids narrowed the gleam of his eyes. His fa=
ce
was hairless, the nose short with mobile nostrils, and the smile of careless
good-humour seemed to have been permanently wrought, as if with a delicate
tool, into the slight hollows about the corners of rather full lips. His
upright figure had a negligent elegance. But in the careless face, in the e=
asy
gestures of the whole man there was something attentive and restrained.
After giving the
offing a last searching glance, he turned and, facing the rising sun, walked
bare-footed on the elastic sand. The trailed butt of his gun made a deep
furrow. The embers had ceased to smoulder. He looked down at them pensively=
for
a while, then called over his shoulder to the girl who had remained behind,
still scanning the sea:
"The fire is
out, Immada."
At the sound of h=
is
voice the girl moved toward the mats. Her black hair hung like a mantle. Her
sarong, the kilt-like garment which both sexes wear, had the national check=
of
grey and red, but she had not completed her attire by the belt, scarves, the
loose upper wrappings, and the head-covering of a woman. A black silk jacke=
t,
like that of a man of rank, was buttoned over her bust and fitted closely to
her slender waist. The edge of a stand-up collar, stiff with gold embroider=
y, rubbed
her cheek. She had no bracelets, no anklets, and although dressed practical=
ly
in man's clothes, had about her person no weapon of any sort. Her arms hung
down in exceedingly tight sleeves slit a little way up from the wrist,
gold-braided and with a row of small gold buttons. She walked, brown and al=
ert,
all of a piece, with short steps, the eyes lively in an impassive little fa=
ce,
the arched mouth closed firmly; and her whole person breathed in its rigid
grace the fiery gravity of youth at the beginning of the task of life--at t=
he
beginning of beliefs and hopes.
This was the day =
of
Lingard's arrival upon the coast, but, as is known, the brig, delayed by the
calm, did not appear in sight of the shallows till the morning was far
advanced. Disappointed in their hope to see the expected sail shining in the
first rays of the rising sun, the man and the woman, without attempting to
relight the fire, lounged on their sleeping mats. At their feet a common ca=
noe,
hauled out of the water, was, for more security, moored by a grass rope to =
the
shaft of a long spear planted firmly on the white beach, and the incoming t=
ide
lapped monotonously against its stern.
The girl, twistin=
g up
her black hair, fastened it with slender wooden pins. The man, reclining at
full length, had made room on his mat for the gun--as one would do for a
friend--and, supported on his elbow, looked toward the yacht with eyes whose
fixed dreaminess like a transparent veil would show the slow passage of eve=
ry
gloomy thought by deepening gradually into a sombre stare.
"We have seen
three sunrises on this islet, and no friend came from the sea," he said
without changing his attitude, with his back toward the girl who sat on the
other side of the cold embers.
"Yes; and the
moon is waning," she answered in a low voice. "The moon is waning=
. Yet
he promised to be here when the nights are light and the water covers the
sandbanks as far as the bushes."
"The travell=
er
knows the time of his setting out, but not the time of his return,"
observed the man, calmly.
The girl sighed.<= o:p>
"The nights =
of
waiting are long," she murmured.
"And sometim=
es
they are vain," said the man with the same composure. "Perhaps he
will never return."
"Why?"
exclaimed the girl.
"The road is
long and the heart may grow cold," was the answer in a quiet voice.
"If he does not return it is because he has forgotten."
"Oh, Hassim,=
it
is because he is dead," cried the girl, indignantly.
The man, looking
fixedly to seaward, smiled at the ardour of her tone.
They were brother=
and
sister, and though very much alike, the family resemblance was lost in the =
more
general traits common to the whole race.
They were natives=
of
Wajo and it is a common saying amongst the Malay race that to be a successf=
ul
traveller and trader a man must have some Wajo blood in his veins. And with
those people trading, which means also travelling afar, is a romantic and an
honourable occupation. The trader must possess an adventurous spirit and a =
keen
understanding; he should have the fearlessness of youth and the sagacity of
age; he should be diplomatic and courageous, so as to secure the favour of =
the
great and inspire fear in evil-doers.
These qualities
naturally are not expected in a shopkeeper or a Chinaman pedlar; they are
considered indispensable only for a man who, of noble birth and perhaps rel=
ated
to the ruler of his own country, wanders over the seas in a craft of his own
and with many followers; carries from island to island important news as we=
ll
as merchandise; who may be trusted with secret messages and valuable goods;=
a
man who, in short, is as ready to intrigue and fight as to buy and sell. Su=
ch
is the ideal trader of Wajo.
Trading, thus
understood, was the occupation of ambitious men who played an occult but
important part in all those national risings, religious disturbances, and a=
lso
in the organized piratical movements on a large scale which, during the fir=
st
half of the last century, affected the fate of more than one native dynasty
and, for a few years at least, seriously endangered the Dutch rule in the E=
ast.
When, at the cost of much blood and gold, a comparative peace had been impo=
sed
on the islands the same occupation, though shorn of its glorious possibilit=
ies,
remained attractive for the most adventurous of a restless race. The younger
sons and relations of many a native ruler traversed the seas of the
Archipelago, visited the innumerable and little-known islands, and the then
practically unknown shores of New Guinea; every spot where European trade h=
ad
not penetrated--from Aru to Atjeh, from Sumbawa to Palawan.
II
It was in the most
unknown perhaps of such spots, a small bay on the coast of New Guinea, that
young Pata Hassim, the nephew of one of the greatest chiefs of Wajo, met
Lingard for the first time.
He was a trader a=
fter
the Wajo manner, and in a stout sea-going prau armed with two guns and mann=
ed
by young men who were related to his family by blood or dependence, had com=
e in
there to buy some birds of paradise skins for the old Sultan of Ternate; a
risky expedition undertaken not in the way of business but as a matter of
courtesy toward the aged Sultan who had entertained him sumptuously in that
dismal brick palace at Ternate for a month or more.
While lying off t=
he
village, very much on his guard, waiting for the skins and negotiating with=
the
treacherous coast-savages who are the go-betweens in that trade, Hassim saw=
one
morning Lingard's brig come to an anchor in the bay, and shortly afterward
observed a white man of great stature with a beard that shone like gold, la=
nd
from a boat and stroll on unarmed, though followed by four Malays of the br=
ig's
crew, toward the native village.
Hassim was struck
with wonder and amazement at the cool recklessness of such a proceeding; an=
d,
after; in true Malay fashion, discussing with his people for an hour or so =
the
urgency of the case, he also landed, but well escorted and armed, with the
intention of going to see what would happen.
The affair really=
was
very simple, "such as"--Lingard would say--"such as might ha=
ve
happened to anybody." He went ashore with the intention to look for so=
me
stream where he could conveniently replenish his water casks, this being re=
ally
the motive which had induced him to enter the bay.
While, with his m=
en
close by and surrounded by a mop-headed, sooty crowd, he was showing a few
cotton handkerchiefs, and trying to explain by signs the object of his land=
ing,
a spear, lunged from behind, grazed his neck. Probably the Papuan wanted on=
ly
to ascertain whether such a creature could be killed or hurt, and most like=
ly
firmly believed that it could not; but one of Lingard's seamen at once
retaliated by striking at the experimenting savage with his parang--three s=
uch
choppers brought for the purpose of clearing the bush, if necessary, being =
all
the weapons the party from the brig possessed.
A deadly tumult e=
nsued
with such suddenness that Lingard, turning round swiftly, saw his defender,
already speared in three places, fall forward at his feet. Wasub, who was
there, and afterward told the story once a week on an average, used to horr=
ify
his hearers by showing how the man blinked his eyes quickly before he fell.
Lingard was unarmed. To the end of his life he remained incorrigibly reckle=
ss
in that respect, explaining that he was "much too quick tempered to ca=
rry
firearms on the chance of a row. And if put to it," he argued, "I=
can
make shift to kill a man with my fist anyhow; and then--don't ye see--you k=
now
what you're doing and are not so apt to start a trouble from sheer temper o=
r funk--see?"
In this case he d=
id
his best to kill a man with a blow from the shoulder and catching up anothe=
r by
the middle flung him at the naked, wild crowd. "He hurled men about as=
the
wind hurls broken boughs. He made a broad way through our enemies!"
related Wasub in his jerky voice. It is more probable that Lingard's quick
movements and the amazing aspect of such a strange being caused the warrior=
s to
fall back before his rush.
Taking instant
advantage of their surprise and fear, Lingard, followed by his men, dashed
along the kind of ruinous jetty leading to the village which was erected as
usual over the water. They darted into one of the miserable huts built of
rotten mats and bits of decayed canoes, and in this shelter showing daylight
through all its sides, they had time to draw breath and realize that their
position was not much improved.
The women and
children screaming had cleared out into the bush, while at the shore end of=
the
jetty the warriors capered and yelled, preparing for a general attack. Ling=
ard
noticed with mortification that his boat-keeper apparently had lost his hea=
d,
for, instead of swimming off to the ship to give the alarm, as he was perfe=
ctly
able to do, the man actually struck out for a small rock a hundred yards aw=
ay
and was frantically trying to climb up its perpendicular side. The tide bei=
ng out,
to jump into the horrible mud under the houses would have been almost certa=
in
death. Nothing remained therefore--since the miserable dwelling would not h=
ave
withstood a vigorous kick, let alone a siege--but to rush back on shore and
regain possession of the boat. To this Lingard made up his mind quickly and,
arming himself with a crooked stick he found under his hand, sallied forth =
at
the head of his three men. As he bounded along, far in advance, he had just
time to perceive clearly the desperate nature of the undertaking, when he h=
eard
two shots fired to his right. The solid mass of black bodies and frizzly he=
ads
in front of him wavered and broke up. They did not run away, however.
Lingard pursued h=
is
course, but now with that thrill of exultation which even a faint prospect =
of
success inspires in a sanguine man. He heard a shout of many voices far off,
then there was another report of a shot, and a musket ball fired at long ra=
nge
spurted a tiny jet of sand between him and his wild enemies. His next bound
would have carried him into their midst had they awaited his onset, but his
uplifted arm found nothing to strike. Black backs were leaping high or glid=
ing
horizontally through the grass toward the edge of the bush.
He flung his stic=
k at
the nearest pair of black shoulders and stopped short. The tall grasses swa=
yed
themselves into a rest, a chorus of yells and piercing shrieks died out in a
dismal howl, and all at once the wooded shores and the blue bay seemed to f=
all
under the spell of a luminous stillness. The change was as startling as the
awakening from a dream. The sudden silence struck Lingard as amazing.
He broke it by
lifting his voice in a stentorian shout, which arrested the pursuit of his =
men.
They retired reluctantly, glaring back angrily at the wall of a jungle where
not a single leaf stirred. The strangers, whose opportune appearance had
decided the issue of that adventure, did not attempt to join in the pursuit=
but
halted in a compact body on the ground lately occupied by the savages.
Lingard and the y=
oung
leader of the Wajo traders met in the splendid light of noonday, and amidst=
the
attentive silence of their followers, on the very spot where the Malay seam=
an
had lost his life. Lingard, striding up from one side, thrust out his open
palm; Hassim responded at once to the frank gesture and they exchanged their
first hand-clasp over the prostrate body, as if fate had already exacted the
price of a death for the most ominous of her gifts--the gift of friendship =
that
sometimes contains the whole good or evil of a life.
"I'll never
forget this day," cried Lingard in a hearty tone; and the other smiled
quietly.
Then after a short
pause--"Will you burn the village for vengeance?" asked the Malay
with a quick glance down at the dead Lascar who, on his face and with stret=
ched
arms, seemed to cling desperately to that earth of which he had known so
little.
Lingard hesitated=
.
"No," he
said, at last. "It would do good to no one."
"True,"
said Hassim, gently, "but was this man your debtor--a slave?"
"Slave?"=
; cried
Lingard. "This is an English brig. Slave? No. A free man like
myself."
"Hai. He is
indeed free now," muttered the Malay with another glance downward.
"But who will pay the bereaved for his life?"
"If there is
anywhere a woman or child belonging to him, I--my serang would know--I shall
seek them out," cried Lingard, remorsefully.
"You speak l=
ike
a chief," said Hassim, "only our great men do not go to battle wi=
th
naked hands. O you white men! O the valour of you white men!"
"It was foll=
y,
pure folly," protested Lingard, "and this poor fellow has paid for
it."
"He could not
avoid his destiny," murmured the Malay. "It is in my mind my trad=
ing
is finished now in this place," he added, cheerfully.
Lingard expressed=
his
regret.
"It is no
matter, it is no matter," assured the other courteously, and after Lin=
gard
had given a pressing invitation for Hassim and his two companions of high r=
ank
to visit the brig, the two parties separated.
The evening was c=
alm
when the Malay craft left its berth near the shore and was rowed slowly acr=
oss
the bay to Lingard's anchorage. The end of a stout line was thrown on board,
and that night the white man's brig and the brown man's prau swung together=
to
the same anchor.
The sun setting to seaward shot its last rays between the headlands, when the body of the kill= ed Lascar, wrapped up decently in a white sheet, according to Mohammedan usage, was lowered gently below the still waters of the bay upon which his curious glances, only a few hours before, had rested for the first time. At the mom= ent the dead man, released from slip-ropes, disappeared without a ripple before= the eyes of his shipmates, the bright flash and the heavy report of the brig's = bow gun were succeeded by the muttering echoes of the encircling shores and by = the loud cries of sea birds that, wheeling in clouds, seemed to scream after the departing seaman a wild and eternal good-bye. The master of the brig, making his way aft with hanging head, was followed by low murmurs of pleased surpr= ise from his crew as well as from the strangers who crowded the main deck. In s= uch acts performed simply, from conviction, what may be called the romantic sid= e of the man's nature came out; that responsive sensitiveness to the shadowy app= eals made by life and death, which is the groundwork of a chivalrous character.<= o:p>
Lingard entertain=
ed
his three visitors far into the night. A sheep from the brig's sea stock was
given to the men of the prau, while in the cabin, Hassim and his two friend=
s,
sitting in a row on the stern settee, looked very splendid with costly meta=
ls
and flawed jewels. The talk conducted with hearty friendship on Lingard's p=
art,
and on the part of the Malays with the well-bred air of discreet courtesy,
which is natural to the better class of that people, touched upon many subj=
ects
and, in the end, drifted to politics.
"It is in my
mind that you are a powerful man in your own country," said Hassim, wi=
th a
circular glance at the cuddy.
"My country =
is
upon a far-away sea where the light breezes are as strong as the winds of t=
he
rainy weather here," said Lingard; and there were low exclamations of
wonder. "I left it very young, and I don't know about my power there w=
here
great men alone are as numerous as the poor people in all your islands, Tuan
Hassim. But here," he continued, "here, which is also my
country--being an English craft and worthy of it, too--I am powerful enough=
. In
fact, I am Rajah here. This bit of my country is all my own."
The visitors were
impressed, exchanged meaning glances, nodded at each other.
"Good,
good," said Hassim at last, with a smile. "You carry your country=
and
your power with you over the sea. A Rajah upon the sea. Good!"
Lingard laughed
thunderously while the others looked amused.
"Your countr=
y is
very powerful--we know," began again Hassim after a pause, "but i=
s it
stronger than the country of the Dutch who steal our land?"
"Stronger?&q=
uot;
cried Lingard. He opened a broad palm. "Stronger? We could take them in
our hand like this--" and he closed his fingers triumphantly.
"And do you =
make
them pay tribute for their land?" enquired Hassim with eagerness.
"No,"
answered Lingard in a sobered tone; "this, Tuan Hassim, you see, is not
the custom of white men. We could, of course--but it is not the custom.&quo=
t;
"Is it
not?" said the other with a sceptical smile. "They are stronger t=
han
we are and they want tribute from us. And sometimes they get it--even from =
Wajo
where every man is free and wears a kris."
There was a perio=
d of
dead silence while Lingard looked thoughtful and the Malays gazed stonily at
nothing.
"But we burn=
our
powder amongst ourselves," went on Hassim, gently, "and blunt our
weapons upon one another."
He sighed, paused,
and then changing to an easy tone began to urge Lingard to visit Wajo "=
;for
trade and to see friends," he said, laying his hand on his breast and
inclining his body slightly.
"Aye. To tra= de with friends," cried Lingard with a laugh, "for such a ship"= --he waved his arm--"for such a vessel as this is like a household where th= ere are many behind the curtain. It is as costly as a wife and children."<= o:p>
The guests rose a=
nd
took their leave.
"You fired t=
hree
shots for me, Panglima Hassim," said Lingard, seriously, "and I h=
ave
had three barrels of powder put on board your prau; one for each shot. But =
we
are not quits."
The Malay's eyes
glittered with pleasure.
"This is ind=
eed
a friend's gift. Come to see me in my country!"
"I
promise," said Lingard, "to see you--some day."
The calm surface =
of
the bay reflected the glorious night sky, and the brig with the prau riding
astern seemed to be suspended amongst the stars in a peace that was almost
unearthly in the perfection of its unstirring silence. The last hand-shakes
were exchanged on deck, and the Malays went aboard their own craft. Next
morning, when a breeze sprang up soon after sunrise, the brig and the prau =
left
the bay together. When clear of the land Lingard made all sail and sheered
alongside to say good-bye before parting company--the brig, of course, sail=
ing
three feet to the prau's one. Hassim stood on the high deck aft.
"Prosperous
road," hailed Lingard.
"Remember the
promise!" shouted the other. "And come soon!" he went on, ra=
ising
his voice as the brig forged past. "Come soon--lest what perhaps is
written should come to pass!"
The brig shot ahe=
ad.
"What?"
yelled Lingard in a puzzled tone, "what's written?"
He listened. And
floating over the water came faintly the words:
"No one
knows!"
III
"My word! I
couldn't help liking the chap," would shout Lingard when telling the
story; and looking around at the eyes that glittered at him through the smo=
ke
of cheroots, this Brixham trawler-boy, afterward a youth in colliers,
deep-water man, gold-digger, owner and commander of "the finest brig
afloat," knew that by his listeners--seamen, traders, adventurers like
himself--this was accepted not as the expression of a feeling, but as the
highest commendation he could give his Malay friend.
"By heavens!=
I
shall go to Wajo!" he cried, and a semicircle of heads nodded grave
approbation while a slightly ironical voice said deliberately--"You ar=
e a
made man, Tom, if you get on the right side of that Rajah of yours."
"Go in--and =
look
out for yourself," cried another with a laugh.
A little professi=
onal
jealousy was unavoidable, Wajo, on account of its chronic state of disturba=
nce,
being closed to the white traders; but there was no real ill-will in the ba=
nter
of these men, who, rising with handshakes, dropped off one by one. Lingard =
went
straight aboard his vessel and, till morning, walked the poop of the brig w=
ith
measured steps. The riding lights of ships twinkled all round him; the ligh=
ts ashore
twinkled in rows, the stars twinkled above his head in a black sky; and
reflected in the black water of the roadstead twinkled far below his feet. =
And
all these innumerable and shining points were utterly lost in the immense
darkness. Once he heard faintly the rumbling chain of some vessel coming to=
an
anchor far away somewhere outside the official limits of the harbour. A
stranger to the port--thought Lingard--one of us would have stood right in.
Perhaps a ship from home? And he felt strangely touched at the thought of t=
hat
ship, weary with months of wandering, and daring not to approach the place =
of
rest. At sunrise, while the big ship from the West, her sides streaked with
rust and grey with the salt of the sea, was moving slowly in to take up a b=
erth
near the shore, Lingard left the roadstead on his way to the eastward.
A heavy gulf
thunderstorm was raging, when after a long passage and at the end of a sult=
ry
calm day, wasted in drifting helplessly in sight of his destination, Lingar=
d,
taking advantage of fitful gusts of wind, approached the shores of Wajo. Wi=
th
characteristic audacity, he held on his way, closing in with a coast to whi=
ch
he was a stranger, and on a night that would have appalled any other man; w=
hile
at every dazzling flash, Hassim's native land seemed to leap nearer at the
brig--and disappear instantly as though it had crouched low for the next sp=
ring
out of an impenetrable darkness. During the long day of the calm, he had ob=
tained
from the deck and from aloft, such good views of the coast, and had noted t=
he
lay of the land and the position of the dangers so carefully that, though at
the precise moment when he gave the order to let go the anchor, he had been=
for
some time able to see no further than if his head had been wrapped in a woo=
llen
blanket, yet the next flickering bluish flash showed him the brig, anchored
almost exactly where he had judged her to be, off a narrow white beach near=
the
mouth of a river.
He could see on t=
he
shore a high cluster of bamboo huts perched upon piles, a small grove of ta=
ll
palms all bowed together before the blast like stalks of grass, something t=
hat
might have been a palisade of pointed stakes near the water, and far off, a=
sombre
background resembling an immense wall--the forest-clad hills. Next moment, =
all
this vanished utterly from his sight, as if annihilated and, before he had =
time
to turn away, came back to view with a sudden crash, appearing unscathed and
motionless under hooked darts of flame, like some legendary country of
immortals, withstanding the wrath and fire of Heaven.
Made uneasy by the
nature of his holding ground, and fearing that in one of the terrific off-s=
hore
gusts the brig would start her anchor, Lingard remained on deck to watch ov=
er
the safety of his vessel. With one hand upon the lead-line which would give=
him
instant warning of the brig beginning to drag, he stood by the rail, most of
the time deafened and blinded, but also fascinated, by the repeated swift
visions of an unknown shore, a sight always so inspiring, as much perhaps by
its vague suggestion of danger as by the hopes of success it never fails to
awaken in the heart of a true adventurer. And its immutable aspect of profo=
und and
still repose, seen thus under streams of fire and in the midst of a violent
uproar, made it appear inconceivably mysterious and amazing.
Between the squal=
ls
there were short moments of calm, while now and then even the thunder would
cease as if to draw breath. During one of those intervals. Lingard, tired a=
nd
sleepy, was beginning to doze where he stood, when suddenly it occurred to =
him
that, somewhere below, the sea had spoken in a human voice. It had said,
"Praise be to God--" and the voice sounded small, clear, and conf=
ident,
like the voice of a child speaking in a cathedral. Lingard gave a start and
thought--I've dreamed this--and directly the sea said very close to him,
"Give a rope."
The thunder growl=
ed
wickedly, and Lingard, after shouting to the men on deck, peered down at the
water, until at last he made out floating close alongside the upturned face=
of
a man with staring eyes that gleamed at him and then blinked quickly to a f=
lash
of lightning. By that time all hands in the brig were wildly active and many
ropes-ends had been thrown over. Then together with a gust of wind, and, as=
if
blown on board, a man tumbled over the rail and fell all in a heap upon the
deck. Before any one had the time to pick him up, he leaped to his feet,
causing the people around him to step back hurriedly. A sinister blue glare
showed the bewildered faces and the petrified attitudes of men completely d=
eafened
by the accompanying peal of thunder. After a time, as if to beings plunged =
in
the abyss of eternal silence, there came to their ears an unfamiliar thin,
far-away voice saying:
"I seek the
white man."
"Here,"
cried Lingard. Then, when he had the stranger, dripping and naked but for a
soaked waistcloth, under the lamp of the cabin, he said, "I don't know
you."
"My name is
Jaffir, and I come from Pata Hassim, who is my chief and your friend. Do you
know this?"
He held up a thick
gold ring, set with a fairly good emerald.
"I have seen=
it
before on the Rajah's finger," said Lingard, looking very grave.
"It is the
witness of the truth I speak--the message from Hassim is--'Depart and
forget!'"
"I don't
forget," said Lingard, slowly. "I am not that kind of man. What f=
olly
is this?"
It is unnecessary=
to
give at full length the story told by Jaffir. It appears that on his return
home, after the meeting with Lingard, Hassim found his relative dying and a
strong party formed to oppose his rightful successor. The old Rajah Tulla d=
ied
late at night and--as Jaffir put it--before the sun rose there were already
blows exchanged in the courtyard of the ruler's dalam. This was the prelimi=
nary
fight of a civil war, fostered by foreign intrigues; a war of jungle and ri=
ver,
of assaulted stockades and forest ambushes. In this contest, both parties--=
according
to Jaffir--displayed great courage, and one of them an unswerving devotion =
to
what, almost from the first, was a lost cause. Before a month elapsed Hassi=
m,
though still chief of an armed band, was already a fugitive. He kept up the
struggle, however, with some vague notion that Lingard's arrival would turn=
the
tide.
"For weeks we
lived on wild rice; for days we fought with nothing but water in our
bellies," declaimed Jaffir in the tone of a true fire-eater.
And then he went =
on
to relate, how, driven steadily down to the sea, Hassim, with a small band =
of
followers, had been for days holding the stockade by the waterside.
"But every n=
ight
some men disappeared," confessed Jaffir. "They were weary and hun=
gry
and they went to eat with their enemies. We are only ten now--ten men and a
woman with the heart of a man, who are tonight starving, and to-morrow shall
die swiftly. We saw your ship afar all day; but you have come too late. And=
for
fear of treachery and lest harm should befall you--his friend--the Rajah ga=
ve
me the ring and I crept on my stomach over the sand, and I swam in the
night--and I, Jaffir, the best swimmer in Wajo, and the slave of Hassim, te=
ll
you--his message to you is 'Depart and forget'--and this is his
gift--take!"
He caught hold
suddenly of Lingard's hand, thrust roughly into it the ring, and then for t=
he
first time looked round the cabin with wondering but fearless eyes. They
lingered over the semicircle of bayonets and rested fondly on musket-racks.=
He
grunted in admiration.
"Ya-wa, this=
is
strength!" he murmured as if to himself. "But it has come too
late."
"Perhaps
not," cried Lingard.
"Too late,&q=
uot;
said Jaffir, "we are ten only, and at sunrise we go out to die." =
He
went to the cabin door and hesitated there with a puzzled air, being unused=
to
locks and door handles.
"What are you
going to do?" asked Lingard.
"I shall swim
back," replied Jaffir. "The message is spoken and the night can n=
ot
last forever."
"You can stop
with me," said Lingard, looking at the man searchingly.
"Hassim
waits," was the curt answer.
"Did he tell=
you
to return?" asked Lingard.
"No! What
need?" said the other in a surprised tone.
Lingard seized his
hand impulsively.
"If I had ten
men like you!" he cried.
"We are ten,=
but
they are twenty to one," said Jaffir, simply.
Lingard opened the
door.
"Do you want
anything that a man can give?" he asked.
The Malay had a
moment of hesitation, and Lingard noticed the sunken eyes, the prominent ri=
bs,
and the worn-out look of the man.
"Speak
out," he urged with a smile; "the bearer of a gift must have a re=
ward."
"A drink of
water and a handful of rice for strength to reach the shore," said Jaf=
fir
sturdily. "For over there"--he tossed his head--"we had noth=
ing
to eat to-day."
"You shall h=
ave
it--give it to you with my own hands," muttered Lingard.
He did so, and th=
us
lowered himself in Jaffir's estimation for a time. While the messenger,
squatting on the floor, ate without haste but with considerable earnestness,
Lingard thought out a plan of action. In his ignorance as to the true state=
of
affairs in the country, to save Hassim from the immediate danger of his
position was all that he could reasonably attempt. To that end Lingard prop=
osed
to swing out his long-boat and send her close inshore to take off Hassim and
his men. He knew enough of Malays to feel sure that on such a night the
besiegers, now certain of success, and being, Jaffir said, in possession of=
everything
that could float, would not be very vigilant, especially on the sea front of
the stockade. The very fact of Jaffir having managed to swim off undetected
proved that much. The brig's boat could--when the frequency of lightning
abated--approach unseen close to the beach, and the defeated party, either
stealing out one by one or making a rush in a body, would embark and be
received in the brig.
This plan was
explained to Jaffir, who heard it without the slightest mark of interest, b=
eing
apparently too busy eating. When the last grain of rice was gone, he stood =
up,
took a long pull at the water bottle, muttered: "I hear. Good. I will =
tell
Hassim," and tightening the rag round his loins, prepared to go.
"Give me time to swim ashore," he said, "and when the boat
starts, put another light beside the one that burns now like a star above y=
our
vessel. We shall see and understand. And don't send the boat till there is =
less
lightning: a boat is bigger than a man in the water. Tell the rowers to pull
for the palm-grove and cease when an oar, thrust down with a strong arm,
touches the bottom. Very soon they will hear our hail; but if no one comes =
they
must go away before daylight. A chief may prefer death to life, and we who =
are
left are all of true heart. Do you understand, O big man?"
"The chap has
plenty of sense," muttered Lingard to himself, and when they stood sid=
e by
side on the deck, he said: "But there may be enemies on the beach, O
Jaffir, and they also may shout to deceive my men. So let your hail be
Lightning! Will you remember?"
For a time Jaffir
seemed to be choking.
"Lit-ing! Is
that right? I say--is that right, O strong man?" Next moment he appear=
ed
upright and shadowy on the rail.
"Yes. That's
right. Go now," said Lingard, and Jaffir leaped off, becoming invisible
long before he struck the water. Then there was a splash; after a while a
spluttering voice cried faintly, "Lit-ing! Ah, ha!" and suddenly =
the
next thunder-squall burst upon the coast. In the crashing flares of light
Lingard had again and again the quick vision of a white beach, the inclined
palm-trees of the grove, the stockade by the sea, the forest far away: a va=
st
landscape mysterious and still--Hassim's native country sleeping unmoved un=
der
the wrath and fire of Heaven
.
IV
A Traveller visit=
ing
Wajo to-day may, if he deserves the confidence of the common people, hear t=
he
traditional account of the last civil war, together with the legend of a ch=
ief
and his sister, whose mother had been a great princess suspected of sorcery=
and
on her death-bed had communicated to these two the secrets of the art of ma=
gic.
The chief's sister especially, "with the aspect of a child and the fea=
rlessness
of a great fighter," became skilled in casting spells. They were defea=
ted
by the son of their uncle, because--will explain the narrator simply--"=
;The
courage of us Wajo people is so great that magic can do nothing against it.=
I
fought in that war. We had them with their backs to the sea." And then=
he
will go on to relate in an awed tone how on a certain night "when there
was such a thunderstorm as has been never heard of before or since" a
ship, resembling the ships of white men, appeared off the coast, "as
though she had sailed down from the clouds. She moved," he will affirm,
"with her sails bellying against the wind; in size she was like an isl=
and;
the lightning played between her masts which were as high as the summits of
mountains; a star burned low through the clouds above her. We knew it for a
star at once because no flame of man's kindling could have endured the wind=
and
rain of that night. It was such a night that we on the watch hardly dared l=
ook
upon the sea. The heavy rain was beating down our eyelids. And when day cam=
e,
the ship was nowhere to be seen, and in the stockade where the day before t=
here
were a hundred or more at our mercy, there was no one. The chief, Hassim, w=
as gone,
and the lady who was a princess in the country--and nobody knows what becam=
e of
them from that day to this. Sometimes traders from our parts talk of having
heard of them here, and heard of them there, but these are the lies of men =
who
go afar for gain. We who live in the country believe that the ship sailed b=
ack
into the clouds whence the Lady's magic made her come. Did we not see the s=
hip
with our own eyes? And as to Rajah Hassim and his sister, Mas Immada, some =
men
say one thing and some another, but God alone knows the truth."
Such is the
traditional account of Lingard's visit to the shores of Boni. And the truth=
is
he came and went the same night; for, when the dawn broke on a cloudy sky t=
he
brig, under reefed canvas and smothered in sprays, was storming along to the
southward on her way out of the Gulf. Lingard, watching over the rapid cour=
se
of his vessel, looked ahead with anxious eyes and more than once asked hims=
elf
with wonder, why, after all, was he thus pressing her under all the sail she
could carry. His hair was blown about by the wind, his mind was full of car=
e and
the indistinct shapes of many new thoughts, and under his feet, the obedient
brig dashed headlong from wave to wave.
Her owner and
commander did not know where he was going. That adventurer had only a confu=
sed
notion of being on the threshold of a big adventure. There was something to=
be
done, and he felt he would have to do it. It was expected of him. The seas
expected it; the land expected it. Men also. The story of war and of suffer=
ing;
Jaffir's display of fidelity, the sight of Hassim and his sister, the night,
the tempest, the coast under streams of fire--all this made one inspiring
manifestation of a life calling to him distinctly for interference. But what
appealed to him most was the silent, the complete, unquestioning, and
apparently uncurious, trust of these people. They came away from death stra=
ight
into his arms as it were, and remained in them passive as though there had =
been
no such thing as doubt or hope or desire. This amazing unconcern seemed to =
put
him under a heavy load of obligation.
He argued to hims=
elf
that had not these defeated men expected everything from him they could not
have been so indifferent to his action. Their dumb quietude stirred him more
than the most ardent pleading. Not a word, not a whisper, not a questioning
look even! They did not ask! It flattered him. He was also rather glad of i=
t,
because if the unconscious part of him was perfectly certain of its action,=
he,
himself, did not know what to do with those bruised and battered beings a
playful fate had delivered suddenly into his hands.
He had received t=
he
fugitives personally, had helped some over the rail; in the darkness, slash=
ed
about by lightning, he had guessed that not one of them was unwounded, and =
in
the midst of tottering shapes he wondered how on earth they had managed to
reach the long-boat that had brought them off. He caught unceremoniously in=
his
arms the smallest of these shapes and carried it into the cabin, then witho=
ut
looking at his light burden ran up again on deck to get the brig under way.
While shouting out orders he was dimly aware of someone hovering near his
elbow. It was Hassim.
"I am not re=
ady
for war," he explained, rapidly, over his shoulder, "and to-morrow
there may be no wind." Afterward for a time he forgot everybody and ev=
erything
while he conned the brig through the few outlying dangers. But in half an h=
our,
and running off with the wind on the quarter, he was quite clear of the coa=
st
and breathed freely. It was only then that he approached two others on that
poop where he was accustomed in moments of difficulty to commune alone with=
his
craft. Hassim had called his sister out of the cabin; now and then Lingard =
could
see them with fierce distinctness, side by side, and with twined arms, look=
ing
toward the mysterious country that seemed at every flash to leap away farth=
er
from the brig--unscathed and fading.
The thought upper=
most
in Lingard's mind was: "What on earth am I going to do with them?"
And no one seemed to care what he would do. Jaffir with eight others quarte=
red
on the main hatch, looked to each other's wounds and conversed interminably=
in
low tones, cheerful and quiet, like well-behaved children. Each of them had
saved his kris, but Lingard had to make a distribution of cotton cloth out =
of
his trade-goods. Whenever he passed by them, they all looked after him grav=
ely.
Hassim and Immada lived in the cuddy. The chief's sister took the air only =
in
the evening and those two could be heard every night, invisible and murmuri=
ng
in the shadows of the quarter-deck. Every Malay on board kept respectfully =
away
from them.
Lingard, on the p=
oop,
listened to the soft voices, rising and falling, in a melancholy cadence;
sometimes the woman cried out as if in anger or in pain. He would stop shor=
t.
The sound of a deep sigh would float up to him on the stillness of the nigh=
t.
Attentive stars surrounded the wandering brig and on all sides their light =
fell
through a vast silence upon a noiseless sea. Lingard would begin again to p=
ace
the deck, muttering to himself.
"Belarab's t=
he
man for this job. His is the only place where I can look for help, but I do=
n't
think I know enough to find it. I wish I had old Jorgenson here--just for t=
en
minutes."
This Jorgenson kn=
ew
things that had happened a long time ago, and lived amongst men efficient in
meeting the accidents of the day, but who did not care what would happen
to-morrow and who had no time to remember yesterday. Strictly speaking, he =
did
not live amongst them. He only appeared there from time to time. He lived in
the native quarter, with a native woman, in a native house standing in the
middle of a plot of fenced ground where grew plantains, and furnished only =
with
mats, cooking pots, a queer fishing net on two sticks, and a small mahogany=
case
with a lock and a silver plate engraved with the words "Captain H. C.
Jorgenson. Barque Wild Rose."
It was like an
inscription on a tomb. The Wild Rose was dead, and so was Captain H. C.
Jorgenson, and the sextant case was all that was left of them. Old Jorgenso=
n,
gaunt and mute, would turn up at meal times on board any trading vessel in =
the
Roads, and the stewards--Chinamen or mulattos--would sulkily put on an extra
plate without waiting for orders. When the seamen traders foregathered nois=
ily
round a glittering cluster of bottles and glasses on a lighted verandah, old
Jorgenson would emerge up the stairs as if from a dark sea, and, stepping up
with a kind of tottering jauntiness, would help himself in the first tumble=
r to
hand.
"I drink to =
you
all. No--no chair."
He would stand si=
lent
over the talking group. His taciturnity was as eloquent as the repeated war=
ning
of the slave of the feast. His flesh had gone the way of all flesh, his spi=
rit
had sunk in the turmoil of his past, but his immense and bony frame survive=
d as
if made of iron. His hands trembled but his eyes were steady. He was suppos=
ed
to know details about the end of mysterious men and of mysterious enterpris=
es.
He was an evident failure himself, but he was believed to know secrets that
would make the fortune of any man; yet there was also a general impression =
that
his knowledge was not of that nature which would make it profitable for a
moderately prudent person.
This powerful
skeleton, dressed in faded blue serge and without any kind of linen, existed
anyhow. Sometimes, if offered the job, he piloted a home ship through the
Straits of Rhio, after, however, assuring the captain:
"You don't w=
ant
a pilot; a man could go through with his eyes shut. But if you want me, I'll
come. Ten dollars."
Then, after seeing
his charge clear of the last island of the group he would go back thirty mi=
les
in a canoe, with two old Malays who seemed to be in some way his followers.=
To
travel thirty miles at sea under the equatorial sun and in a cranky dug-out
where once down you must not move, is an achievement that requires the
endurance of a fakir and the virtue of a salamander. Ten dollars was cheap =
and
generally he was in demand. When times were hard he would borrow five dolla=
rs
from any of the adventurers with the remark:
"I can't pay=
you
back, very soon, but the girl must eat, and if you want to know anything, I=
can
tell you."
It was remarkable
that nobody ever smiled at that "anything." The usual thing was to
say:
"Thank you, =
old
man; when I am pushed for a bit of information I'll come to you."
Jorgenson nodded =
then
and would say: "Remember that unless you young chaps are like we men w=
ho
ranged about here years ago, what I could tell you would be worse than
poison."
It was from
Jorgenson, who had his favourites with whom he was less silent, that Lingard
had heard of Darat-es-Salam, the "Shore of Refuge." Jorgenson had=
, as
he expressed it, "known the inside of that country just after the high=
old
times when the white-clad Padris preached and fought all over Sumatra till =
the
Dutch shook in their shoes." Only he did not say "shook" and
"shoes" but the above paraphrase conveys well enough his contempt=
uous
meaning. Lingard tried now to remember and piece together the practical bit=
s of
old Jorgenson's amazing tales; but all that had remained with him was an
approximate idea of the locality and a very strong but confused notion of t=
he
dangerous nature of its approaches. He hesitated, and the brig, answering in
her movements to the state of the man's mind, lingered on the road, seemed =
to
hesitate also, swinging this way and that on the days of calm.
It was just becau=
se
of that hesitation that a big New York ship, loaded with oil in cases for
Japan, and passing through the Billiton passage, sighted one morning a very
smart brig being hove-to right in the fair-way and a little to the east of
Carimata. The lank skipper, in a frock-coat, and the big mate with heavy
moustaches, judged her almost too pretty for a Britisher, and wondered at t=
he
man on board laying his topsail to the mast for no reason that they could s=
ee.
The big ship's sails fanned her along, flapping in the light air, and when =
the
brig was last seen far astern she had still her mainyard aback as if waiting
for someone. But when, next day, a London tea-clipper passed on the same tr=
ack,
she saw no pretty brig hesitating, all white and still at the parting of the
ways. All that night Lingard had talked with Hassim while the stars streamed
from east to west like an immense river of sparks above their heads. Immada
listened, sometimes exclaiming low, sometimes holding her breath. She clapp=
ed
her hands once. A faint dawn appeared.
"You shall be
treated like my father in the country," Hassim was saying. A heavy dew
dripped off the rigging and the darkened sails were black on the pale azure=
of
the sky. "You shall be the father who advises for good--"
"I shall be a
steady friend, and as a friend I want to be treated--no more," said
Lingard. "Take back your ring."
"Why do you
scorn my gift?" asked Hassim, with a sad and ironic smile.
"Take it,&qu=
ot;
said Lingard. "It is still mine. How can I forget that, when facing de=
ath,
you thought of my safety? There are many dangers before us. We shall be oft=
en
separated--to work better for the same end. If ever you and Immada need hel=
p at
once and I am within reach, send me a message with this ring and if I am al=
ive
I will not fail you." He looked around at the pale daybreak. "I s=
hall
talk to Belarab straight--like we whites do. I have never seen him, but I a=
m a
strong man. Belarab must help us to reconquer your country and when our end=
is
attained I won't let him eat you up."
Hassim took the r=
ing
and inclined his head.
"It's time f=
or
us to be moving," said Lingard. He felt a slight tug at his sleeve. He
looked back and caught Immada in the act of pressing her forehead to the gr=
ey
flannel. "Don't, child!" he said, softly.
The sun rose above
the faint blue line of the Shore of Refuge.
The hesitation was
over. The man and the vessel, working in accord, had found their way to the
faint blue shore. Before the sun had descended half-way to its rest the brig
was anchored within a gunshot of the slimy mangroves, in a place where for a
hundred years or more no white man's vessel had been entrusted to the hold =
of
the bottom. The adventurers of two centuries ago had no doubt known of that
anchorage for they were very ignorant and incomparably audacious. If it is
true, as some say, that the spirits of the dead haunt the places where the
living have sinned and toiled, then they might have seen a white long-boat,
pulled by eight oars and steered by a man sunburnt and bearded, a cabbage-l=
eaf hat
on head, and pistols in his belt, skirting the black mud, full of twisted
roots, in search of a likely opening.
Creek after creek=
was
passed and the boat crept on slowly like a monstrous water-spider with a big
body and eight slender legs. . . . Did you follow with your ghostly eyes the
quest of this obscure adventurer of yesterday, you shades of forgotten
adventurers who, in leather jerkins and sweating under steel helmets, attac=
ked
with long rapiers the palisades of the strange heathen, or, musket on shoul=
der
and match in cock, guarded timber blockhouses built upon the banks of rivers
that command good trade? You, who, wearied with the toil of fighting, slept=
wrapped
in frieze mantles on the sand of quiet beaches, dreaming of fabulous diamon=
ds
and of a far-off home.
"Here's an
opening," said Lingard to Hassim, who sat at his side, just as the sun=
was
setting away to his left. "Here's an opening big enough for a ship. It=
's
the entrance we are looking for, I believe. We shall pull all night up this
creek if necessary and it's the very devil if we don't come upon Belarab's =
lair
before daylight."
He shoved the til=
ler
hard over and the boat, swerving sharply, vanished from the coast.
And perhaps the g=
hosts
of old adventurers nodded wisely their ghostly heads and exchanged the ghos=
t of
a wistful smile.
V
"What's the
matter with King Tom of late?" would ask someone when, all the cards i=
n a
heap on the table, the traders lying back in their chairs took a spell from=
a
hard gamble.
"Tom has lea=
rned
to hold his tongue, he must be up to some dam' good thing," opined
another; while a man with hooked features and of German extraction who was
supposed to be agent for a Dutch crockery house--the famous "Sphinx&qu=
ot; mark--broke
in resentfully:
"Nefer mind =
him,
shentlemens, he's matt, matt as a Marsh Hase. Dree monats ago I call on boa=
rd
his prig to talk pizness. And he says like dis--'Glear oudt.' 'Vat for?' I =
say.
'Glear oudt before I shuck you oferboard.' Gott-for-dam! Iss dat the vay to
talk pizness? I vant sell him ein liddle case first chop grockery for trade
and--"
"Ha, ha, ha!=
I
don't blame Tom," interrupted the owner of a pearling schooner, who had
come into the Roads for stores. "Why, Mosey, there isn't a mangy canni=
bal
left in the whole of New Guinea that hasn't got a cup and saucer of your
providing. You've flooded the market, savee?"
Jorgenson stood b=
y, a
skeleton at the gaming table.
"Because you=
are
a Dutch spy," he said, suddenly, in an awful tone.
The agent of the
Sphinx mark jumped up in a sudden fury.
"Vat? Vat?
Shentlemens, you all know me!" Not a muscle moved in the faces around.
"Know me," he stammered with wet lips. "Vat, funf year--berf=
egtly
acquaint--grockery--Verfluchte sponsher. Ich? Spy. Vat for spy? Vordamte
English pedlars!"
The door slammed.
"Is that so?" asked a New England voice. "Why don't you let
daylight into him?"
"Oh, we can'=
t do
that here," murmured one of the players. "Your deal, Trench, let =
us
get on."
"Can't
you?" drawled the New England voice. "You law-abiding, get-a-summ=
ons,
act-of--parliament lot of sons of Belial--can't you? Now, look a-here, these
Colt pistols I am selling--" He took the pearler aside and could be he=
ard
talking earnestly in the corner. "See--you load--and--see?" There
were rapid clicks. "Simple, isn't it? And if any trouble--say with your
divers"--click, click, click--"Through and through--like a
sieve--warranted to cure the worst kind of cussedness in any nigger. Yes,
siree! A case of twenty-four or single specimens--as you like. No?
Shot-guns--rifles? No! Waal, I guess you're of no use to me, but I could do=
a
deal with that Tom--what d'ye call him? Where d'ye catch him? Everywhere--e=
h?
Waal--that's nowhere. But I shall find him some day--yes, siree."
Jorgenson, utterly
disregarded, looked down dreamily at the falling cards. "Spy--I tell
you," he muttered to himself. "If you want to know anything, ask
me."
When Lingard retu=
rned
from Wajo--after an uncommonly long absence--everyone remarked a great chan=
ge.
He was less talkative and not so noisy, he was still hospitable but his
hospitality was less expansive, and the man who was never so happy as when
discussing impossibly wild projects with half a dozen congenial spirits oft=
en showed
a disinclination to meet his best friends. In a word, he returned much less=
of
a good fellow than he went away. His visits to the Settlements were not less
frequent, but much shorter; and when there he was always in a hurry to be g=
one.
During two years =
the
brig had, in her way, as hard a life of it as the man. Swift and trim she
flitted amongst the islands of little known groups. She could be descried a=
far
from lonely headlands, a white speck travelling fast over the blue sea; the
apathetic keepers of rare lighthouses dotting the great highway to the east
came to know the cut of her topsails. They saw her passing east, passing we=
st.
They had faint glimpses of her flying with masts aslant in the mist of a
rain-squall, or could observe her at leisure, upright and with shivering sa=
ils,
forging ahead through a long day of unsteady airs. Men saw her battling wit=
h a
heavy monsoon in the Bay of Bengal, lying becalmed in the Java Sea, or glid=
ing
out suddenly from behind a point of land, graceful and silent in the clear
moonlight. Her activity was the subject of excited but low-toned conversati=
ons,
which would be interrupted when her master appeared.
"Here he is.
Came in last night," whispered the gossiping group.
Lingard did not s=
ee
the covert glances of respect tempered by irony; he nodded and passed on.
"Hey, Tom! No
time for a drink?" would shout someone.
He would shake his
head without looking back--far away already.
Florid and burly =
he
could be seen, for a day or two, getting out of dusty gharries, striding in
sunshine from the Occidental Bank to the Harbour Office, crossing the
Esplanade, disappearing down a street of Chinese shops, while at his elbow =
and
as tall as himself, old Jorgenson paced along, lean and faded, obstinate and
disregarded, like a haunting spirit from the past eager to step back into t=
he
life of men.
Lingard ignored t=
his
wreck of an adventurer, sticking to him closer than his shadow, and the oth=
er
did not try to attract attention. He waited patiently at the doors of offic=
es,
would vanish at tiffin time, would invariably turn up again in the evening =
and
then he kept his place till Lingard went aboard for the night. The police p=
eons
on duty looked disdainfully at the phantom of Captain H. C. Jorgenson, Barq=
ue
Wild Rose, wandering on the silent quay or standing still for hours at the =
edge
of the sombre roadstead speckled by the anchor lights of ships--an adventur=
ous
soul longing to recross the waters of oblivion.
The sampan-men,
sculling lazily homeward past the black hull of the brig at anchor, could h=
ear
far into the night the drawl of the New England voice escaping through the
lifted panes of the cabin skylight. Snatches of nasal sentences floated in =
the
stillness around the still craft.
"Yes, siree!
Mexican war rifles--good as new--six in a case--my people in Baltimore--tha=
t's
so. Hundred and twenty rounds thrown in for each specimen--marked to suit y=
our
requirements. Suppose--musical instruments, this side up with care--how's t=
hat
for your taste? No, no! Cash down--my people in Balt--Shooting sea-gulls yo=
u say?
Waal! It's a risky business--see here--ten per cent. discount--it's out of =
my
own pocket--"
As time wore on, =
and
nothing happened, at least nothing that one could hear of, the excitement d=
ied
out. Lingard's new attitude was accepted as only "his way." There=
was
nothing in it, maintained some. Others dissented. A good deal of curiosity,
however, remained and the faint rumour of something big being in preparation
followed him into every harbour he went to, from Rangoon to Hongkong.
He felt nowhere s=
o much
at home as when his brig was anchored on the inner side of the great stretc=
h of
shoals. The centre of his life had shifted about four hundred miles--from t=
he
Straits of Malacca to the Shore of Refuge--and when there he felt himself
within the circle of another existence, governed by his impulse, nearer his
desire. Hassim and Immada would come down to the coast and wait for him on =
the
islet. He always left them with regret.
At the end of the
first stage in each trip, Jorgenson waited for him at the top of the
boat-stairs and without a word fell into step at his elbow. They seldom
exchanged three words in a day; but one evening about six months before
Lingard's last trip, as they were crossing the short bridge over the canal
where native craft lie moored in clusters, Jorgenson lengthened his stride =
and
came abreast. It was a moonlight night and nothing stirred on earth but the
shadows of high clouds. Lingard took off his hat and drew in a long sigh in=
the
tepid breeze. Jorgenson spoke suddenly in a cautious tone: "The new Ra=
jah
Tulla smokes opium and is sometimes dangerous to speak to. There is a lot o=
f discontent
in Wajo amongst the big people."
"Good!
Good!" whispered Lingard, excitedly, off his guard for once. Then--&qu=
ot;How
the devil do you know anything about it?" he asked.
Jorgenson pointed=
at
the mass of praus, coasting boats, and sampans that, jammed up together in =
the
canal, lay covered with mats and flooded by the cold moonlight with here and
there a dim lantern burning amongst the confusion of high sterns, spars, ma=
sts
and lowered sails.
"There!"=
; he
said, as they moved on, and their hatted and clothed shadows fell heavily on
the queer-shaped vessels that carry the fortunes of brown men upon a shallow
sea. "There! I can sit with them, I can talk to them, I can come and g=
o as
I like. They know me now--it's time-thirty-five years. Some of them give a
plate of rice and a bit of fish to the white man. That's all I get--after
thirty-five years--given up to them."
He was silent for=
a
time.
"I was like =
you once,"
he added, and then laying his hand on Lingard's sleeve, murmured--"Are=
you
very deep in this thing?"
"To the very
last cent," said Lingard, quietly, and looking straight before him.
The glitter of the
roadstead went out, and the masts of anchored ships vanished in the invading
shadow of a cloud.
"Drop it,&qu=
ot;
whispered Jorgenson.
"I am in
debt," said Lingard, slowly, and stood still.
"Drop it!&qu=
ot;
"Never dropp=
ed
anything in my life."
"Drop it!&qu=
ot;
"By God, I
won't!" cried Lingard, stamping his foot.
There was a pause=
.
"I was like
you--once," repeated Jorgenson. "Five and thirty years--never dro=
pped
anything. And what you can do is only child's play to some jobs I have had =
on
my hands--understand that--great man as you are, Captain Lingard of the Lig=
htning.
. . . You should have seen the Wild Rose," he added with a sudden brea=
k in
his voice.
Lingard leaned ov=
er
the guard-rail of the pier. Jorgenson came closer.
"I set fire =
to
her with my own hands!" he said in a vibrating tone and very low, as if
making a monstrous confession.
"Poor
devil," muttered Lingard, profoundly moved by the tragic enormity of t=
he
act. "I suppose there was no way out?"
"I wasn't go=
ing
to let her rot to pieces in some Dutch port," said Jorgenson, gloomily.
"Did you ever hear of Dawson?"
"Something--I
don't remember now--" muttered Lingard, who felt a chill down his back=
at
the idea of his own vessel decaying slowly in some Dutch port. "He
died--didn't he?" he asked, absently, while he wondered whether he wou=
ld
have the pluck to set fire to the brig--on an emergency.
"Cut his thr=
oat
on the beach below Fort Rotterdam," said Jorgenson. His gaunt figure
wavered in the unsteady moonshine as though made of mist. "Yes. He bro=
ke
some trade regulation or other and talked big about law-courts and legal tr=
ials
to the lieutenant of the Komet. 'Certainly,' says the hound. 'Jurisdiction =
of
Macassar, I will take your schooner there.' Then coming into the roads he t=
ows
her full tilt on a ledge of rocks on the north side--smash! When she was ha=
lf
full of water he takes his hat off to Dawson. 'There's the shore,' says he-=
-'go
and get your legal trial, you--Englishman--'" He lifted a long arm and
shook his fist at the moon which dodged suddenly behind a cloud. "All =
was
lost. Poor Dawson walked the streets for months barefooted and in rags. Then
one day he begged a knife from some charitable soul, went down to take a la=
st
look at the wreck, and--"
"I don't
interfere with the Dutch," interrupted Lingard, impatiently. "I w=
ant
Hassim to get back his own--"
"And suppose=
the
Dutch want the things just so," returned Jorgenson. "Anyway there=
is
a devil in such work--drop it!"
"Look
here," said Lingard, "I took these people off when they were in t=
heir
last ditch. That means something. I ought not to have meddled and it would =
have
been all over in a few hours. I must have meant something when I interfered,
whether I knew it or not. I meant it then--and did not know it. Very well. I
mean it now--and do know it. When you save people from death you take a sha=
re
in their life. That's how I look at it."
Jorgenson shook h=
is
head.
"Foolishness=
!"
he cried, then asked softly in a voice that trembled with curiosity--"=
Where
did you leave them?"
"With
Belarab," breathed out Lingard. "You knew him in the old days.&qu=
ot;
"I knew him,=
I
knew his father," burst out the other in an excited whisper. "Whom
did I not know? I knew Sentot when he was King of the South Shore of Java a=
nd
the Dutch offered a price for his head--enough to make any man's fortune. He
slept twice on board the Wild Rose when things had begun to go wrong with h=
im.
I knew him, I knew all his chiefs, the priests, the fighting men, the old
regent who lost heart and went over to the Dutch, I knew--" he stammer=
ed
as if the words could not come out, gave it up and sighed--"Belarab's
father escaped with me," he began again, quietly, "and joined the
Padris in Sumatra. He rose to be a great leader. Belarab was a youth then.
Those were the times. I ranged the coast--and laughed at the cruisers; I saw
every battle fought in the Battak country--and I saw the Dutch run; I was at
the taking of Singal and escaped. I was the white man who advised the chief=
s of
Manangkabo. There was a lot about me in the Dutch papers at the time. They =
said
I was a Frenchman turned Mohammedan--" he swore a great oath, and, ree=
ling
against the guard-rail, panted, muttering curses on newspapers.
"Well, Belar=
ab
has the job in hand," said Lingard, composedly. "He is the chief =
man
on the Shore of Refuge. There are others, of course. He has sent messages n=
orth
and south. We must have men."
"All the dev=
ils
unchained," said Jorgenson. "You have done it and now--look out--=
look
out. . . ."
"Nothing can=
go
wrong as far as I can see," argued Lingard. "They all know what's=
to
be done. I've got them in hand. You don't think Belarab unsafe? Do you?&quo=
t;
"Haven't seen
him for fifteen years--but the whole thing's unsafe," growled Jorgenso=
n.
"I tell you =
I've
fixed it so that nothing can go wrong. It would be better if I had a white =
man
over there to look after things generally. There is a good lot of stores and
arms--and Belarab would bear watching--no doubt. Are you in any want?"=
he
added, putting his hand in his pocket.
"No, there's
plenty to eat in the house," answered Jorgenson, curtly. "Drop
it," he burst out. "It would be better for you to jump overboard =
at
once. Look at me. I came out a boy of eighteen. I can speak English, I can
speak Dutch, I can speak every cursed lingo of these islands--I remember th=
ings
that would make your hair stand on end--but I have forgotten the language o=
f my
own country. I've traded, I've fought, I never broke my word to white or
native. And, look at me. If it hadn't been for the girl I would have died i=
n a
ditch ten years ago. Everything left me--youth, money, strength, hope--the =
very
sleep. But she stuck by the wreck."
"That says a=
lot
for her and something for you," said Lingard, cheerily.
Jorgenson shook h=
is
head.
"That's the
worst of all," he said with slow emphasis. "That's the end. I cam=
e to
them from the other side of the earth and they took me and--see what they m=
ade
of me."
"What place =
do
you belong to?" asked Lingard.
"Tromso,&quo=
t;
groaned out Jorgenson; "I will never see snow again," he sobbed o=
ut,
his face in his hands.
Lingard looked at=
him
in silence.
"Would you c=
ome
with me?" he said. "As I told you, I am in want of a--"
"I would see=
you
damned first!" broke out the other, savagely. "I am an old white
loafer, but you don't get me to meddle in their infernal affairs. They have=
a
devil of their own--"
"The thing s=
imply
can't fail. I've calculated every move. I've guarded against everything. I =
am
no fool."
"Yes--you ar=
e.
Good-night."
"Well,
good-bye," said Lingard, calmly.
He stepped into h=
is
boat, and Jorgenson walked up the jetty. Lingard, clearing the yoke lines,
heard him call out from a distance:
"Drop it!&qu=
ot;
"I sail befo=
re
sunrise," he shouted in answer, and went on board.
When he came up f=
rom
his cabin after an uneasy night, it was dark yet. A lank figure strolled ac=
ross
the deck.
"Here I
am," said Jorgenson, huskily. "Die there or here--all one. But, i=
f I
die there, remember the girl must eat."
Lingard was one of
the few who had seen Jorgenson's girl. She had a wrinkled brown face, a lot=
of
tangled grey hair, a few black stumps of teeth, and had been married to him
lately by an enterprising young missionary from Bukit Timah. What her
appearance might have been once when Jorgenson gave for her three hundred
dollars and several brass guns, it was impossible to say. All that was left=
of
her youth was a pair of eyes, undimmed and mournful, which, when she was al=
one,
seemed to look stonily into the past of two lives. When Jorgenson was near =
they
followed his movements with anxious pertinacity. And now within the sarong
thrown over the grey head they were dropping unseen tears while Jorgenson's
girl rocked herself to and fro, squatting alone in a corner of the dark hut=
.
"Don't you w=
orry
about that," said Lingard, grasping Jorgenson's hand. "She shall =
want
for nothing. All I expect you to do is to look a little after Belarab's mor=
als
when I am away. One more trip I must make, and then we shall be ready to go
ahead. I've foreseen every single thing. Trust me!"
In this way did t=
he
restless shade of Captain H. C. Jorgenson recross the water of oblivion to =
step
back into the life of men.
VI
For two years,
Lingard, who had thrown himself body and soul into the great enterprise, had
lived in the long intoxication of slowly preparing success. No thought of
failure had crossed his mind, and no price appeared too heavy to pay for su=
ch a
magnificent achievement. It was nothing less than bringing Hassim triumphan=
tly
back to that country seen once at night under the low clouds and in the
incessant tumult of thunder. When at the conclusion of some long talk with
Hassim, who for the twentieth time perhaps had related the story of his wro=
ngs
and his struggle, he lifted his big arm and shaking his fist above his head=
, shouted:
"We will stir them up. We will wake up the country!" he was, with=
out
knowing it in the least, making a complete confession of the idealism hidden
under the simplicity of his strength. He would wake up the country! That was
the fundamental and unconscious emotion on which were engrafted his need of
action, the primitive sense of what was due to justice, to gratitude, to
friendship, the sentimental pity for the hard lot of Immada--poor child--the
proud conviction that of all the men in the world, in his world, he alone h=
ad
the means and the pluck "to lift up the big end" of such an
adventure.
Money was wanted =
and
men were wanted, and he had obtained enough of both in two years from that =
day
when, pistols in his belt and a cabbage-leaf hat on head, he had unexpected=
ly,
and at early dawn, confronted in perfect silence that mysterious Belarab, w=
ho
himself was for a moment too astounded for speech at the sight of a white f=
ace.
The sun had not y=
et
cleared the forests of the interior, but a sky already full of light arched
over a dark oval lagoon, over wide fields as yet full of shadows, that seem=
ed
slowly changing into the whiteness of the morning mist. There were huts,
fences, palisades, big houses that, erected on lofty piles, were seen above=
the
tops of clustered fruit trees, as if suspended in the air.
Such was the aspe=
ct
of Belarab's settlement when Lingard set his eyes on it for the first time.
There were all these things, a great number of faces at the back of the spa=
re
and muffled-up figure confronting him, and in the swiftly increasing light a
complete stillness that made the murmur of the word "Marhaba" (we=
lcome),
pronounced at last by the chief, perfectly audible to every one of his
followers. The bodyguards who stood about him in black skull-caps and with
long-shafted lances, preserved an impassive aspect. Across open spaces men
could be seen running to the waterside. A group of women standing on a low
knoll gazed intently, and nothing of them but the heads showed above the
unstirring stalks of a maize field. Suddenly within a cluster of empty huts
near by the voice of an invisible hag was heard scolding with shrill fury a=
n invisible
young girl:
"Strangers! =
You
want to see the strangers? O devoid of all decency! Must I so lame and old =
husk
the rice alone? May evil befall thee and the strangers! May they never find
favour! May they be pursued with swords! I am old. I am old. There is no go=
od
in strangers! O girl! May they burn."
"Welcome,&qu=
ot;
repeated Belarab, gravely, and looking straight into Lingard's eyes.
Lingard spent six
days that time in Belarab's settlement. Of these, three were passed in
observing each other without a question being asked or a hint given as to t=
he
object in view. Lingard lounged on the fine mats with which the chief had
furnished a small bamboo house outside a fortified enclosure, where a white
flag with a green border fluttered on a high and slender pole but still bel=
ow
the walls of long, high-roofed buildings, raised forty feet or more on
hard-wood posts.
Far away the inla=
nd
forests were tinted a shimmering blue, like the forests of a dream. On the
seaward side the belt of great trunks and matted undergrowth came to the
western shore of the oval lagoon; and in the pure freshness of the air the
groups of brown houses reflected in the water or seen above the waving gree=
n of
the fields, the clumps of palm trees, the fenced-in plantations, the groves=
of
fruit trees, made up a picture of sumptuous prosperity.
Above the buildin=
gs,
the men, the women, the still sheet of water and the great plain of crops
glistening with dew, stretched the exalted, the miraculous peace of a cloud=
less
sky. And no road seemed to lead into this country of splendour and stillnes=
s.
One could not believe the unquiet sea was so near, with its gifts and its
unending menace. Even during the months of storms, the great clamour rising
from the whitened expanse of the Shallows dwelt high in the air in a vast
murmur, now feeble now stronger, that seemed to swing back and forth on the
wind above the earth without any one being able to tell whence it came. It =
was
like the solemn chant of a waterfall swelling and dying away above the wood=
s,
the fields, above the roofs of houses and the heads of men, above the secret
peace of that hidden and flourishing settlement of vanquished fanatics,
fugitives, and outcasts.
Every afternoon
Belarab, followed by an escort that stopped outside the door, entered alone=
the
house of his guest. He gave the salutation, inquired after his health,
conversed about insignificant things with an inscrutable mien. But all the =
time
the steadfast gaze of his thoughtful eyes seemed to seek the truth within t=
hat
white face. In the cool of the evening, before the sun had set, they talked
together, passing and repassing between the rugged pillars of the grove near
the gate of the stockade. The escort away in the oblique sunlight, followed
with their eyes the strolling figures appearing and vanishing behind the tr=
ees.
Many words were pronounced, but nothing was said that would disclose the
thoughts of the two men. They clasped hands demonstratively before separati=
ng,
and the heavy slam of the gate was followed by the triple thud of the wooden
bars dropped into iron clamps.
On the third nigh=
t,
Lingard was awakened from a light sleep by the sound of whispering outside.=
A
black shadow obscured the stars in the doorway, and a man entering suddenly,
stood above his couch while another could be seen squatting--a dark lump on=
the
threshold of the hut.
"Fear not. I=
am
Belarab," said a cautious voice.
"I was not
afraid," whispered Lingard. "It is the man coming in the dark and
without warning who is in danger."
"And did you=
not
come to me without warning? I said 'welcome'--it was as easy for me to say
'kill him.'"
"You were wi=
thin
reach of my arm. We would have died together," retorted Lingard, quiet=
ly.
The other clicked=
his
tongue twice, and his indistinct shape seemed to sink half-way through the
floor.
"It was not
written thus before we were born," he said, sitting cross-legged near =
the
mats, and in a deadened voice. "Therefore you are my guest. Let the ta=
lk
between us be straight like the shaft of a spear and shorter than the remai=
nder
of this night. What do you want?"
"First, your
long life," answered Lingard, leaning forward toward the gleam of a pa=
ir
of eyes, "and then--your help."
VII
The faint murmur =
of
the words spoken on that night lingered for a long time in Lingard's ears, =
more
persistent than the memory of an uproar; he looked with a fixed gaze at the
stars burning peacefully in the square of the doorway, while after listenin=
g in
silence to all he had to say, Belarab, as if seduced by the strength and au=
dacity
of the white man, opened his heart without reserve. He talked of his youth
surrounded by the fury of fanaticism and war, of battles on the hills, of a=
dvances
through the forests, of men's unswerving piety, of their unextinguishable h=
ate.
Not a single wandering cloud obscured the gentle splendour of the rectangul=
ar
patch of starlight framed in the opaque blackness of the hut. Belarab murmu=
red
on of a succession of reverses, of the ring of disasters narrowing round me=
n's
fading hopes and undiminished courage. He whispered of defeat and flight, of
the days of despair, of the nights without sleep, of unending pursuit, of t=
he bewildered
horror and sombre fury, of their women and children killed in the stockade
before the besieged sallied forth to die.
"I have seen=
all
this before I was in years a man," he cried, low.
His voice vibrate= d. In the pause that succeeded they heard a light sigh of the sleeping follower who, clasping his legs above his ankles, rested his forehead on his knees.<= o:p>
"And there w=
as
amongst us," began Belarab again, "one white man who remained to =
the
end, who was faithful with his strength, with his courage, with his wisdom.=
A
great man. He had great riches but a greater heart."
The memory of
Jorgenson, emaciated and grey-haired, and trying to borrow five dollars to =
get
something to eat for the girl, passed before Lingard suddenly upon the paci=
fic
glitter of the stars.
"He resembled
you," pursued Belarab, abruptly. "We escaped with him, and in his
ship came here. It was a solitude. The forest came near to the sheet of wat=
er,
the rank grass waved upon the heads of tall men. Telal, my father, died of
weariness; we were only a few, and we all nearly died of trouble and
sadness--here. On this spot! And no enemies could tell where we had gone. It
was the Shore of Refuge--and starvation."
He droned on in t=
he
night, with rising and falling inflections. He told how his desperate
companions wanted to go out and die fighting on the sea against the ships f=
rom
the west, the ships with high sides and white sails; and how, unflinching a=
nd
alone, he kept them battling with the thorny bush, with the rank grass, with
the soaring and enormous trees. Lingard, leaning on his elbow and staring
through the door, recalled the image of the wide fields outside, sleeping n=
ow,
in an immensity of serenity and starlight. This quiet and almost invisible
talker had done it all; in him was the origin, the creation, the fate; and =
in
the wonder of that thought the shadowy murmuring figure acquired a gigantic=
greatness
of significance, as if it had been the embodiment of some natural force, of=
a
force forever masterful and undying.
"And even no=
w my
life is unsafe as if I were their enemy," said Belarab, mournfully.
"Eyes do not kill, nor angry words; and curses have no power, else the
Dutch would not grow fat living on our land, and I would not be alive to-ni=
ght.
Do you understand? Have you seen the men who fought in the old days? They h=
ave
not forgotten the times of war. I have given them homes and quiet hearts and
full bellies. I alone. And they curse my name in the dark, in each other's
ears--because they can never forget."
This man, whose t=
alk
had been of war and violence, discovered unexpectedly a passionate craving =
for
security and peace. No one would understand him. Some of those who would not
understand had died. His white teeth gleamed cruelly in the dark. But there
were others he could not kill. The fools. He wanted the land and the people=
in
it to be forgotten as if they had been swallowed by the sea. But they had
neither wisdom nor patience. Could they not wait? They chanted prayers five=
times
every day, but they had not the faith.
"Death comes=
to
all--and to the believers the end of trouble. But you white men who are too
strong for us, you also die. You die. And there is a Paradise as great as a=
ll
earth and all Heaven together, but not for you--not for you!"
Lingard, amazed,
listened without a sound. The sleeper snored faintly. Belarab continued very
calm after this almost involuntary outburst of a consoling belief. He expla=
ined
that he wanted somebody at his back, somebody strong and whom he could trus=
t,
some outside force that would awe the unruly, that would inspire their
ignorance with fear, and make his rule secure. He groped in the dark and
seizing Lingard's arm above the elbow pressed it with force--then let go. A=
nd
Lingard understood why his temerity had been so successful.
Then and there, in
return for Lingard's open support, a few guns and a little money, Belarab
promised his help for the conquest of Wajo. There was no doubt he could find
men who would fight. He could send messages to friends at a distance and th=
ere
were also many unquiet spirits in his own district ready for any adventure.=
He
spoke of these men with fierce contempt and an angry tenderness, in mingled
accents of envy and disdain. He was wearied by their folly, by their
recklessness, by their impatience--and he seemed to resent these as if they=
had
been gifts of which he himself had been deprived by the fatality of his wis=
dom.
They would fight. When the time came Lingard had only to speak, and a sign =
from
him would send them to a vain death--those men who could not wait for an
opportunity on this earth or for the eternal revenge of Heaven.
He ceased, and
towered upright in the gloom.
"Awake!"=
; he
exclaimed, low, bending over the sleeping man.
Their black shape=
s,
passing in turn, eclipsed for two successive moments the glitter of the sta=
rs,
and Lingard, who had not stirred, remained alone. He lay back full length w=
ith
an arm thrown across his eyes.
When three days
afterward he left Belarab's settlement, it was on a calm morning of uncloud=
ed
peace. All the boats of the brig came up into the lagoon armed and manned to
make more impressive the solemn fact of a concluded alliance. A staring cro=
wd
watched his imposing departure in profound silence and with an increased se=
nse
of wonder at the mystery of his apparition. The progress of the boats was
smooth and slow while they crossed the wide lagoon. Lingard looked back onc=
e. A
great stillness had laid its hand over the earth, the sky, and the men; upon
the immobility of landscape and people. Hassim and Immada, standing out cle=
arly
by the side of the chief, raised their arms in a last salutation; and the d=
istant
gesture appeared sad, futile, lost in space, like a sign of distress made by
castaways in the vain hope of an impossible help.
He departed, he
returned, he went away again, and each time those two figures, lonely on so=
me
sandbank of the Shallows, made at him the same futile sign of greeting or
good-bye. Their arms at each movement seemed to draw closer around his heart
the bonds of a protecting affection. He worked prosaically, earning money to
pay the cost of the romantic necessity that had invaded his life. And the m=
oney
ran like water out of his hands. The owner of the New England voice remitted
not a little of it to his people in Baltimore. But import houses in the por=
ts
of the Far East had their share. It paid for a fast prau which, commanded b=
y Jaffir,
sailed into unfrequented bays and up unexplored rivers, carrying secret
messages, important news, generous bribes. A good part of it went to the
purchase of the Emma.
The Emma was a
battered and decrepit old schooner that, in the decline of her existence, h=
ad
been much ill-used by a paunchy white trader of cunning and gluttonous aspe=
ct.
This man boasted outrageously afterward of the good price he had got "=
for
that rotten old hooker of mine--you know." The Emma left port mysterio=
usly
in company with the brig and henceforth vanished from the seas forever. Lin=
gard
had her towed up the creek and ran her aground upon that shore of the lagoon
farthest from Belarab's settlement. There had been at that time a great ris=
e of
waters, which retiring soon after left the old craft cradled in the mud, wi=
th
her bows grounded high between the trunks of two big trees, and leaning ove=
r a
little as though after a hard life she had settled wearily to an everlasting
rest. There, a few months later, Jorgenson found her when, called back into=
the
life of men, he reappeared, together with Lingard, in the Land of Refuge.
"She is bett=
er
than a fort on shore," said Lingard, as side by side they leant over t=
he
taffrail, looking across the lagoon on the houses and palm groves of the
settlement. "All the guns and powder I have got together so far are st=
ored
in her. Good idea, wasn't it? There will be, perhaps, no other such flood f=
or
years, and now they can't come alongside unless right under the counter, and
only one boat at a time. I think you are perfectly safe here; you could keep
off a whole fleet of boats; she isn't easy to set fire to; the forest in fr=
ont
is better than a wall. Well?"
Jorgenson assente=
d in
grunts. He looked at the desolate emptiness of the decks, at the stripped
spars, at the dead body of the dismantled little vessel that would know the
life of the seas no more. The gloom of the forest fell on her, mournful lik=
e a
winding sheet. The bushes of the bank tapped their twigs on the bluff of her
bows, and a pendent spike of tiny brown blossoms swung to and fro over the
ruins of her windlass.
Hassim's companio=
ns
garrisoned the old hulk, and Jorgenson, left in charge, prowled about from =
stem
to stern, taciturn and anxiously faithful to his trust. He had been received
with astonishment, respect--and awe. Belarab visited him often. Sometimes t=
hose
whom he had known in their prime years ago, during a struggle for faith and
life, would come to talk with the white man. Their voices were like the ech=
oes of
stirring events, in the pale glamour of a youth gone by. They nodded their =
old
heads. Do you remember?--they said. He remembered only too well! He was lik=
e a
man raised from the dead, for whom the fascinating trust in the power of li=
fe
is tainted by the black scepticism of the grave.
Only at times the
invincible belief in the reality of existence would come back, insidious and
inspiring. He squared his shoulders, held himself straight, and walked with=
a
firmer step. He felt a glow within him and the quickened beat of his heart.
Then he calculated in silent excitement Lingard's chances of success, and he
lived for a time with the life of that other man who knew nothing of the bl=
ack
scepticism of the grave. The chances were good, very good.
"I should li=
ke
to see it through," Jorgenson muttered to himself ardently; and his
lustreless eyes would flash for a moment.
I
"Some
people," said Lingard, "go about the world with their eyes shut. =
You
are right. The sea is free to all of us. Some work on it, and some play the
fool on it--and I don't care. Only you may take it from me that I will let =
no
man's play interfere with my work. You want me to understand you are a very
great man--"
Mr. Travers smile=
d,
coldly.
"Oh, yes,&qu=
ot;
continued Lingard, "I understand that well enough. But remember you are
very far from home, while I, here, I am where I belong. And I belong where I
am. I am just Tom Lingard, no more, no less, wherever I happen to be, and--=
you
may ask--" A sweep of his hand along the western horizon entrusted with
perfect confidence the remainder of his speech to the dumb testimony of the
sea.
He had been on bo=
ard
the yacht for more than an hour, and nothing, for him, had come of it but t=
he
birth of an unreasoning hate. To the unconscious demand of these people's
presence, of their ignorance, of their faces, of their voices, of their eye=
s,
he had nothing to give but a resentment that had in it a germ of reckless
violence. He could tell them nothing because he had not the means. Their co=
ming
at this moment, when he had wandered beyond that circle which race, memorie=
s,
early associations, all the essential conditions of one's origin, trace rou=
nd every
man's life, deprived him in a manner of the power of speech. He was confoun=
ded.
It was like meeting exacting spectres in a desert.
He stared at the =
open
sea, his arms crossed, with a reflective fierceness. His very appearance ma=
de
him utterly different from everyone on board that vessel. The grey shirt, t=
he
blue sash, one rolled-up sleeve baring a sculptural forearm, the negligent
masterfulness of his tone and pose were very distasteful to Mr. Travers, wh=
o,
having made up his mind to wait for some kind of official assistance, regar=
ded the
intrusion of that inexplicable man with suspicion. From the moment Lingard =
came
on board the yacht, every eye in that vessel had been fixed upon him. Only
Carter, within earshot and leaning with his elbow upon the rail, stared dow=
n at
the deck as if overcome with drowsiness or lost in thought.
Of the three other
persons aft, Mr. Travers kept his hands in the side pockets of his jacket a=
nd
did not conceal his growing disgust.
On the other side=
of
the deck, a lady, in a long chair, had a passive attitude that to Mr.
d'Alcacer, standing near her, seemed characteristic of the manner in which =
she
accepted the necessities of existence. Years before, as an attache of his
Embassy in London, he had found her an interesting hostess. She was even mo=
re
interesting now, since a chance meeting and Mr. Travers' offer of a passage=
to
Batavia had given him an opportunity of studying the various shades of scorn
which he suspected to be the secret of her acquiescence in the shallowness =
of
events and the monotony of a worldly existence.
There were things
that from the first he had not been able to understand; for instance, why s=
he
should have married Mr. Travers. It must have been from ambition. He could =
not
help feeling that such a successful mistake would explain completely her sc=
orn
and also her acquiescence. The meeting in Manila had been utterly unexpecte=
d to
him, and he accounted for it to his uncle, the Governor-General of the colo=
ny,
by pointing out that Englishmen, when worsted in the struggle of love or
politics, travel extensively, as if by encompassing a large portion of eart=
h's
surface they hoped to gather fresh strength for a renewed contest. As to
himself, he judged--but did not say--that his contest with fate was ended,
though he also travelled, leaving behind him in the capitals of Europe a st=
ory
in which there was nothing scandalous but the publicity of an excessive
feeling, and nothing more tragic than the early death of a woman whose
brilliant perfections were no better known to the great world than the disc=
reet
and passionate devotion she had innocently inspired.
The invitation to
join the yacht was the culminating point of many exchanged civilities, and =
was
mainly prompted by Mr. Travers' desire to have somebody to talk to. D'Alcac=
er
had accepted with the reckless indifference of a man to whom one method of
flight from a relentless enemy is as good as another. Certainly the prospec=
t of
listening to long monologues on commerce, administration, and politics did =
not
promise much alleviation to his sorrow; and he could not expect much else f=
rom Mr.
Travers, whose life and thought, ignorant of human passion, were devoted to
extracting the greatest possible amount of personal advantage from human
institutions. D'Alcacer found, however, that he could attain a measure of
forgetfulness--the most precious thing for him now--in the society of Edith
Travers.
She had awakened = his curiosity, which he thought nothing and nobody on earth could do any more.<= o:p>
These two talked =
of
things indifferent and interesting, certainly not connected with human
institutions, and only very slightly with human passions; but d'Alcacer cou=
ld
not help being made aware of her latent capacity for sympathy developed in
those who are disenchanted with life or death. How far she was disenchanted=
he
did not know, and did not attempt to find out. This restraint was imposed u=
pon
him by the chivalrous respect he had for the secrets of women and by a
conviction that deep feeling is often impenetrably obscure, even to those i=
t masters
for their inspiration or their ruin. He believed that even she herself would
never know; but his grave curiosity was satisfied by the observation of her
mental state, and he was not sorry that the stranding of the yacht prolonged
his opportunity.
Time passed on th=
at
mudbank as well as anywhere else, and it was not from a multiplicity of eve=
nts,
but from the lapse of time alone, that he expected relief. Yet in the samen=
ess
of days upon the Shallows, time flowing ceaselessly, flowed imperceptibly; =
and,
since every man clings to his own, be it joy, be it grief, he was pleased a=
fter
the unrest of his wanderings to be able to fancy the whole universe and even
time itself apparently come to a standstill; as if unwilling to take him aw=
ay further
from his sorrow, which was fading indeed but undiminished, as things fade, =
not
in the distance but in the mist.
II
D'Alcacer was a m=
an
of nearly forty, lean and sallow, with hollow eyes and a drooping brown
moustache. His gaze was penetrating and direct, his smile frequent and
fleeting. He observed Lingard with great interest. He was attracted by that
elusive something--a line, a fold, perhaps the form of the eye, the droop o=
f an
eyelid, the curve of a cheek, that trifling trait which on no two faces on
earth is alike, that in each face is the very foundation of expression, as =
if,
all the rest being heredity, mystery, or accident, it alone had been shaped=
consciously
by the soul within.
Now and then he b=
ent
slightly over the slow beat of a red fan in the curve of the deck chair to =
say
a few words to Mrs. Travers, who answered him without looking up, without a
modulation of tone or a play of feature, as if she had spoken from behind t=
he
veil of an immense indifference stretched between her and all men, between =
her
heart and the meaning of events, between her eyes and the shallow sea which,
like her gaze, appeared profound, forever stilled, and seemed, far off in t=
he distance
of a faint horizon, beyond the reach of eye, beyond the power of hand or vo=
ice,
to lose itself in the sky.
Mr. Travers stepp=
ed
aside, and speaking to Carter, overwhelmed him with reproaches.
"You
misunderstood your instructions," murmured Mr. Travers rapidly. "=
Why
did you bring this man here? I am surprised--"
"Not half so
much as I was last night," growled the young seaman, without any rever=
ence
in his tone, very provoking to Mr. Travers.
"I perceive =
now
you were totally unfit for the mission I entrusted you with," went on =
the
owner of the yacht.
"It's he who=
got
hold of me," said Carter. "Haven't you heard him yourself, sir?&q=
uot;
"Nonsense,&q=
uot;
whispered Mr. Travers, angrily. "Have you any idea what his intentions=
may
be?"
"I half
believe," answered Carter, "that his intention was to shoot me in=
his
cabin last night if I--"
"That's not =
the
point," interrupted Mr. Travers. "Have you any opinion as to his
motives in coming here?"
Carter raised his
weary, bloodshot eyes in a face scarlet and peeling as though it had been
licked by a flame. "I know no more than you do, sir. Last night when he
had me in that cabin of his, he said he would just as soon shoot me as let =
me
go to look for any other help. It looks as if he were desperately bent upon=
getting
a lot of salvage money out of a stranded yacht."
Mr. Travers turned away, and, for a moment, appeared immersed in deep thought. This accident of stranding upon a deserted coast was annoying as a loss of time. He tried to minimize it by putting in order the notes collected during the year's trave= l in the East. He had sent off for assistance; his sailing-master, very crestfal= len, made bold to say that the yacht would most likely float at the next spring tides; d'Alcacer, a person of undoubted nobility though of inferior princip= les, was better than no company, in so far at least that he could play picquet.<= o:p>
Mr. Travers had m=
ade
up his mind to wait. Then suddenly this rough man, looking as if he had ste=
pped
out from an engraving in a book about buccaneers, broke in upon his resigna=
tion
with mysterious allusions to danger, which sounded absurd yet were disturbi=
ng;
with dark and warning sentences that sounded like disguised menaces.
Mr. Travers had a
heavy and rather long chin which he shaved. His eyes were blue, a chill, na=
ive
blue. He faced Lingard untouched by travel, without a mark of weariness or
exposure, with the air of having been born invulnerable. He had a full, pale
face; and his complexion was perfectly colourless, yet amazingly fresh, as =
if
he had been reared in the shade.
He thought:
"I must put =
an
end to this preposterous hectoring. I won't be intimidated into paying for
services I don't need."
Mr. Travers felt a
strong disgust for the impudence of the attempt; and all at once, incredibl=
y, strangely,
as though the thing, like a contest with a rival or a friend, had been of
profound importance to his career, he felt inexplicably elated at the thoug=
ht
of defeating the secret purposes of that man.
Lingard, unconsci=
ous
of everything and everybody, contemplated the sea. He had grown on it, he h=
ad
lived with it; it had enticed him away from home; on it his thoughts had
expanded and his hand had found work to do. It had suggested endeavour, it =
had
made him owner and commander of the finest brig afloat; it had lulled him i=
nto
a belief in himself, in his strength, in his luck--and suddenly, by its
complicity in a fatal accident, it had brought him face to face with a
difficulty that looked like the beginning of disaster.
He had said all he
dared to say--and he perceived that he was not believed. This had not happe=
ned
to him for years. It had never happened. It bewildered him as if he had
suddenly discovered that he was no longer himself. He had come to them and =
had
said: "I mean well by you. I am Tom Lingard--" and they did not
believe! Before such scepticism he was helpless, because he had never imagi=
ned
it possible. He had said: "You are in the way of my work. You are in t=
he
way of what I can not give up for any one; but I will see you through all s=
afe
if you will only trust me--me, Tom Lingard." And they would not believe
him! It was intolerable. He imagined himself sweeping their disbelief out of
his way. And why not? He did not know them, he did not care for them, he did
not even need to lift his hand against them! All he had to do was to shut h=
is
eyes now for a day or two, and afterward he could forget that he had ever s=
een
them. It would be easy. Let their disbelief vanish, their folly disappear,
their bodies perish. . . . It was that--or ruin!
III
Lingard's gaze,
detaching itself from the silent sea, travelled slowly over the silent figu=
res
clustering forward, over the faces of the seamen attentive and surprised, o=
ver
the faces never seen before yet suggesting old days--his youth--other seas-=
-the
distant shores of early memories. Mr. Travers gave a start also, and the ha=
nd
which had been busy with his left whisker went into the pocket of his jacke=
t,
as though he had plucked out something worth keeping. He made a quick step
toward Lingard.
"I don't see=
my
way to utilize your services," he said, with cold finality.
Lingard, grasping=
his
beard, looked down at him thoughtfully for a short time.
"Perhaps it's
just as well," he said, very slowly, "because I did not offer my
services. I've offered to take you on board my brig for a few days, as your
only chance of safety. And you asked me what were my motives. My motives! If
you don't see them they are not for you to know."
And these men who,
two hours before had never seen each other, stood for a moment close togeth=
er,
antagonistic, as if they had been life-long enemies, one short, dapper and
glaring upward, the other towering heavily, and looking down in contempt and
anger.
Mr. d'Alcacer,
without taking his eyes off them, bent low over the deck chair.
"Have you ev=
er
seen a man dashing himself at a stone wall?" he asked, confidentially.=
"No," s=
aid
Mrs. Travers, gazing straight before her above the slow flutter of the fan.
"No, I did not know it was ever done; men burrow under or slip round
quietly while they look the other way."
"Ah! you def=
ine
diplomacy," murmured d'Alcacer. "A little of it here would do no
harm. But our picturesque visitor has none of it. I've a great liking for
him."
"Already!&qu=
ot;
breathed out Mrs. Travers, with a smile that touched her lips with its brig=
ht
wing and was flown almost before it could be seen.
"There is li=
king
at first sight," affirmed d'Alcacer, "as well as love at first
sight--the coup de foudre--you know."
She looked up for=
a
moment, and he went on, gravely: "I think it is the truest, the most
profound of sentiments. You do not love because of what is in the other. You
love because of something that is in you--something alive--in yourself.&quo=
t;
He struck his breast lightly with the tip of one finger. "A capacity i=
n you.
And not everyone may have it--not everyone deserves to be touched by fire f=
rom
heaven."
"And die,&qu=
ot;
she said.
He made a slight
movement.
"Who can tel=
l?
That is as it may be. But it is always a privilege, even if one must live a
little after being burnt."
Through the silen=
ce
between them, Mr. Travers' voice came plainly, saying with irritation:
"I've told y=
ou
already that I do not want you. I've sent a messenger to the governor of the
Straits. Don't be importunate."
Then Lingard,
standing with his back to them, growled out something which must have
exasperated Mr. Travers, because his voice was pitched higher:
"You are pla=
ying
a dangerous game, I warn you. Sir John, as it happens, is a personal friend=
of
mine. He will send a cruiser--" and Lingard interrupted recklessly lou=
d:
"As long as =
she
does not get here for the next ten days, I don't care. Cruisers are scarce =
just
now in the Straits; and to turn my back on you is no hanging matter anyhow.=
I
would risk that, and more! Do you hear? And more!"
He stamped his fo=
ot
heavily, Mr. Travers stepped back.
"You will ga=
in
nothing by trying to frighten me," he said. "I don't know who you
are."
Every eye in the
yacht was wide open. The men, crowded upon each other, stared stupidly like=
a
flock of sheep. Mr. Travers pulled out a handkerchief and passed it over his
forehead. The face of the sailing-master who leaned against the main mast--=
as
near as he dared to approach the gentry--was shining and crimson between wh=
ite
whiskers, like a glowing coal between two patches of snow.
D'Alcacer whisper=
ed:
"It is a
quarrel, and the picturesque man is angry. He is hurt."
Mrs. Travers' fan
rested on her knees, and she sat still as if waiting to hear more.
"Do you thin=
k I
ought to make an effort for peace?" asked d'Alcacer.
She did not answe=
r,
and after waiting a little, he insisted:
"What is your
opinion? Shall I try to mediate--as a neutral, as a benevolent neutral? I l=
ike
that man with the beard."
The interchange of
angry phrases went on aloud, amidst general consternation.
"I would tur=
n my
back on you only I am thinking of these poor devils here," growled
Lingard, furiously. "Did you ask them how they feel about it?"
"I ask no
one," spluttered Mr. Travers. "Everybody here depends on my judgm=
ent."
"I am sorry =
for
them then," pronounced Lingard with sudden deliberation, and leaning
forward with his arms crossed on his breast.
At this Mr. Trave=
rs
positively jumped, and forgot himself so far as to shout:
"You are an
impudent fellow. I have nothing more to say to you."
D'Alcacer, after
muttering to himself, "This is getting serious," made a movement,=
and
could not believe his ears when he heard Mrs. Travers say rapidly with a ki=
nd
of fervour:
"Don't go, p=
ray;
don't stop them. Oh! This is truth--this is anger--something real at
last."
D'Alcacer leaned =
back
at once against the rail.
Then Mr. Travers,
with one arm extended, repeated very loudly:
"Nothing mor=
e to
say. Leave my ship at once!"
And directly the
black dog, stretched at his wife's feet, muzzle on paws and blinking yellow
eyes, growled discontentedly at the noise. Mrs. Travers laughed a faint, br=
ight
laugh, that seemed to escape, to glide, to dart between her white teeth.
D'Alcacer, concealing his amazement, was looking down at her gravely: and a=
fter
a slight gasp, she said with little bursts of merriment between every few
words:
"No, but this
is--such--such a fresh experience for me to hear--to see something--genuine=
and
human. Ah! ah! one would think they had waited all their lives for this
opportunity--ah! ah! ah! All their lives--for this! ah! ah! ah!"
These strange wor=
ds
struck d'Alcacer as perfectly just, as throwing an unexpected light. But af=
ter
a smile, he said, seriously:
"This reality
may go too far. A man who looks so picturesque is capable of anything. Allow
me--" And he left her side, moving toward Lingard, loose-limbed and ga=
unt,
yet having in his whole bearing, in his walk, in every leisurely movement, =
an
air of distinction and ceremony.
Lingard spun round
with aggressive mien to the light touch on his shoulder, but as soon as he =
took
his eyes off Mr. Travers, his anger fell, seemed to sink without a sound at=
his
feet like a rejected garment.
"Pardon
me," said d'Alcacer, composedly. The slight wave of his hand was hardly
more than an indication, the beginning of a conciliating gesture. "Par=
don
me; but this is a matter requiring perfect confidence on both sides. Don
Martin, here, who is a person of importance. . . ."
"I've spoken=
my
mind plainly. I have said as much as I dare. On my word I have," decla=
red
Lingard with an air of good temper.
"Ah!" s=
aid
d'Alcacer, reflectively, "then your reserve is a matter of pledged
faith--of--of honour?"
Lingard also appe=
ared
thoughtful for a moment.
"You may put=
it
that way. And I owe nothing to a man who couldn't see my hand when I put it=
out
to him as I came aboard."
"You have so
much the advantage of us here," replied d'Alcacer, "that you may =
well
be generous and forget that oversight; and then just a little more confiden=
ce.
. . ."
"My dear d'A=
lcacer,
you are absurd," broke in Mr. Travers, in a calm voice but with white
lips. "I did not come out all this way to shake hands promiscuously and
receive confidences from the first adventurer that comes along."
D'Alcacer stepped
back with an almost imperceptible inclination of the head at Lingard, who s=
tood
for a moment with twitching face.
"I am an
adventurer," he burst out, "and if I hadn't been an adventurer, I
would have had to starve or work at home for such people as you. If I weren=
't
an adventurer, you would be most likely lying dead on this deck with your c=
ut
throat gaping at the sky."
Mr. Travers waved
this speech away. But others also had heard. Carter listened watchfully and
something, some alarming notion seemed to dawn all at once upon the thick
little sailing-master, who rushed on his short legs, and tugging at Carter's
sleeve, stammered desperately:
"What's he
saying? Who's he? What's up? Are the natives unfriendly? My book says--'Nat=
ives
friendly all along this coast!' My book says--"
Carter, who had
glanced over the side, jerked his arm free.
"You go down
into the pantry, where you belong, Skipper, and read that bit about the nat=
ives
over again," he said to his superior officer, with savage contempt.
"I'll be hanged if some of them ain't coming aboard now to eat you--bo=
ok
and all. Get out of the way, and let the gentlemen have the first chance of=
a
row."
Then addressing
Lingard, he drawled in his old way:
"That crazy =
mate
of yours has sent your boat back, with a couple of visitors in her, too.&qu=
ot;
Before he apprehe=
nded
plainly the meaning of these words, Lingard caught sight of two heads rising
above the rail, the head of Hassim and the head of Immada. Then their bodies
ascended into view as though these two beings had gradually emerged from the
Shallows. They stood for a moment on the platform looking down on the deck =
as
if about to step into the unknown, then descended and walking aft entered t=
he
half-light under the awning shading the luxurious surroundings, the complic=
ated
emotions of the, to them, inconceivable existences.
Lingard without
waiting a moment cried:
"What news, O
Rajah?"
Hassim's eyes made
the round of the schooner's decks. He had left his gun in the boat and adva=
nced
empty handed, with a tranquil assurance as if bearing a welcome offering in=
the
faint smile of his lips. Immada, half hidden behind his shoulder, followed
lightly, her elbows pressed close to her side. The thick fringe of her
eyelashes was dropped like a veil; she looked youthful and brooding; she ha=
d an
aspect of shy resolution.
They stopped with=
in
arm's length of the whites, and for some time nobody said a word. Then Hass=
im
gave Lingard a significant glance, and uttered rapidly with a slight toss of
the head that indicated in a manner the whole of the yacht:
"I see no
guns!"
"N--no!"
said Lingard, looking suddenly confused. It had occurred to him that for the
first time in two years or more he had forgotten, utterly forgotten, these
people's existence.
Immada stood slig=
ht
and rigid with downcast eyes. Hassim, at his ease, scrutinized the faces, a=
s if
searching for elusive points of similitude or for subtle shades of differen=
ce.
"What is this
new intrusion?" asked Mr. Travers, angrily.
"These are t=
he
fisher-folk, sir," broke in the sailing-master, "we've observed t=
hese
three days past flitting about in a canoe; but they never had the sense to
answer our hail; and yet a bit of fish for your breakfast--" He smiled
obsequiously, and all at once, without provocation, began to bellow:
"Hey! Johnni=
e!
Hab got fish? Fish! One peecee fish! Eh? Savee? Fish! Fish--" He gave =
it
up suddenly to say in a deferential tone--"Can't make them savages
understand anything, sir," and withdrew as if after a clever feat.
Hassim looked at
Lingard.
"Why did the
little white man make that outcry?" he asked, anxiously.
"Their desir=
e is
to eat fish," said Lingard in an enraged tone.
Then before the a=
ir
of extreme surprise which incontinently appeared on the other's face, he co=
uld
not restrain a short and hopeless laugh.
"Eat fish,&q=
uot;
repeated Hassim, staring. "O you white people! O you white people! Eat
fish! Good! But why make that noise? And why did you send them here without
guns?" After a significant glance down upon the slope of the deck caus=
ed
by the vessel being on the ground, he added with a slight nod at
Lingard--"And without knowledge?"
"You should =
not
have come here, O Hassim," said Lingard, testily. "Here no one
understands. They take a rajah for a fisherman--"
"Ya-wa! A gr=
eat
mistake, for, truly, the chief of ten fugitives without a country is much l=
ess
than the headman of a fishing village," observed Hassim, composedly.
Immada sighed. "But you, Tuan, at least know the truth," he went =
on
with quiet irony; then after a pause--"We came here because you had
forgotten to look toward us, who had waited, sleeping little at night, and =
in
the day watching with hot eyes the empty water at the foot of the sky for
you."
Immada murmured,
without lifting her head:
"You never
looked for us. Never, never once."
"There was t=
oo
much trouble in my eyes," explained Lingard with that patient gentlene=
ss
of tone and face which, every time he spoke to the young girl, seemed to
disengage itself from his whole person, enveloping his fierceness, softening
his aspect, such as the dreamy mist that in the early radiance of the morni=
ng
weaves a veil of tender charm about a rugged rock in mid-ocean. "I must
look now to the right and to the left as in a time of sudden danger," =
he
added after a moment and she whispered an appalled "Why?" so low =
that
its pain floated away in the silence of attentive men, without response,
unheard, ignored, like the pain of an impalpable thought.
IV
D'Alcacer, standi=
ng
back, surveyed them all with a profound and alert attention. Lingard seemed
unable to tear himself away from the yacht, and remained, checked, as it we=
re
in the act of going, like a man who has stopped to think out the last thing=
to
say; and that stillness of a body, forgotten by the labouring mind, reminded
Carter of that moment in the cabin, when alone he had seen this man thus
wrestling with his thought, motionless and locked in the grip of his
conscience.
Mr. Travers mutte=
red
audibly through his teeth:
"How long is
this performance going to last? I have desired you to go."
"Think of th=
ese
poor devils," whispered Lingard, with a quick glance at the crew huddl=
ed
up near by.
"You are the
kind of man I would be least disposed to trust--in any case," said Mr.
Travers, incisively, very low, and with an inexplicable but very apparent
satisfaction. "You are only wasting your time here."
"You--You--&=
quot;
He stammered and stared. He chewed with growls some insulting word and at l=
ast
swallowed it with an effort. "My time pays for your life," he sai=
d.
He became aware o=
f a
sudden stir, and saw that Mrs. Travers had risen from her chair.
She walked
impulsively toward the group on the quarter-deck, making straight for Immad=
a.
Hassim had stepped aside and his detached gaze of a Malay gentleman passed =
by
her as if she had been invisible.
She was tall, sup=
ple,
moving freely. Her complexion was so dazzling in the shade that it seemed to
throw out a halo round her head. Upon a smooth and wide brow an abundance of
pale fair hair, fine as silk, undulating like the sea, heavy like a helmet,
descended low without a trace of gloss, without a gleam in its coils, as th=
ough
it had never been touched by a ray of light; and a throat white, smooth,
palpitating with life, a round neck modelled with strength and delicacy,
supported gloriously that radiant face and that pale mass of hair unkissed =
by sunshine.
She said with
animation:
"Why, it's a
girl!"
Mrs. Travers exto=
rted
from d'Alcacer a fresh tribute of curiosity. A strong puff of wind fluttered
the awnings and one of the screens blowing out wide let in upon the
quarter-deck the rippling glitter of the Shallows, showing to d'Alcacer the
luminous vastness of the sea, with the line of the distant horizon, dark li=
ke
the edge of the encompassing night, drawn at the height of Mrs. Travers'
shoulder. . . . Where was it he had seen her last--a long time before, on t=
he
other side of the world? There was also the glitter of splendour around her
then, and an impression of luminous vastness. The encompassing night, too, =
was
there, the night that waits for its time to move forward upon the glitter, =
the splendour,
the men, the women.
He could not reme=
mber
for the moment, but he became convinced that of all the women he knew, she
alone seemed to be made for action. Every one of her movements had firmness,
ease, the meaning of a vital fact, the moral beauty of a fearless expressio=
n.
Her supple figure was not dishonoured by any faltering of outlines under the
plain dress of dark blue stuff moulding her form with bold simplicity.
She had only very=
few
steps to make, but before she had stopped, confronting Immada, d'Alcacer
remembered her suddenly as he had seen her last, out West, far away, imposs=
ibly
different, as if in another universe, as if presented by the fantasy of a
fevered memory. He saw her in a luminous perspective of palatial drawing ro=
oms,
in the restless eddy and flow of a human sea, at the foot of walls high as
cliffs, under lofty ceilings that like a tropical sky flung light and heat =
upon
the shallow glitter of uniforms, of stars, of diamonds, of eyes sparkling in
the weary or impassive faces of the throng at an official reception. Outsid=
e he
had found the unavoidable darkness with its aspect of patient waiting, a cl=
oudy
sky holding back the dawn of a London morning. It was difficult to believe.=
Lingard, who had =
been
looking dangerously fierce, slapped his thigh and showed signs of agitation=
.
"By heavens,=
I
had forgotten all about you!" he pronounced in dismay.
Mrs. Travers fixed
her eyes on Immada. Fairhaired and white she asserted herself before the gi=
rl
of olive face and raven locks with the maturity of perfection, with the
superiority of the flower over the leaf, of the phrase that contains a thou=
ght
over the cry that can only express an emotion. Immense spaces and countless
centuries stretched between them: and she looked at her as when one looks i=
nto
one's own heart with absorbed curiosity, with still wonder, with an immense
compassion. Lingard murmured, warningly:
"Don't touch
her."
Mrs. Travers look=
ed
at him.
"Do you thin=
k I
could hurt her?" she asked, softly, and was so startled to hear him mu=
tter
a gloomy "Perhaps," that she hesitated before she smiled.
"Almost a ch=
ild!
And so pretty! What a delicate face," she said, while another deep sig=
h of
the sea breeze lifted and let fall the screens, so that the sound, the wind=
, and
the glitter seemed to rush in together and bear her words away into space.
"I had no idea of anything so charmingly gentle," she went on in a
voice that without effort glowed, caressed, and had a magic power of deligh=
t to
the soul. "So young! And she lives here--does she? On the sea--or wher=
e?
Lives--" Then faintly, as if she had been in the act of speaking, remo=
ved
instantly to a great distance, she was heard again: "How does she
live?"
Lingard had hardly
seen Edith Travers till then. He had seen no one really but Mr. Travers. He
looked and listened with something of the stupor of a new sensation.
Then he made a
distinct effort to collect his thoughts and said with a remnant of anger:
"What have y=
ou
got to do with her? She knows war. Do you know anything about it? And hunge=
r,
too, and thirst, and unhappiness; things you have only heard about. She has
been as near death as I am to you--and what is all that to any of you
here?"
"That
child!" she said in slow wonder.
Immada turned upon
Mrs. Travers her eyes black as coal, sparkling and soft like a tropical nig=
ht;
and the glances of the two women, their dissimilar and inquiring glances me=
t,
seemed to touch, clasp, hold each other with the grip of an intimate contac=
t.
They separated.
"What are th=
ey
come for? Why did you show them the way to this place?" asked Immada,
faintly.
Lingard shook his
head in denial.
"Poor
girl," said Mrs. Travers. "Are they all so pretty?"
"Who-all?&qu=
ot;
mumbled Lingard. "There isn't an other one like her if you were to ran=
sack
the islands all round the compass."
"Edith!"
ejaculated Mr. Travers in a remonstrating, acrimonious voice, and everyone =
gave
him a look of vague surprise.
Then Mrs. Travers
asked:
"Who is
she?"
Lingard very red =
and
grave declared curtly:
"A
princess."
Immediately he lo=
oked
round with suspicion. No one smiled. D'Alcacer, courteous and nonchalant,
lounged up close to Mrs. Travers' elbow.
"If she is a
princess, then this man is a knight," he murmured with conviction. &qu=
ot;A
knight as I live! A descendant of the immortal hidalgo errant upon the sea.=
It
would be good for us to have him for a friend. Seriously I think that you
ought--"
The two stepped a=
side
and spoke low and hurriedly.
"Yes, you
ought--"
"How can
I?" she interrupted, catching the meaning like a ball.
"By saying
something."
"Is it really
necessary?" she asked, doubtfully.
"It would do=
no
harm," said d'Alcacer with sudden carelessness; "a friend is alwa=
ys
better than an enemy."
"Always?&quo=
t;
she repeated, meaningly. "But what could I say?"
"Some words,=
"
he answered; "I should think any words in your voice--"
"Mr.
d'Alcacer!"
"Or you could
perhaps look at him once or twice as though he were not exactly a robber,&q=
uot;
he continued.
"Mr. d'Alcac=
er,
are you afraid?"
"Extremely,&=
quot;
he said, stooping to pick up the fan at her feet. "That is the reason =
I am
so anxious to conciliate. And you must not forget that one of your queens o=
nce
stepped on the cloak of perhaps such a man."
Her eyes sparkled=
and
she dropped them suddenly.
"I am not a
queen," she said, coldly.
"Unfortunate=
ly
not," he admitted; "but then the other was a woman with no charm =
but
her crown."
At that moment
Lingard, to whom Hassim had been talking earnestly, protested aloud:
"I never saw
these people before."
Immada caught hol=
d of
her brother's arm. Mr. Travers said harshly:
"Oblige me by
taking these natives away."
"Never
before," murmured Immada as if lost in ecstasy. D'Alcacer glanced at M=
rs.
Travers and made a step forward.
"Could not t=
he
difficulty, whatever it is, be arranged, Captain?" he said with careful
politeness. "Observe that we are not only men here--"
"Let them
die!" cried Immada, triumphantly.
Though Lingard al=
one
understood the meaning of these words, all on board felt oppressed by the
uneasy silence which followed her cry.
"Ah! He is
going. Now, Mrs. Travers," whispered d'Alcacer.
"I hope!&quo=
t;
said Mrs. Travers, impulsively, and stopped as if alarmed at the sound.
Lingard stood sti=
ll.
"I hope,&quo=
t;
she began again, "that this poor girl will know happier days--" S=
he
hesitated.
Lingard waited,
attentive and serious.
"Under your
care," she finished. "And I believe you meant to be friendly to
us."
"Thank
you," said Lingard with dignity.
"You and
d'Alcacer," observed Mr. Travers, austerely, "are unnecessarily d=
etaining
this--ah--person, and--ah--friends--ah!"
"I had forgo=
tten
you--and now--what? One must--it is hard--hard--" went on Lingard,
disconnectedly, while he looked into Mrs. Travers' violet eyes, and felt his
mind overpowered and troubled as if by the contemplation of vast distances.
"I--you don't know--I--you--cannot . . . Ha! It's all that man's
doing," he burst out.
For a time, as if
beside himself, he glared at Mrs. Travers, then flung up one arm and strode=
off
toward the gangway, where Hassim and Immada waited for him, interested and
patient. With a single word "Come," he preceded them down into the
boat. Not a sound was heard on the yacht's deck, while these three disappea=
red
one after another below the rail as if they had descended into the sea.
V
The afternoon dra=
gged
itself out in silence. Mrs. Travers sat pensive and idle with her fan on her
knees. D'Alcacer, who thought the incident should have been treated in a
conciliatory spirit, attempted to communicate his view to his host, but that
gentleman, purposely misunderstanding his motive, overwhelmed him with so m=
any
apologies and expressions of regret at the irksome and perhaps inconvenient
delay "which you suffer from through your good-natured acceptance of o=
ur invitation"
that the other was obliged to refrain from pursuing the subject further.
"Even my reg=
ard
for you, my dear d'Alcacer, could not induce me to submit to such a bare-fa=
ced
attempt at extortion," affirmed Mr. Travers with uncompromising virtue.
"The man wanted to force his services upon me, and then put in a heavy
claim for salvage. That is the whole secret--you may depend on it. I detect=
ed
him at once, of course." The eye-glass glittered perspicuously. "=
He
underrated my intelligence; and what a violent scoundrel! The existence of =
such
a man in the time we live in is a scandal."
D'Alcacer retired,
and, full of vague forebodings, tried in vain for hours to interest himself=
in
a book. Mr. Travers walked up and down restlessly, trying to persuade himse=
lf
that his indignation was based on purely moral grounds. The glaring day, li=
ke a
mass of white-hot iron withdrawn from the fire, was losing gradually its he=
at
and its glare in a richer deepening of tone. At the usual time two seamen,
walking noiselessly aft in their yachting shoes, rolled up in silence the q=
uarter-deck
screens; and the coast, the shallows, the dark islets and the snowy sandban=
ks
uncovered thus day after day were seen once more in their aspect of dumb
watchfulness. The brig, swung end on in the foreground, her squared yards
crossing heavily the soaring symmetry of the rigging, resembled a creature
instinct with life, with the power of springing into action lurking in the
light grace of its repose.
A pair of steward=
s in
white jackets with brass buttons appeared on deck and began to flit about
without a sound, laying the table for dinner on the flat top of the cabin
skylight. The sun, drifting away toward other lands, toward other seas, tow=
ard
other men; the sun, all red in a cloudless sky raked the yacht with a parti=
ng
salvo of crimson rays that shattered themselves into sparks of fire upon the
crystal and silver of the dinner-service, put a short flame into the blades=
of
knives, and spread a rosy tint over the white of plates. A trail of purple,
like a smear of blood on a blue shield, lay over the sea.
On sitting down M=
r.
Travers alluded in a vexed tone to the necessity of living on preserves, all
the stock of fresh provisions for the passage to Batavia having been already
consumed. It was distinctly unpleasant.
"I don't tra=
vel
for my pleasure, however," he added; "and the belief that the
sacrifice of my time and comfort will be productive of some good to the wor=
ld
at large would make up for any amount of privations."
Mrs. Travers and
d'Alcacer seemed unable to shake off a strong aversion to talk, and the
conversation, like an expiring breeze, kept on dying out repeatedly after e=
ach
languid gust. The large silence of the horizon, the profound repose of all
things visible, enveloping the bodies and penetrating the souls with their =
quieting
influence, stilled thought as well as voice. For a long time no one spoke.
Behind the taciturnity of the masters the servants hovered without noise.
Suddenly, Mr.
Travers, as if concluding a train of thought, muttered aloud:
"I own with
regret I did in a measure lose my temper; but then you will admit that the
existence of such a man is a disgrace to civilization."
This remark was n=
ot
taken up and he returned for a time to the nursing of his indignation, at t=
he
bottom of which, like a monster in a fog, crept a bizarre feeling of rancou=
r.
He waved away an offered dish.
"This
coast," he began again, "has been placed under the sole protectio=
n of
Holland by the Treaty of 1820. The Treaty of 1820 creates special rights and
obligations. . . ."
Both his hearers =
felt
vividly the urgent necessity to hear no more. D'Alcacer, uncomfortable on a
campstool, sat stiff and stared at the glass stopper of a carafe. Mrs. Trav=
ers
turned a little sideways and leaning on her elbow rested her head on the pa=
lm
of her hand like one thinking about matters of profound import. Mr. Travers
talked; he talked inflexibly, in a harsh blank voice, as if reading a
proclamation. The other two, as if in a state of incomplete trance, had the=
ir
ears assailed by fragments of official verbiage.
"An
international understanding--the duty to civilize--failed to carry out--com=
pact--Canning--"
D'Alcacer became attentive for a moment. "--not that this attempt, alm=
ost
amusing in its impudence, influences my opinion. I won't admit the possibil=
ity
of any violence being offered to people of our position. It is the social
aspect of such an incident I am desirous of criticising."
Here d'Alcacer lo=
st
himself again in the recollection of Mrs. Travers and Immada looking at each
other--the beginning and the end, the flower and the leaf, the phrase and t=
he
cry. Mr. Travers' voice went on dogmatic and obstinate for a long time. The=
end
came with a certain vehemence.
"And if the
inferior race must perish, it is a gain, a step toward the perfecting of so=
ciety
which is the aim of progress."
He ceased. The sp=
arks
of sunset in crystal and silver had gone out, and around the yacht the expa=
nse
of coast and Shallows seemed to await, unmoved, the coming of utter darknes=
s.
The dinner was over a long time ago and the patient stewards had been waiti=
ng,
stoical in the downpour of words like sentries under a shower.
Mrs. Travers rose
nervously and going aft began to gaze at the coast. Behind her the sun, sunk
already, seemed to force through the mass of waters the glow of an
unextinguishable fire, and below her feet, on each side of the yacht, the
lustrous sea, as if reflecting the colour of her eyes, was tinged a sombre
violet hue.
D'Alcacer came up=
to
her with quiet footsteps and for some time they leaned side by side over the
rail in silence. Then he said--"How quiet it is!" and she seemed =
to
perceive that the quietness of that evening was more profound and more
significant than ever before. Almost without knowing it she
murmured--"It's like a dream." Another long silence ensued; the
tranquillity of the universe had such an August ampleness that the sounds
remained on the lips as if checked by the fear of profanation. The sky was
limpid like a diamond, and under the last gleams of sunset the night was
spreading its veil over the earth. There was something precious and soothin=
g in
the beautifully serene end of that expiring day, of the day vibrating,
glittering and ardent, and dying now in infinite peace, without a stir, wit=
hout
a tremor, without a sigh--in the certitude of resurrection.
Then all at once =
the
shadow deepened swiftly, the stars came out in a crowd, scattering a rain of
pale sparks upon the blackness of the water, while the coast stretched low
down, a dark belt without a gleam. Above it the top-hamper of the brig loom=
ed
indistinct and high.
Mrs. Travers spoke
first.
"How unnatur=
ally
quiet! It is like a desert of land and water without a living soul."
"One man at
least dwells in it," said d'Alcacer, lightly, "and if he is to be
believed there are other men, full of evil intentions."
"Do you thin=
k it
is true?" Mrs. Travers asked.
Before answering
d'Alcacer tried to see the expression of her face but the obscurity was too
profound already.
"How can one=
see
a dark truth on such a dark night?" he said, evasively. "But it is
easy to believe in evil, here or anywhere else."
She seemed to be =
lost
in thought for a while.
"And that man
himself?" she asked.
After some time
d'Alcacer began to speak slowly. "Rough, uncommon, decidedly uncommon =
of
his kind. Not at all what Don Martin thinks him to be. For the rest--myster=
ious
to me. He is your countryman after all--"
She seemed quite
surprised by that view.
"Yes," =
she
said, slowly. "But you know, I can not--what shall I say?--imagine him=
at
all. He has nothing in common with the mankind I know. There is nothing to
begin upon. How does such a man live? What are his thoughts? His actions? H=
is
affections? His--"
"His
conventions," suggested d'Alcacer. "That would include
everything."
Mr. Travers appea=
red
suddenly behind them with a glowing cigar in his teeth. He took it between =
his
fingers to declare with persistent acrimony that no amount of "scoundr=
elly
intimidation" would prevent him from having his usual walk. There was
about three hundred yards to the southward of the yacht a sandbank nearly a
mile long, gleaming a silvery white in the darkness, plumetted in the centre
with a thicket of dry bushes that rustled very loud in the slightest stir of
the heavy night air. The day after the stranding they had landed on it &quo=
t;to
stretch their legs a bit," as the sailing-master defined it, and every
evening since, as if exercising a privilege or performing a duty, the three
paced there for an hour backward and forward lost in dusky immensity, threa=
ding
at the edge of water the belt of damp sand, smooth, level, elastic to the t=
ouch
like living flesh and sweating a little under the pressure of their feet.
This time d'Alcac=
er
alone followed Mr. Travers. Mrs. Travers heard them get into the yacht's
smallest boat, and the night-watchman, tugging at a pair of sculls, pulled =
them
off to the nearest point. Then the man returned. He came up the ladder and =
she
heard him say to someone on deck:
"Orders to go
back in an hour."
His footsteps died
out forward, and a somnolent, unbreathing repose took possession of the
stranded yacht.
VI
After a time this
absolute silence which she almost could feel pressing upon her on all sides
induced in Mrs. Travers a state of hallucination. She saw herself standing
alone, at the end of time, on the brink of days. All was unmoving as if the
dawn would never come, the stars would never fade, the sun would never rise=
any
more; all was mute, still, dead--as if the shadow of the outer darkness, the
shadow of the uninterrupted, of the everlasting night that fills the univer=
se,
the shadow of the night so profound and so vast that the blazing suns lost =
in
it are only like sparks, like pin-points of fire, the restless shadow that =
like
a suspicion of an evil truth darkens everything upon the earth on its passa=
ge,
had enveloped her, had stood arrested as if to remain with her forever.
And there was suc=
h a
finality in that illusion, such an accord with the trend of her thought that
when she murmured into the darkness a faint "so be it" she seemed=
to
have spoken one of those sentences that resume and close a life.
As a young girl,
often reproved for her romantic ideas, she had dreams where the sincerity o=
f a
great passion appeared like the ideal fulfilment and the only truth of life.
Entering the world she discovered that ideal to be unattainable because the
world is too prudent to be sincere. Then she hoped that she could find the
truth of life an ambition which she understood as a lifelong devotion to so=
me
unselfish ideal. Mr. Travers' name was on men's lips; he seemed capable of =
enthusiasm
and of devotion; he impressed her imagination by his impenetrability. She
married him, found him enthusiastically devoted to the nursing of his own
career, and had nothing to hope for now.
That her husband
should be bewildered by the curious misunderstanding which had taken place =
and
also permanently grieved by her disloyalty to his respectable ideals was on=
ly
natural. He was, however, perfectly satisfied with her beauty, her brillian=
ce,
and her useful connections. She was admired, she was envied; she was surrou=
nded
by splendour and adulation; the days went on rapid, brilliant, uniform, wit=
hout
a glimpse of sincerity or true passion, without a single true emotion--not =
even
that of a great sorrow. And swiftly and stealthily they had led her on and =
on,
to this evening, to this coast, to this sea, to this moment of time and to =
this
spot on the earth's surface where she felt unerringly that the moving shado=
w of
the unbroken night had stood still to remain with her forever.
"So be it!&q=
uot;
she murmured, resigned and defiant, at the mute and smooth obscurity that h=
ung
before her eyes in a black curtain without a fold; and as if in answer to t=
hat
whisper a lantern was run up to the foreyard-arm of the brig. She saw it as=
cend
swinging for a. short space, and suddenly remain motionless in the air,
piercing the dense night between the two vessels by its glance of flame that
strong and steady seemed, from afar, to fall upon her alone.
Her thoughts, lik=
e a
fascinated moth, went fluttering toward that light--that man--that girl, who
had known war, danger, seen death near, had obtained evidently the devotion=
of
that man. The occurrences of the afternoon had been strange in themselves, =
but
what struck her artistic sense was the vigour of their presentation. They
outlined themselves before her memory with the clear simplicity of some
immortal legend. They were mysterious, but she felt certain they were
absolutely true. They embodied artless and masterful feelings; such, no dou=
bt,
as had swayed mankind in the simplicity of its youth. She envied, for a mom=
ent,
the lot of that humble and obscure sister. Nothing stood between that girl =
and
the truth of her sensations. She could be sincerely courageous, and tender =
and
passionate and--well--ferocious. Why not ferocious? She could know the trut=
h of
terror--and of affection, absolutely, without artificial trammels, without =
the
pain of restraint.
Thinking of what =
such
life could be Mrs. Travers felt invaded by that inexplicable exaltation whi=
ch
the consciousness of their physical capacities so often gives to intellectu=
al
beings. She glowed with a sudden persuasion that she also could be equal to
such an existence; and her heart was dilated with a momentary longing to kn=
ow
the naked truth of things; the naked truth of life and passion buried under=
the
growth of centuries.
She glowed and,
suddenly, she quivered with the shock of coming to herself as if she had fa=
llen
down from a star. There was a sound of rippling water and a shapeless mass
glided out of the dark void she confronted. A voice below her feet said:
"I made out =
your
shape--on the sky." A cry of surprise expired on her lips and she could
only peer downward. Lingard, alone in the brig's dinghy, with another stroke
sent the light boat nearly under the yacht's counter, laid his sculls in, a=
nd
rose from the thwart. His head and shoulders loomed up alongside and he had=
the
appearance of standing upon the sea. Involuntarily Mrs. Travers made a move=
ment
of retreat.
"Stop,"=
he
said, anxiously, "don't speak loud. No one must know. Where do your pe=
ople
think themselves, I wonder? In a dock at home? And you--"
"My husband =
is
not on board," she interrupted, hurriedly.
"I know.&quo=
t;
She bent a little
more over the rail.
"Then you are
having us watched. Why?"
"Somebody mu=
st
watch. Your people keep such a good look-out--don't they? Yes. Ever since d=
ark
one of my boats has been dodging astern here, in the deep water. I swore to
myself I would never see one of you, never speak to one of you here, that I
would be dumb, blind, deaf. And--here I am!"
Mrs. Travers' ala=
rm
and mistrust were replaced by an immense curiosity, burning, yet quiet, too=
, as
if before the inevitable work of destiny. She looked downward at Lingard. H=
is
head was bared, and, with one hand upon the ship's side, he seemed to be
thinking deeply.
"Because you=
had
something more to tell us," Mrs. Travers suggested, gently.
"Yes," =
he
said in a low tone and without moving in the least.
"Will you co=
me
on board and wait?" she asked.
"Who? I!&quo=
t;
He lifted his head so quickly as to startle her. "I have nothing to sa=
y to
him; and I'll never put my foot on board this craft. I've been told to go.
That's enough."
"He is
accustomed to be addressed deferentially," she said after a pause,
"and you--"
"Who is
he?" asked Lingard, simply.
These three words
seemed to her to scatter her past in the air--like smoke. They robbed all t=
he
multitude of mankind of every vestige of importance. She was amazed to find
that on this night, in this place, there could be no adequate answer to the
searching naiveness of that question.
"I didn't ask
for much," Lingard began again. "Did I? Only that you all should =
come
on board my brig for five days. That's all. . . . Do I look like a liar? Th=
ere
are things I could not tell him. I couldn't explain--I couldn't--not to him=
--to
no man--to no man in the world--"
His voice dropped=
.
"Not to
myself," he ended as if in a dream.
"We have
remained unmolested so long here," began Mrs. Travers a little unstead=
ily,
"that it makes it very difficult to believe in danger, now. We saw no =
one
all these days except those two people who came for you. If you may not
explain--"
"Of course, =
you
can't be expected to see through a wall," broke in Lingard. "This
coast's like a wall, but I know what's on the other side. . . . A yacht her=
e,
of all things that float! When I set eyes on her I could fancy she hadn't b=
een
more than an hour from home. Nothing but the look of her spars made me thin=
k of
old times. And then the faces of the chaps on board. I seemed to know them =
all.
It was like home coming to me when I wasn't thinking of it. And I hated the
sight of you all."
"If we are
exposed to any peril," she said after a pause during which she tried to
penetrate the secret of passion hidden behind that man's words, "it ne=
ed
not affect you. Our other boat is gone to the Straits and effective help is
sure to come very soon."
"Affect me! =
Is
that precious watchman of yours coming aft? I don't want anybody to know I =
came
here again begging, even of you. Is he coming aft? . . . Listen! I've stopp=
ed
your other boat."
His head and
shoulders disappeared as though he had dived into a denser layer of obscuri=
ty
floating on the water. The watchman, who had the intention to stretch himse=
lf
in one of the deck chairs, catching sight of the owner's wife, walked strai=
ght
to the lamp that hung under the ridge pole of the awning, and after fumbling
with it for a time went away forward with an indolent gait.
"You
dared!" Mrs. Travers whispered down in an intense tone; and directly,
Lingard's head emerged again below her with an upturned face.
"It was dare=
--or
give up. The help from the Straits would have been too late anyhow if I had=
n't
the power to keep you safe; and if I had the power I could see you through
it--alone. I expected to find a reasonable man to talk to. I ought to have
known better. You come from too far to understand these things. Well, I dar=
ed;
I've sent after your other boat a fellow who, with me at his back, would tr=
y to
stop the governor of the Straits himself. He will do it. Perhaps it's done
already. You have nothing to hope for. But I am here. You said you believed=
I
meant well--"
"Yes," =
she
murmured.
"That's why I
thought I would tell you everything. I had to begin with this business about
the boat. And what do you think of me now? I've cut you off from the rest of
the earth. You people would disappear like a stone in the water. You left o=
ne
foreign port for another. Who's there to trouble about what became of you? =
Who
would know? Who could guess? It would be months before they began to
stir."
"I
understand," she said, steadily, "we are helpless."
"And
alone," he added.
After a pause she
said in a deliberate, restrained voice:
"What does t=
his
mean? Plunder, captivity?"
"It would ha=
ve
meant death if I hadn't been here," he answered.
"But you have
the power to--"
"Why, do you
think, you are alive yet?" he cried. "Jorgenson has been arguing =
with
them on shore," he went on, more calmly, with a swing of his arm toward
where the night seemed darkest. "Do you think he would have kept them =
back
if they hadn't expected me every day? His words would have been nothing wit=
hout
my fist."
She heard a dull =
blow
struck on the side of the yacht and concealed in the same darkness that wra=
pped
the unconcern of the earth and sea, the fury and the pain of hearts; she sm=
iled
above his head, fascinated by the simplicity of images and expressions.
Lingard made a
brusque movement, the lively little boat being unsteady under his feet, and=
she
spoke slowly, absently, as if her thought had been lost in the vagueness of=
her
sensations.
"And
this--this--Jorgenson, you said? Who is he?"
"A man,"=
; he
answered, "a man like myself."
"Like
yourself?"
"Just like
myself," he said with strange reluctance, as if admitting a painful tr=
uth.
"More sense, perhaps, but less luck. Though, since your yacht has turn=
ed
up here, I begin to think that my luck is nothing much to boast of
either."
"Is our pres=
ence
here so fatal?"
"It may be d=
eath
to some. It may be worse than death to me. And it rests with you in a way.
Think of that! I can never find such another chance again. But that's nothi=
ng!
A man who has saved my life once and that I passed my word to would think I=
had
thrown him over. But that's nothing! Listen! As true as I stand here in my =
boat
talking to you, I believe the girl would die of grief."
"You love
her," she said, softly.
"Like my own
daughter," he cried, low.
Mrs. Travers said,
"Oh!" faintly, and for a moment there was a silence, then he began
again:
"Look here. =
When
I was a boy in a trawler, and looked at you yacht people, in the Channel po=
rts,
you were as strange to me as the Malays here are strange to you. I left home
sixteen years ago and fought my way all round the earth. I had the time to
forget where I began. What are you to me against these two? If I was to die
here on the spot would you care? No one would care at home. No one in the w=
hole
world--but these two."
"What can I
do?" she asked, and waited, leaning over.
He seemed to refl=
ect,
then lifting his head, spoke gently:
"Do you
understand the danger you are in? Are you afraid?"
"I understand
the expression you used, of course. Understand the danger?" she went o=
n.
"No--decidedly no. And--honestly--I am not afraid."
"Aren't
you?" he said in a disappointed voice. "Perhaps you don't believe=
me?
I believed you, though, when you said you were sure I meant well. I trusted=
you
enough to come here asking for your help--telling you what no one knows.&qu=
ot;
"You mistake
me," she said with impulsive earnestness. "This is so extraordina=
rily
unusual--sudden--outside my experience."
"Aye!" =
he
murmured, "what would you know of danger and trouble? You! But perhaps=
by
thinking it over--"
"You want me=
to
think myself into a fright!" Mrs. Travers laughed lightly, and in the
gloom of his thought this flash of joyous sound was incongruous and almost
terrible. Next moment the night appeared brilliant as day, warm as sunshine;
but when she ceased the returning darkness gave him pain as if it had struck
heavily against his breast. "I don't think I could do that," she
finished in a serious tone.
"Couldn't
you?" He hesitated, perplexed. "Things are bad enough to make it =
no
shame. I tell you," he said, rapidly, "and I am not a timid man, =
I may
not be able to do much if you people don't help me."
"You want me=
to
pretend I am alarmed?" she asked, quickly.
"Aye, to
pretend--as well you may. It's a lot to ask of you--who perhaps never had to
make-believe a thing in your life--isn't it?"
"It is,"
she said after a time.
The unexpected
bitterness of her tone struck Lingard with dismay.
"Don't be
offended," he entreated. "I've got to plan a way out of this mess.
It's no play either. Could you pretend?"
"Perhaps, if=
I
tried very hard. But to what end?"
"You must all
shift aboard the brig," he began, speaking quickly, "and then we =
may
get over this trouble without coming to blows. Now, if you were to say that=
you
wish it; that you feel unsafe in the yacht--don't you see?"
"I see,"
she pronounced, thoughtfully.
"The brig is
small but the cuddy is fit for a lady," went on Lingard with animation=
.
"Has it not
already sheltered a princess?" she commented, coolly.
"And I shall=
not
intrude."
"This is an
inducement."
"Nobody will
dare to intrude. You needn't even see me."
"This is alm=
ost
decisive, only--"
"I know my
place."
"Only, I mig=
ht
not have the influence," she finished.
"That I can =
not
believe," he said, roughly. "The long and the short of it is you
don't trust me because you think that only people of your own condition spe=
ak
the truth always."
"Evidently,&=
quot;
she murmured.
"You say to
yourself--here's a fellow deep in with pirates, thieves, niggers--"
"To be
sure--"
"A man I nev=
er
saw the like before," went on Lingard, headlong, "a--ruffian.&quo=
t;
He checked himsel=
f,
full of confusion. After a time he heard her saying, calmly:
"You are like
other men in this, that you get angry when you can not have your way at
once."
"I angry!&qu=
ot;
he exclaimed in deadened voice. "You do not understand. I am thinking =
of
you also--it is hard on me--"
"I mistrust =
not
you, but my own power. You have produced an unfortunate impression on Mr.
Travers."
"Unfortunate
impression! He treated me as if I had been a long-shore loafer. Never mind
that. He is your husband. Fear in those you care for is hard to bear for any
man. And so, he--"
"What
Machiavellism!"
"Eh, what did
you say?"
"I only wond=
ered
where you had observed that. On the sea?"
"Observed
what?" he said, absently. Then pursuing his idea--"One word from =
you
ought to be enough."
"You think
so?"
"I am sure of
it. Why, even I, myself--"
"Of
course," she interrupted. "But don't you think that after parting=
with
you on such--such--inimical terms, there would be a difficulty in resuming
relations?"
"A man like =
me
would do anything for money--don't you see?"
After a pause she
asked:
"And would y=
ou
care for that argument to be used?"
"As long as =
you
know better!"
His voice
vibrated--she drew back disturbed, as if unexpectedly he had touched her.
"What can th=
ere
be at stake?" she began, wonderingly.
"A
kingdom," said Lingard.
Mrs. Travers lean=
ed
far over the rail, staring, and their faces, one above the other, came very
close together.
"Not for
yourself?" she whispered.
He felt the touch=
of
her breath on his forehead and remained still for a moment, perfectly still=
as if
he did not intend to move or speak any more.
"Those
things," he began, suddenly, "come in your way, when you don't th=
ink,
and they get all round you before you know what you mean to do. When I went
into that bay in New Guinea I never guessed where that course would take me=
to.
I could tell you a story. You would understand! You! You!"
He stammered,
hesitated, and suddenly spoke, liberating the visions of two years into the
night where Mrs. Travers could follow them as if outlined in words of fire.=
VII
His tale was as
startling as the discovery of a new world. She was being taken along the
boundary of an exciting existence, and she looked into it through the guile=
less
enthusiasm of the narrator. The heroic quality of the feelings concealed wh=
at
was disproportionate and absurd in that gratitude, in that friendship, in t=
hat
inexplicable devotion. The headlong fierceness of purpose invested his obsc=
ure
design of conquest with the proportions of a great enterprise. It was clear
that no vision of a subjugated world could have been more inspiring to the =
most
famous adventurer of history.
From time to time=
he
interrupted himself to ask, confidently, as if he had been speaking to an o=
ld
friend, "What would you have done?" and hurried on without pausing
for approval.
It struck her that
there was a great passion in all this, the beauty of an implanted faculty of
affection that had found itself, its immediate need of an object and the wa=
y of
expansion; a tenderness expressed violently; a tenderness that could only be
satisfied by backing human beings against their own destiny. Perhaps her ha=
tred
of convention, trammelling the frankness of her own impulses, had rendered =
her
more alert to perceive what is intrinsically great and profound within the =
forms
of human folly, so simple and so infinitely varied according to the region =
of
the earth and to the moment of time.
What of it that t=
he
narrator was only a roving seaman; the kingdom of the jungle, the men of the
forest, the lives obscure! That simple soul was possessed by the greatness =
of
the idea; there was nothing sordid in its flaming impulses. When she once
understood that, the story appealed to the audacity of her thoughts, and she
became so charmed with what she heard that she forgot where she was. She fo=
rgot
that she was personally close to that tale which she saw detached, far away
from her, truth or fiction, presented in picturesque speech, real only by t=
he
response of her emotion.
Lingard paused. In
the cessation of the impassioned murmur she began to reflect. And at first =
it
was only an oppressive notion of there being some significance that really
mattered in this man's story. That mattered to her. For the first time the
shadow of danger and death crossed her mind. Was that the significance?
Suddenly, in a flash of acute discernment, she saw herself involved helples=
sly
in that story, as one is involved in a natural cataclysm.
He was speaking
again. He had not been silent more than a minute. It seemed to Mrs. Travers
that years had elapsed, so different now was the effect of his words. Her m=
ind
was agitated as if his coming to speak and confide in her had been a tremen=
dous
occurrence. It was a fact of her own existence; it was part of the story al=
so.
This was the disturbing thought. She heard him pronounce several names:
Belarab, Daman, Tengga, Ningrat. These belonged now to her life and she was
appalled to find she was unable to connect these names with any human
appearance. They stood out alone, as if written on the night; they took on a
symbolic shape; they imposed themselves upon her senses. She whispered as if
pondering: "Belarab, Daman, Ningrat," and these barbarous sounds
seemed to possess an exceptional energy, a fatal aspect, the savour of madn=
ess.
"Not one of =
them
but has a heavy score to settle with the whites. What's that to me! I had
somehow to get men who would fight. I risked my life to get that lot. I made
them promises which I shall keep--or--! Can you see now why I dared to stop
your boat? I am in so deep that I care for no Sir John in the world. When I
look at the work ahead I care for nothing. I gave you one chance--one good
chance. That I had to do. No! I suppose I didn't look enough of a gentleman.
Yes! Yes! That's it. Yet I know what a gentleman is. I lived with them for
years. I chummed with them--yes--on gold-fields and in other places where a=
man
has got to show the stuff that's in him. Some of them write from home to me=
here--such
as you see me, because I--never mind! And I know what a gentleman would do.
Come! Wouldn't he treat a stranger fairly? Wouldn't he remember that no man=
is
a liar till you prove him so? Wouldn't he keep his word wherever given? Wel=
l, I
am going to do that. Not a hair of your head shall be touched as long as I
live!"
She had regained =
much
of her composure but at these words she felt that staggering sense of utter
insecurity which is given one by the first tremor of an earthquake. It was
followed by an expectant stillness of sensations. She remained silent. He
thought she did not believe him.
"Come! What =
on
earth do you think brought me here--to--to--talk like this to you? There was
Hassim--Rajah Tulla, I should say--who was asking me this afternoon: 'What =
will
you do now with these, your people?' I believe he thinks yet I fetched you =
here
for some reason. You can't tell what crooked notion they will get into their
thick heads. It's enough to make one swear." He swore. "My people!
Are you? How much? Say--how much? You're no more mine than I am yours. Would
any of you fine folks at home face black ruin to save a fishing smack's crew
from getting drowned?"
Notwithstanding t=
hat
sense of insecurity which lingered faintly in her mind she had no image of
death before her. She felt intensely alive. She felt alive in a flush of
strength, with an impression of novelty as though life had been the gift of
this very moment. The danger hidden in the night gave no sign to awaken her
terror, but the workings of a human soul, simple and violent, were laid bare
before her and had the disturbing charm of an unheard-of experience. She was
listening to a man who concealed nothing. She said, interrogatively:
"And yet you
have come?"
"Yes," =
he
answered, "to you--and for you only."
The flood tide
running strong over the banks made a placid trickling sound about the yacht=
's
rudder.
"I would not=
be
saved alone."
"Then you mu=
st
bring them over yourself," he said in a sombre tone. "There's the
brig. You have me--my men--my guns. You know what to do.
"I will
try," she said.
"Very well. =
I am
sorry for the poor devils forward there if you fail. But of course you won'=
t.
Watch that light on the brig. I had it hoisted on purpose. The trouble may =
be
nearer than we think. Two of my boats are gone scouting and if the news they
bring me is bad the light will be lowered. Think what that means. And I've =
told
you what I have told nobody. Think of my feelings also. I told you because
I--because I had to."
He gave a shove
against the yacht's side and glided away from under her eyes. A rippling so=
und
died out.
She walked away f=
rom
the rail. The lamp and the skylights shone faintly along the dark stretch of
the decks. This evening was like the last--like all the evenings before.
"Is all this=
I
have heard possible?" she asked herself. "No--but it is true.&quo=
t;
She sat down in a
deck chair to think and found she could only remember. She jumped up. She w=
as
sure somebody was hailing the yacht faintly. Was that man hailing? She
listened, and hearing nothing was annoyed with herself for being haunted by=
a
voice.
"He said he
could trust me. Now, what is this danger? What is danger?" she meditat=
ed.
Footsteps were co=
ming
from forward. The figure of the watchman flitted vaguely over the gangway. =
He
was whistling softly and vanished. Hollow sounds in the boat were succeeded=
by
a splash of oars. The night swallowed these slight noises. Mrs. Travers sat
down again and found herself much calmer.
She had the facul=
ty
of being able to think her own thoughts--and the courage. She could take no
action of any kind till her husband's return. Lingard's warnings were not w=
hat
had impressed her most. This man had presented his innermost self unclothed=
by
any subterfuge. There were in plain sight his desires, his perplexities,
affections, doubts, his violence, his folly; and the existence they made up=
was
lawless but not vile. She had too much elevation of mind to look upon him f=
rom
any other but a strictly human standpoint. If he trusted her (how strange; =
why
should he? Was he wrong?) she accepted the trust with scrupulous fairness. =
And
when it dawned upon her that of all the men in the world this unquestionably
was the one she knew best, she had a moment of wonder followed by an impres=
sion
of profound sadness. It seemed an unfortunate matter that concerned her alo=
ne.
Her thought was
suspended while she listened attentively for the return of the yacht's boat.
She was dismayed at the task before her. Not a sound broke the stillness and
she felt as if she were lost in empty space. Then suddenly someone amidships
yawned immensely and said: "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" A voice asked:
"Ain't they back yet?" A negative grunt answered.
Mrs. Travers found
that Lingard was touching, because he could be understood. How simple was l=
ife,
she reflected. She was frank with herself. She considered him apart from so=
cial
organization. She discovered he had no place in it. How delightful! Here wa=
s a
human being and the naked truth of things was not so very far from her notw=
ithstanding
the growth of centuries. Then it occurred to her that this man by his action
stripped her at once of her position, of her wealth, of her rank, of her pa=
st.
"I am helpless. What remains?" she asked herself. Nothing! Anybody
there might have suggested: "Your presence." She was too artifici=
al
yet to think of her beauty; and yet the power of personality is part of the
naked truth of things.
She looked over h=
er
shoulder, and saw the light at the brig's foreyard-arm burning with a stron=
g,
calm flame in the dust of starlight suspended above the coast. She heard the
heavy bump as of a boat run headlong against the ladder. They were back! She
rose in sudden and extreme agitation. What should she say? How much? How to
begin? Why say anything? It would be absurd, like talking seriously about a
dream. She would not dare! In a moment she was driven into a state of mind =
bordering
on distraction. She heard somebody run up the gangway steps. With the idea =
of
gaining time she walked rapidly aft to the taffrail. The light of the brig
faced her without a flicker, enormous amongst the suns scattered in the
immensity of the night.
She fixed her eye=
s on
it. She thought: "I shan't tell him anything. Impossible. No! I shall =
tell
everything." She expected every moment to hear her husband's voice and=
the
suspense was intolerable because she felt that then she must decide. Somebo=
dy
on deck was babbling excitedly. She devoutly hoped d'Alcacer would speak fi=
rst
and thus put off the fatal moment. A voice said roughly: "What's
that?" And in the midst of her distress she recognized Carter's voice,
having noticed that young man who was of a different stamp from the rest of=
the
crew. She came to the conclusion that the matter could be related jocularly,
or--why not pretend fear? At that moment the brig's yard-arm light she was
looking at trembled distinctly, and she was dumfounded as if she had seen a=
commotion
in the firmament. With her lips open for a cry she saw it fall straight down
several feet, flicker, and go out. All perplexity passed from her mind. This
first fact of the danger gave her a thrill of quite a new emotion. Something
had to be done at once. For some remote reason she felt ashamed of her
hesitations.
She moved swiftly
forward and under the lamp came face to face with Carter who was coming aft.
Both stopped, staring, the light fell on their faces, and both were struck =
by
each other's expression. The four eyes shone wide.
"You have
seen?" she asked, beginning to tremble.
"How do you
know?" he said, at the same time, evidently surprised.
Suddenly she saw =
that
everybody was on deck.
"The light is
down," she stammered.
"The gentlem=
en
are lost," said Carter. Then he perceived she did not seem to understa=
nd.
"Kidnapped off the sandbank," he continued, looking at her fixedl=
y to
see how she would take it. She seemed calm. "Kidnapped like a pair of
lambs! Not a squeak," he burst out with indignation. "But the
sandbank is long and they might have been at the other end. You were on dec=
k,
ma'am?" he asked.
"Yes," =
she
murmured. "In the chair here."
"We were all
down below. I had to rest a little. When I came up the watchman was asleep.=
He
swears he wasn't, but I know better. Nobody heard any noise, unless you did.
But perhaps you were asleep?" he asked, deferentially.
"Yes--no--I =
must
have been," she said, faintly.
VIII
Lingard's soul was
exalted by his talk with Mrs. Travers, by the strain of incertitude and by
extreme fatigue. On returning on board he asked after Hassim and was told t=
hat
the Rajah and his sister had gone off in their canoe promising to return be=
fore
midnight. The boats sent to scout between the islets north and south of the
anchorage had not come back yet. He went into his cabin and throwing himsel=
f on
the couch closed his eyes thinking: "I must sleep or I shall go mad.&q=
uot;
At times he felt =
an
unshaken confidence in Mrs. Travers--then he remembered her face. Next mome=
nt
the face would fade, he would make an effort to hold on to the image, fail-=
-and
then become convinced without the shadow of a doubt that he was utterly los=
t,
unless he let all these people be wiped off the face of the earth.
"They all he=
ard
that man order me out of his ship," he thought, and thereupon for a se=
cond
or so he contemplated without flinching the lurid image of a massacre.
"And yet I had to tell her that not a hair of her head shall be touche=
d.
Not a hair."
And irrationally =
at
the recollection of these words there seemed to be no trouble of any kind l=
eft
in the world. Now and then, however, there were black instants when from sh=
eer
weariness he thought of nothing at all; and during one of these he fell asl=
eep,
losing the consciousness of external things as suddenly as if he had been
felled by a blow on the head.
When he sat up,
almost before he was properly awake, his first alarmed conviction was that =
he
had slept the night through. There was a light in the cuddy and through the
open door of his cabin he saw distinctly Mrs. Travers pass out of view acro=
ss
the lighted space.
"They did co=
me
on board after all," he thought--"how is it I haven't been
called!"
He darted into the
cuddy. Nobody! Looking up at the clock in the skylight he was vexed to see =
it
had stopped till his ear caught the faint beat of the mechanism. It was goi=
ng
then! He could not have been asleep more than ten minutes. He had not been =
on
board more than twenty!
So it was only a
deception; he had seen no one. And yet he remembered the turn of the head, =
the
line of the neck, the colour of the hair, the movement of the passing figur=
e.
He returned spiritlessly to his state-room muttering, "No more sleep f=
or
me to-night," and came out directly, holding a few sheets of paper cov=
ered
with a high, angular handwriting.
This was Jorgenso=
n's
letter written three days before and entrusted to Hassim. Lingard had read =
it
already twice, but he turned up the lamp a little higher and sat down to re=
ad
it again. On the red shield above his head the gilt sheaf of thunderbolts
darting between the initials of his name seemed to be aimed straight at the
nape of his neck as he sat with bared elbows spread on the table, poring ov=
er
the crumpled sheets. The letter began:
Hassim and Immada=
are
going out to-night to look for you. You are behind your time and every pass=
ing
day makes things worse.
Ten days ago thre=
e of
Belarab's men, who had been collecting turtles' eggs on the islets, came fl=
ying
back with a story of a ship stranded on the outer mudflats. Belarab at once
forbade any boat from leaving the lagoon. So far good. There was a great
excitement in the village. I judge it must be a schooner--probably some foo=
l of
a trader. However, you will know all about her when you read this. You may =
say
I might have pulled out to sea to have a look for myself. But besides Belar=
ab's
orders to the contrary, which I would attend to for the sake of example, all
you are worth in this world, Tom, is here in the Emma, under my feet, and I
would not leave my charge even for half a day. Hassim attended the council =
held
every evening in the shed outside Belarab's stockade. That holy man Ningrat=
was
for looting that vessel. Hassim reproved him saying that the vessel probably
was sent by you because no white men were known to come inside the shoals.
Belarab backed up Hassim. Ningrat was very angry and reproached Belarab for
keeping him, Ningrat, short of opium to smoke. He began by calling him &quo=
t;O!
son," and ended by shouting, "O! you worse than an unbeliever!&qu=
ot;
There was a hullabaloo. The followers of Tengga were ready to interfere and=
you
know how it is between Tengga and Belarab. Tengga always wanted to oust Bel=
arab,
and his chances were getting pretty good before you turned up and armed
Belarab's bodyguard with muskets. However, Hassim stopped that row, and no =
one
was hurt that time. Next day, which was Friday, Ningrat after reading the
prayers in the mosque talked to the people outside. He bleated and capered =
like
an old goat, prophesying misfortune, ruin, and extermination if these whites
were allowed to get away. He is mad but then they think him a saint, and he=
had
been fighting the Dutch for years in his young days. Six of Belarab's guard
marched down the village street carrying muskets at full cock and the crowd
cleared out. Ningrat was spirited away by Tengga's men into their master's
stockade. If it was not for the fear of you turning up any moment there wou=
ld
have been a party-fight that evening. I think it is a pity Tengga is not ch=
ief of
the land instead of Belarab. A brave and foresighted man, however treachero=
us
at heart, can always be trusted to a certain extent. One can never get anyt=
hing
clear from Belarab. Peace! Peace! You know his fad. And this fad makes him =
act
silly. The peace racket will get him into a row. It may cost him his life in
the end. However, Tengga does not feel himself strong enough yet to act with
his own followers only and Belarab has, on my advice, disarmed all villager=
s.
His men went into the houses and took away by force all the firearms and as
many spears as they could lay hands on. The women screamed abuse of course,=
but
there was no resistance. A few men were seen clearing out into the forest w=
ith
their arms. Note this, for it means there is another power beside Belarab's=
in the
village: the growing power of Tengga.
One morning--four
days ago--I went to see Tengga. I found him by the shore trimming a plank w=
ith
a small hatchet while a slave held an umbrella over his head. He is amusing
himself in building a boat just now. He threw his hatchet down to meet me a=
nd
led me by the hand to a shady spot. He told me frankly he had sent out two =
good
swimmers to observe the stranded vessel. These men stole down the creek in a
canoe and when on the sea coast swam from sandbank to sandbank until they a=
pproached
unobserved--I think--to about fifty yards from that schooner What can that
craft be? I can't make it out. The men reported there were three chiefs on
board. One with a glittering eye, one a lean man in white, and another with=
out
any hair on the face and dressed in a different style. Could it be a woman?=
I
don't know what to think. I wish you were here. After a lot of chatter Teng=
ga
said: "Six years ago I was ruler of a country and the Dutch drove me o=
ut.
The country was small but nothing is too small for them to take. They prete=
nded
to give it back to my nephew--may he burn! I ran away or they would have ki=
lled
me. I am nothing here--but I remember. These white people out there can not=
run
away and they are very few. There is perhaps a little to loot. I would give=
it
to my men who followed me in my calamity because I am their chief and my fa=
ther
was the chief of their fathers." I pointed out the imprudence of this.=
He
said: "The dead do not show the way." To this I remarked that the
ignorant do not give information. Tengga kept quiet for a while, then said:
"We must not touch them because their skin is like yours and to kill t=
hem
would be wrong, but at the bidding of you whites we may go and fight with
people of our own skin and our own faith--and that is good. I have promised=
to
Tuan Lingard twenty men and a prau to make war in Wajo. The men are good and
look at the prau; it is swift and strong." I must say, Tom, the prau is
the best craft of the kind I have ever seen. I said you paid him well for t=
he
help. "And I also would pay," says he, "if you let me have a=
few
guns and a little powder for my men. You and I shall share the loot of that
ship outside, and Tuan Lingard will not know. It is only a little game. You
have plenty of guns and powder under your care." He meant in the Emma.=
On that
I spoke out pretty straight and we got rather warm until at last he gave me=
to
understand that as he had about forty followers of his own and I had only n=
ine
of Hassim's chaps to defend the Emma with, he could very well go for me and=
get
the lot. "And then," says he, "I would be so strong that
everybody would be on my side." I discovered in the course of further =
talk
that there is a notion amongst many people that you have come to grief in s=
ome
way and won't show up here any more. After this I saw the position was seri=
ous
and I was in a hurry to get back to the Emma, but pretending I did not care=
I
smiled and thanked Tengga for giving me warning of his intentions about me =
and
the Emma. At this he nearly choked himself with his betel quid and fixing me
with his little eyes, muttered: "Even a lizard will give a fly the tim=
e to
say its prayers." I turned my back on him and was very thankful to get
beyond the throw of a spear. I haven't been out of the Emma since.
IX
The letter went o=
n to
enlarge on the intrigues of Tengga, the wavering conduct of Belarab, and the
state of the public mind. It noted every gust of opinion and every event, w=
ith
an earnestness of belief in their importance befitting the chronicle of a
crisis in the history of an empire. The shade of Jorgenson had, indeed, ste=
pped
back into the life of men. The old adventurer looked on with a perfect
understanding of the value of trifles, using his eyes for that other man wh=
ose
conscience would have the task to unravel the tangle. Lingard lived through
those days in the Settlement and was thankful to Jorgenson; only as he live=
d not
from day to day but from sentence to sentence of the writing, there was an
effect of bewildering rapidity in the succession of events that made him gr=
unt
with surprise sometimes or growl--"What?" to himself angrily and =
turn
back several lines or a whole page more than once. Toward the end he had a
heavy frown of perplexity and fidgeted as he read:
--and I began to
think I could keep things quiet till you came or those wretched white people
got their schooner off, when Sherif Daman arrived from the north on the very
day he was expected, with two Illanun praus. He looks like an Arab. It was =
very
evident to me he can wind the two Illanun pangerans round his little finger.
The two praus are large and armed. They came up the creek, flags and stream=
ers
flying, beating drums and gongs, and entered the lagoon with their decks fu=
ll
of armed men brandishing two-handed swords and sounding the war cry. It is a
fine force for you, only Belarab who is a perverse devil would not receive =
Sherif
Daman at once. So Daman went to see Tengga who detained him a very long tim=
e.
Leaving Tengga he came on board the Emma, and I could see directly there was
something up.
He began by askin=
g me
for the ammunition and weapons they are to get from you, saying he was anxi=
ous
to sail at once toward Wajo, since it was agreed he was to precede you by a=
few
days. I replied that that was true enough but that I could not think of giv=
ing
him the powder and muskets till you came. He began to talk about you and hi=
nted
that perhaps you will never come. "And no matter," says he,
"here is Rajah Hassim and the Lady Immada and we would fight for them =
if
no white man was left in the world. Only we must have something to fight
with." He pretended then to forget me altogether and talked with Hassim
while I sat listening. He began to boast how well he got along the Bruni co=
ast.
No Illanun prau had passed down that coast for years.
Immada wanted me =
to
give the arms he was asking for. The girl is beside herself with fear of
something happening that would put a stopper on the Wajo expedition. She has
set her mind on getting her country back. Hassim is very reserved but he is
very anxious, too. Daman got nothing from me, and that very evening the pra=
us
were ordered by Belarab to leave the lagoon. He does not trust the
Illanuns--and small blame to him. Sherif Daman went like a lamb. He has no
powder for his guns. As the praus passed by the Emma he shouted to me he was
going to wait for you outside the creek. Tengga has given him a man who wou=
ld
show him the place. All this looks very queer to me.
Look out outside
then. The praus are dodging amongst the islets. Daman visits Tengga. Tengga
called on me as a good friend to try and persuade me to give Daman the arms=
and
gunpowder he is so anxious to get. Somehow or other they tried to get around
Belarab, who came to see me last night and hinted I had better do so. He is
anxious for these Illanuns to leave the neighbourhood. He thinks that if th=
ey
loot the schooner they will be off at once. That's all he wants now. Immada=
has
been to see Belarab's women and stopped two nights in the stockade. Belarab=
's
youngest wife--he got married six weeks ago--is on the side of Tengga's par=
ty because
she thinks Belarab would get a share of the loot and she got into her silly
head there are jewels and silks in that schooner. What between Tengga worry=
ing
him outside and the women worrying him at home, Belarab had such a lively t=
ime
of it that he concluded he would go to pray at his father's tomb. So for the
last two days he has been away camping in that unhealthy place. When he com=
es
back he will be down with fever as sure as fate and then he will be no good=
for
anything. Tengga lights up smoky fires often. Some signal to Daman. I go as=
hore
with Hassim's men and put them out. This is risking a fight every time--for=
Tengga's
men look very black at us. I don't know what the next move may be. Hassim's=
as
true as steel. Immada is very unhappy. They will tell you many details I ha=
ve
no time to write.
The last page
fluttered on the table out of Lingard's fingers. He sat very still for a mo=
ment
looking straight before him, then went on deck.
"Our boats b=
ack
yet?" he asked Shaw, whom he saw prowling on the quarter-deck.
"No, sir, I =
wish
they were. I am waiting for them to go and turn in," answered the mate=
in
an aggrieved manner.
"Lower that
lantern forward there," cried Lingard, suddenly, in Malay.
"This trade
isn't fit for a decent man," muttered Shaw to himself, and he moved aw=
ay
to lean on the rail, looking moodily to seaward. After a while: "There
seems to be commotion on board that yacht," he said. "I see a lot=
of
lights moving about her decks. Anything wrong, do you think, sir?"
"No, I know =
what
it is," said Lingard in a tone of elation. She has done it! he thought=
.
He returned to the
cabin, put away Jorgenson's letter and pulled out the drawer of the table. =
It
was full of cartridges. He took a musket down, loaded it, then took another=
and
another. He hammered at the waddings with fierce joyousness. The ramrods ra=
ng
and jumped. It seemed to him he was doing his share of some work in which t=
hat
woman was playing her part faithfully. "She has done it," he
repeated, mentally. "She will sit in the cuddy. She will sleep in my
berth. Well, I'm not ashamed of the brig. By heavens--no! I shall keep away:
never come near them as I've promised. Now there's nothing more to say. I've
told her everything at once. There's nothing more."
He felt a heavine=
ss
in his burning breast, in all his limbs as if the blood in his veins had be=
come
molten lead.
"I shall get=
the
yacht off. Three, four days--no, a week."
He found he could= n't do it under a week. It occurred to him he would see her every day till the = yacht was afloat. No, he wouldn't intrude, but he was master and owner of the brig after all. He didn't mean to skulk like a whipped cur about his own decks.<= o:p>
"It'll be ten
days before the schooner is ready. I'll take every scrap of ballast out of =
her.
I'll strip her--I'll take her lower masts out of her, by heavens! I'll make
sure. Then another week to fit out--and--goodbye. Wish I had never seen the=
m.
Good-bye--forever. Home's the place for them. Not for me. On another coast =
she
would not have listened. Ah, but she is a woman--every inch of her. I shall
shake hands. Yes. I shall take her hand--just before she goes. Why the devi=
l not?
I am master here after all--in this brig--as good as any one--by heavens,
better than any one--better than any one on earth."
He heard Shaw walk
smartly forward above his head hailing:
"What's that=
--a
boat?"
A voice answered
indistinctly.
"One of my b=
oats
is back," thought Lingard. "News about Daman perhaps. I don't car=
e if
he kicks. I wish he would. I would soon show her I can fight as well as I c=
an
handle the brig. Two praus. Only two praus. I wouldn't mind if there were
twenty. I would sweep 'em off the sea--I would blow 'em out of the water--I
would make the brig walk over them. 'Now,' I'd say to her, 'you who are not=
afraid,
look how it's done!'"
He felt light. He=
had
the sensation of being whirled high in the midst of an uproar and as powerl=
ess
as a feather in a hurricane. He shuddered profoundly. His arms hung down, a=
nd
he stood before the table staring like a man overcome by some fatal
intelligence.
Shaw, going into =
the
waist to receive what he thought was one of the brig's boats, came against
Carter making his way aft hurriedly.
"Hullo! Is it
you again?" he said, swiftly, barring the way.
"I come from=
the
yacht," began Carter with some impatience.
"Where else
could you come from?" said Shaw. "And what might you want now?&qu=
ot;
"I want to s=
ee
your skipper."
"Well, you
can't," declared Shaw, viciously. "He's turned in for the night.&=
quot;
"He expects
me," said Carter, stamping his foot. "I've got to tell him what
happened."
"Don't you f=
ret
yourself, young man," said Shaw in a superior manner; "he knows a=
ll
about it."
They stood sudden=
ly
silent in the dark. Carter seemed at a loss what to do. Shaw, though surpri=
sed
by it, enjoyed the effect he had produced.
"Damn me, if=
I
did not think so," murmured Carter to himself; then drawling coolly
asked--"And perhaps you know, too?"
"What do you
think? Think I am a dummy here? I ain't mate of this brig for nothing."=
;
"No, you are=
not,"
said Carter with a certain bitterness of tone. "People do all kinds of
queer things for a living, and I am not particular myself, but I would think
twice before taking your billet."
"What? What =
do
you in-si-nu-ate. My billet? You ain't fit for it, you yacht-swabbing
brass-buttoned imposter."
"What's this?
Any of our boats back?" asked Lingard from the poop. "Let the
seacannie in charge come to me at once."
"There's onl=
y a
message from the yacht," began Shaw, deliberately.
"Yacht! Get =
the
deck lamps along here in the waist! See the ladder lowered. Bear a hand,
serang! Mr. Shaw! Burn the flare up aft. Two of them! Give light to the yac=
ht's
boats that will be coming alongside. Steward! Where's that steward? Turn him
out then."
Bare feet began to
patter all round Carter. Shadows glided swiftly.
"Are these
flares coming? Where's the quartermaster on duty?" shouted Lingard in
English and Malay. "This way, come here! Put it on a rocket stick--can=
't
you? Hold over the side--thus! Stand by with the lines for the boats forward
there. Mr. Shaw--we want more light!"
"Aye, aye,
sir," called out Shaw, but he did not move, as if dazed by the vehemen=
ce
of his commander.
"That's what=
we
want," muttered Carter under his breath. "Imposter! What do you c=
all
yourself?" he said half aloud to Shaw.
The ruddy glare of
the flares disclosed Lingard from head to foot, standing at the break of the
poop. His head was bare, his face, crudely lighted, had a fierce and changi=
ng
expression in the sway of flames.
"What can be=
his
game?" thought Carter, impressed by the powerful and wild aspect of th=
at
figure. "He's changed somehow since I saw him first," he reflecte=
d.
It struck him the change was serious, not exactly for the worse, perhaps--a=
nd
yet. . . . Lingard smiled at him from the poop.
Carter went up the
steps and without pausing informed him of what had happened.
"Mrs. Travers
told me to go to you at once. She's very upset as you may guess," he
drawled, looking Lingard hard in the face. Lingard knitted his eyebrows.
"The hands, too, are scared," Carter went on. "They fancy the
savages, or whatever they may be who stole the owner, are going to board the
yacht every minute. I don't think so myself but--"
"Quite
right--most unlikely," muttered Lingard.
"Aye, I dare=
say
you know all about it," continued Carter, coolly, "the men are
startled and no mistake, but I can't blame them very much. There isn't enou=
gh
even of carving knives aboard to go round. One old signal gun! A poor show =
for
better men than they."
"There's no
mistake I suppose about this affair?" asked Lingard.
"Well, unless
the gentlemen are having a lark with us at hide and seek. The man says he
waited ten minutes at the point, then pulled slowly along the bank looking =
out,
expecting to see them walking back. He made the trunk of a tree apparently
stranded on the sand and as he was sculling past he says a man jumped up fr=
om
behind that log, flung a stick at him and went off running. He backed water=
at
once and began to shout, 'Are you there, sir?' No one answered. He could he=
ar
the bushes rustle and some strange noises like whisperings. It was very dar=
k.
After calling out several times, and waiting on his oars, he got frightened=
and
pulled back to the yacht. That is clear enough. The only doubt in my mind i=
s if
they are alive or not. I didn't let on to Mrs. Travers. That's a kind of th=
ing
you keep to yourself, of course."
"I don't thi=
nk
they are dead," said Lingard, slowly, and as if thinking of something
else.
"Oh! If you =
say
so it's all right," said Carter with deliberation.
"What?"
asked Lingard, absently; "fling a stick, did they? Fling a spear!"=
;
"That's
it!" assented Carter, "but I didn't say anything. I only wondered=
if
the same kind of stick hadn't been flung at the owner, that's all. But I
suppose you know your business best, Captain."
Lingard, grasping=
his
whole beard, reflected profoundly, erect and with bowed head in the glare of
the flares.
"I suppose y=
ou
think it's my doing?" he asked, sharply, without looking up.
Carter surveyed h=
im
with a candidly curious gaze. "Well, Captain, Mrs. Travers did let on a
bit to me about our chief-officer's boat. You've stopped it, haven't you? H=
ow
she got to know God only knows. She was sorry she spoke, too, but it wasn't=
so
much of news to me as she thought. I can put two and two together, sometime=
s.
Those rockets, last night, eh? I wished I had bitten my tongue out before I
told you about our first gig. But I was taken unawares. Wasn't I? I put it =
to
you: wasn't I? And so I told her when she asked me what passed between you =
and
me on board this brig, not twenty-four hours ago. Things look different now,
all of a sudden. Enough to scare a woman, but she is the best man of them a=
ll
on board. The others are fairly off the chump because it's a bit dark and
something has happened they ain't used to. But she has something on her min=
d. I
can't make her out!" He paused, wriggled his shoulders slightly--"=
;No
more than I can make you out," he added.
"That's your
trouble, is it?" said Lingard, slowly.
"Aye, Captai=
n.
Is it all clear to you? Stopping boats, kidnapping gentlemen. That's fun in=
a
way, only--I am a youngster to you--but is it all clear to you? Old Robinson
wasn't particular, you know, and he--"
"Clearer than
daylight," cried Lingard, hotly. "I can't give up--"
He checked himsel= f. Carter waited. The flare bearers stood rigid, turning their faces away from= the flame, and in the play of gleams at its foot the mast near by, like a lofty column, ascended in the great darkness. A lot of ropes ran up slanting into= a dark void and were lost to sight, but high aloft a brace block gleamed whit= e, the end of a yard-arm could be seen suspended in the air and as if glowing = with its own light. The sky had clouded over the brig without a breath of wind.<= o:p>
"Give up,&qu=
ot;
repeated Carter with an uneasy shuffle of feet.
"Nobody,&quo=
t;
finished Lingard. "I can't. It's as clear as daylight. I can't! No!
Nothing!"
He stared straight
out afar, and after looking at him Carter felt moved by a bit of youthful
intuition to murmur, "That's bad," in a tone that almost in spite=
of
himself hinted at the dawning of a befogged compassion.
He had a sense of
confusion within him, the sense of mystery without. He had never experienced
anything like it all the time when serving with old Robinson in the Ly-e-mo=
on.
And yet he had seen and taken part in some queer doings that were not clear=
to
him at the time. They were secret but they suggested something comprehensib=
le.
This affair did not. It had somehow a subtlety that affected him. He was un=
easy
as if there had been a breath of magic on events and men giving to this
complication of a yachting voyage a significance impossible to perceive, but
felt in the words, in the gestures, in the events, which made them all stra=
ngely,
obscurely startling.
He was not one wh=
o could
keep track of his sensations, and besides he had not the leisure. He had to
answer Lingard's questions about the people of the yacht. No, he couldn't s=
ay
Mrs. Travers was what you may call frightened. She seemed to have something=
in
her mind. Oh, yes! The chaps were in a funk. Would they fight? Anybody would
fight when driven to it, funk or no funk. That was his experience. Naturally
one liked to have something better than a handspike to do it with. Still--In
the pause Carter seemed to weigh with composure the chances of men with han=
dspikes.
"What do you
want to fight us for?" he asked, suddenly.
Lingard started.<= o:p>
"I don't,&qu=
ot;
he said; "I wouldn't be asking you."
"There's no
saying what you would do, Captain," replied Carter; "it isn't
twenty-four hours since you wanted to shoot me."
"I only said=
I
would, rather than let you go raising trouble for me," explained Linga=
rd.
"One night i=
sn't
like another," mumbled Carter, "but how am I to know? It seems to=
me
you are making trouble for yourself as fast as you can."
"Well, suppo=
sing
I am," said Lingard with sudden gloominess. "Would your men fight=
if
I armed them properly?"
"What--for y=
ou
or for themselves?" asked Carter.
"For the
woman," burst out Lingard. "You forget there's a woman on board. I
don't care that for their carcases."
Carter pondered
conscientiously.
"Not
to-night," he said at last. "There's one or two good men amongst =
them,
but the rest are struck all of a heap. Not to-night. Give them time to get
steady a bit if you want them to fight."
He gave facts and
opinions with a mixture of loyalty and mistrust. His own state puzzled him
exceedingly. He couldn't make out anything, he did not know what to believe=
and
yet he had an impulsive desire, an inspired desire to help the man. At time=
s it
appeared a necessity--at others policy; between whiles a great folly, which
perhaps did not matter because he suspected himself of being helpless anywa=
y.
Then he had moments of anger. In those moments he would feel in his pocket =
the butt
of a loaded pistol. He had provided himself with the weapon, when directed =
by
Mrs. Travers to go on board the brig.
"If he wants=
to
interfere with me, I'll let drive at him and take my chance of getting
away," he had explained hurriedly.
He remembered how
startled Mrs. Travers looked. Of course, a woman like that--not used to hear
such talk. Therefore it was no use listening to her, except for good manner=
s'
sake. Once bit twice shy. He had no mind to be kidnapped, not he, nor bulli=
ed
either.
"I can't let=
him
nab me, too. You will want me now, Mrs. Travers," he had said; "a=
nd I
promise you not to fire off the old thing unless he jolly well forces me
to."
He was youthfully
wise in his resolution not to give way to her entreaties, though her
extraordinary agitation did stagger him for a moment. When the boat was alr=
eady
on its way to the brig, he remembered her calling out after him:
"You must no=
t!
You don't understand."
Her voice coming faintly in the darkness moved him, it resembled so much a cry of distress.<= o:p>
"Give way, b=
oys,
give way," he urged his men.
He was wise,
resolute, and he was also youthful enough to almost wish it should "co=
me
to it." And with foresight he even instructed the boat's crew to keep =
the
gig just abaft the main rigging of the brig.
"When you se=
e me
drop into her all of a sudden, shove off and pull for dear life."
Somehow just then=
he
was not so anxious for a shot, but he held on with a determined mental gras=
p to
his fine resolution, lest it should slip away from him and perish in a sea =
of
doubts.
"Hadn't I be=
tter
get back to the yacht?" he asked, gently.
Getting no answer=
he
went on with deliberation:
"Mrs. Travers
ordered me to say that no matter how this came about she is ready to trust =
you.
She is waiting for some kind of answer, I suppose."
"Ready to tr=
ust
me," repeated Lingard. His eyes lit up fiercely.
Every sway of fla=
res
tossed slightly to and fro the massy shadows of the main deck, where here a=
nd
there the figure of a man could be seen standing very still with a dusky fa=
ce
and glittering eyeballs.
Carter stole his =
hand
warily into his breast pocket:
"Well,
Captain," he said. He was not going to be bullied, let the owner's wife
trust whom she liked.
"Have you got
anything in writing for me there?" asked Lingard, advancing a pace, ex=
ultingly.
Carter, alert,
stepped back to keep his distance. Shaw stared from the side; his rubicund
cheeks quivered, his round eyes seemed starting out of his head, and his mo=
uth
was open as though he had been ready to choke with pent-up curiosity, amaze=
ment,
and indignation.
"No! Not in
writing," said Carter, steadily and low.
Lingard had the a=
ir
of being awakened by a shout. A heavy and darkening frown seemed to fall ou=
t of
the night upon his forehead and swiftly passed into the night again, and wh=
en
it departed it left him so calm, his glance so lucid, his mien so composed =
that
it was difficult to believe the man's heart had undergone within the last
second the trial of humiliation and of danger. He smiled sadly:
"Well, young
man," he asked with a kind of good-humoured resignation, "what is=
it
you have there? A knife or a pistol?"
"A pistol,&q=
uot;
said Carter. "Are you surprised, Captain?" He spoke with heat bec=
ause
a sense of regret was stealing slowly within him, as stealthily, as
irresistibly as the flowing tide. "Who began these tricks?" He
withdrew his hand, empty, and raised his voice. "You are up to somethi=
ng I
can't make out. You--you are not straight."
The flares held on
high streamed right up without swaying, and in that instant of profound cal=
m the
shadows on the brig's deck became as still as the men.
"You think
not?" said Lingard, thoughtfully.
Carter nodded. He
resented the turn of the incident and the growing impulse to surrender to t=
hat
man.
"Mrs. Travers
trusts me though," went on Lingard with gentle triumph as if advancing=
an
unanswerable argument.
"So she
says," grunted Carter; "I warned her. She's a baby. They're all as
innocent as babies there. And you know it. And I know it. I've heard of your
kind. You would dump the lot of us overboard if it served your turn. That's
what I think."
"And that's
all."
Carter nodded
slightly and looked away. There was a silence. Lingard's eyes travelled over
the brig. The lighted part of the vessel appeared in bright and wavering de=
tail
walled and canopied by the night. He felt a light breath on his face. The a=
ir
was stirring, but the Shallows, silent and lost in the darkness, gave no so=
und
of life.
This stillness
oppressed Lingard. The world of his endeavours and his hopes seemed dead,
seemed gone. His desire existed homeless in the obscurity that had devoured=
his
corner of the sea, this stretch of the coast, his certitude of success. And
here in the midst of what was the domain of his adventurous soul there was a
lost youngster ready to shoot him on suspicion of some extravagant treacher=
y.
Came ready to shoot! That's good, too! He was too weary to laugh--and perha=
ps
too sad. Also the danger of the pistol-shot, which he believed real--the yo=
ung
are rash--irritated him. The night and the spot were full of contradictions=
. It
was impossible to say who in this shadowy warfare was to be an enemy, and w=
ho
were the allies. So close were the contacts issuing from this complication =
of a
yachting voyage, that he seemed to have them all within his breast.
"Shoot me! H=
e is
quite up to that trick--damn him. Yet I would trust him sooner than any man=
in
that yacht."
Such were his
thoughts while he looked at Carter, who was biting his lips, in the vexatio=
n of
the long silence. When they spoke again to each other they talked soberly, =
with
a sense of relief, as if they had come into cool air from an overheated room
and when Carter, dismissed, went into his boat, he had practically agreed to
the line of action traced by Lingard for the crew of the yacht. He had agre=
ed
as if in implicit confidence. It was one of the absurdities of the situation
which had to be accepted and could never be understood.
"Do I talk
straight now?" had asked Lingard.
"It seems
straight enough," assented Carter with an air of reserve; "I will=
work
with you so far anyhow."
"Mrs. Travers
trusts me," remarked Lingard again.
"By the Lord
Harry!" cried Carter, giving way suddenly to some latent conviction.
"I was warning her against you. Say, Captain, you are a devil of a man.
How did you manage it?"
"I trusted
her," said Lingard.
"Did you?&qu=
ot;
cried the amazed Carter. "When? How? Where--"
"You know too
much already," retorted Lingard, quietly. "Waste no time. I will =
be
after you."
Carter whistled l=
ow.
"There's a p=
air
of you I can't make out," he called back, hurrying over the side.
Shaw took this
opportunity to approach. Beginning with hesitation: "A word with you,
sir," the mate went on to say he was a respectable man. He delivered
himself in a ringing, unsteady voice. He was married, he had children, he
abhorred illegality. The light played about his obese figure, he had flung =
his
mushroom hat on the deck, he was not afraid to speak the truth. The grey
moustache stood out aggressively, his glances were uneasy; he pressed his h=
ands
to his stomach convulsively, opened his thick, short arms wide, wished it t=
o be
understood he had been
chief-officer of =
home
ships, with a spotless character and he hoped "quite up to his work.&q=
uot;
He was a peaceable man, none more; disposed to stretch a point when it
"came to a difference with niggers of some kind--they had to be taught
manners and reason" and he was not averse at a pinch to--but here were
white people--gentlemen, ladies, not to speak of the crew. He had never spo=
ken
to a superior like this before, and this was prudence, his conviction, a po=
int
of view, a point of principle, a conscious superiority and a burst of
resentment hoarded through years against all the successive and unsatisfact=
ory
captains of his existence. There never had been such an opportunity to show=
he
could not be put upon. He had one of them on a string and he was going to l=
ead him
a dance. There was courage, too, in it, since he believed himself fallen
unawares into the clutches of a particularly desperate man and beyond the r=
each
of law.
A certain small
amount of calculation entered the audacity of his remonstrance. Perhaps--it
flashed upon him--the yacht's gentry will hear I stood up for them. This co=
uld
conceivably be of advantage to a man who wanted a lift in the world.
"Owner of a yacht--badly scared--a gentleman--money nothing to him.&qu=
ot;
Thereupon Shaw declared with heat that he couldn't be an accessory either a=
fter
or before the fact. Those that never went home--who had nothing to go to
perhaps--he interjected, hurriedly, could do as they liked. He couldn't. He=
had
a wife, a family, a little house--paid for--with difficulty. He followed the
sea respectably out and home, all regular, not vagabonding here and there, =
chumming
with the first nigger that came along and laying traps for his betters.
One of the two fl=
are
bearers sighed at his elbow, and shifted his weight to the other foot.
These two had been
keeping so perfectly still that the movement was as startling as if a statue
had changed its pose. After looking at the offender with cold malevolence, =
Shaw
went on to speak of law-courts, of trials, and of the liberty of the subjec=
t;
then he pointed out the certitude and the inconvenience of being found out,
affecting for the moment the dispassionateness of wisdom.
"There will =
be
fifteen years in gaol at the end of this job for everybody," said Shaw,
"and I have a boy that don't know his father yet. Fine things for him =
to
learn when he grows up. The innocent are dead certain here to catch it along
with you. The missus will break her heart unless she starves first. Home so=
ld
up."
He saw a mysterio=
us
iniquity in a dangerous relation to himself and began to lose his head. Wha=
t he
really wanted was to have his existence left intact, for his own cherishing=
and
pride. It was a moral aspiration, but in his alarm the native grossness of =
his
nature came clattering out like a devil out of a trap. He would blow the ga=
ff, split,
give away the whole show, he would back up honest people, kiss the book, say
what he thought, let all the world know . . . and when he paused to draw
breath, all around him was silent and still. Before the impetus of that
respectable passion his words were scattered like chaff driven by a gale and
rushed headlong into the night of the Shallows. And in the great obscurity,
imperturbable, it heard him say he "washed his hands of everything.&qu=
ot;
"And the
brig?" asked Lingard, suddenly.
Shaw was checked.=
For
a second the seaman in him instinctively admitted the claim of the ship.
"The brig. T=
he
brig. She's right enough," he mumbled. He had nothing to say against t=
he
brig--not he. She wasn't like the big ships he was used to, but of her kind=
the
best craft he ever. . . . And with a brusque return upon himself, he protes=
ted
that he had been decoyed on board under false pretences. It was as bad as b=
eing
shanghaied when in liquor. It was--upon his soul. And into a craft next thi=
ng
to a pirate! That was the name for it or his own name was not Shaw. He said
this glaring owlishly. Lingard, perfectly still and mute, bore the blows
without a sign.
The silly fuss of
that man seared his very soul. There was no end to this plague of fools com=
ing
to him from the forgotten ends of the earth. A fellow like that could not be
told. No one could be told. Blind they came and blind they would go out. He=
admitted
reluctantly, but without doubt, that as if pushed by a force from outside he
would have to try and save two of them. To this end he foresaw the probable
need of leaving his brig for a time. He would have to leave her with that m=
an. The
mate. He had engaged him himself--to make his insurance valid--to be able
sometimes to speak--to have near him. Who would have believed such a fool-m=
an
could exist on the face of the sea! Who? Leave the brig with him. The brig!=
Ever since sunset,
the breeze kept off by the heat of the day had been trying to re-establish =
in
the darkness its sway over the Shoals. Its approaches had been heard in the
night, its patient murmurs, its foiled sighs; but now a surprisingly heavy =
puff
came in a free rush as if, far away there to the northward, the last defenc=
e of
the calm had been victoriously carried. The flames borne down streamed
bluishly, horizontal and noisy at the end of tall sticks, like fluttering p=
ennants;
and behold, the shadows on the deck went mad and jostled each other as if
trying to escape from a doomed craft, the darkness, held up dome-like by the
brilliant glare, seemed to tumble headlong upon the brig in an overwhelming
downfall, the men stood swaying as if ready to fall under the ruins of a bl=
ack
and noiseless disaster. The blurred outlines of the brig, the masts, the
rigging, seemed to shudder in the terror of coming extinction--and then the
darkness leaped upward again, the shadows returned to their places, the men
were seen distinct, swarthy, with calm faces, with glittering eyeballs. The
destruction in the breath had passed, was gone.
A discord of three
voices raised together in a drawling wail trailed on the sudden immobility =
of
the air.
"Brig ahoy! =
Give
us a rope!"
The first boat-lo=
ad
from the yacht emerged floating slowly into the pool of purple light waveri=
ng
round the brig on the black water. Two men squeezed in the bows pulled
uncomfortably; in the middle, on a heap of seamen's canvas bags, another sa=
t,
insecure, propped with both arms, stiff-legged, angularly helpless. The lig=
ht
from the poop brought everything out in lurid detail, and the boat floating
slowly toward the brig had a suspicious and pitiful aspect. The shabby load
lumbering her looked somehow as if it had been stolen by those men who rese=
mbled
castaways. In the sternsheets Carter, standing up, steered with his leg. He=
had
a smile of youthful sarcasm.
"Here they
are!" he cried to Lingard. "You've got your own way, Captain. I
thought I had better come myself with the first precious lot--"
"Pull around=
the
stern. The brig's on the swing," interrupted Lingard.
"Aye, aye! W=
e'll
try not to smash the brig. We would be lost indeed if--fend off there, John;
fend off, old reliable, if you care a pin for your salty hide. I like the o=
ld
chap," he said, when he stood by Lingard's side looking down at the bo=
at
which was being rapidly cleared by whites and Malays working shoulder to
shoulder in silence. "I like him. He don't belong to that yachting lot
either. They picked him up on the road somewhere. Look at the old dog--carv=
ed
out of a ship's timber--as talkative as a fish--grim as a gutted wreck. Tha=
t's
the man for me. All the others there are married, or going to be, or ought =
to
be, or sorry they ain't. Every man jack of them has a petticoat in tow--dash
me! Never heard in all my travels such a jabber about wives and kids. Hurry=
up
with your dunnage--below there! Aye! I had no difficulty in getting them to
clear out from the yacht. They never saw a pair of gents stolen before--you
understand. It upset all their little notions of what a stranding means,
hereabouts. Not that mine aren't mixed a bit, too--and yet I've seen a thin=
g or
two."
His excitement was
revealed in this boyish impulse to talk.
"Look,"=
he
said, pointing at the growing pile of bags and bedding on the brig's
quarter-deck. "Look. Don't they mean to sleep soft--and dream of home-=
-maybe.
Home. Think of that, Captain. These chaps can't get clear away from it. It
isn't like you and me--"
Lingard made a
movement.
"I ran away
myself when so high. My old man's a Trinity pilot. That's a job worth stayi=
ng
at home for. Mother writes sometimes, but they can't miss me much. There's
fourteen of us altogether--eight at home yet. No fear of the old country ev=
er
getting undermanned--let die who must. Only let it be a fair game, Captain.
Let's have a fair show."
Lingard assured h=
im
briefly he should have it. That was the very reason he wanted the yacht's c=
rew
in the brig, he added. Then quiet and grave he inquired whether that pistol=
was
still in Carter's pocket.
"Never mind
that," said the young man, hurriedly. "Remember who began. To be =
shot
at wouldn't rile me so much--it's being threatened, don't you see, that was
heavy on my chest. Last night is very far off though--and I will be hanged =
if I
know what I meant exactly when I took the old thing from its nail. There. M=
ore
I can't say till all's settled one way or another. Will that do?"
Flushing brick re=
d,
he suspended his judgment and stayed his hand with the generosity of youth.=
. . . . . . .
Apparently it sui=
ted
Lingard to be reprieved in that form. He bowed his head slowly. It would do=
. To
leave his life to that youngster's ignorance seemed to redress the balance =
of
his mind against a lot of secret intentions. It was distasteful and bitter =
as
an expiation should be. He also held a life in his hand; a life, and many
deaths besides, but these were like one single feather in the scales of his
conscience. That he should feel so was unavoidable because his strength wou=
ld
at no price permit itself to be wasted. It would not be--and there was an e=
nd
of it. All he could do was to throw in another risk into the sea of risks. =
Thus
was he enabled to recognize that a drop of water in the ocean makes a great
difference. His very desire, unconquered, but exiled, had left the place wh=
ere
he could constantly hear its voice. He saw it, he saw himself, the past, the
future, he saw it all, shifting and indistinct like those shapes the strain=
ed
eye of a wanderer outlines in darker strokes upon the face of the night.
X
When Lingard went=
to
his boat to follow Carter, who had gone back to the yacht, Wasub, mast and =
sail
on shoulder, preceded him down the ladder. The old man leaped in smartly and
busied himself in getting the dinghy ready for his commander.
In that little bo=
at
Lingard was accustomed to traverse the Shallows alone. She had a short mast=
and
a lug-sail, carried two easily, floated in a few inches of water. In her he=
was
independent of a crew, and, if the wind failed, could make his way with a p=
air
of sculls taking short cuts over shoal places. There were so many islets and
sandbanks that in case of sudden bad weather there was always a lee to be
found, and when he wished to land he could pull her up a beach, striding ah=
ead,
painter in hand, like a giant child dragging a toy boat. When the brig was =
anchored
within the Shallows it was in her that he visited the lagoon. Once, when ca=
ught
by a sudden freshening of the sea-breeze, he had waded up a shelving bank
carrying her on his head and for two days they had rested together on the s=
and,
while around them the shallow waters raged lividly, and across three miles =
of
foam the brig would time after time dissolve in the mist and re-appear
distinct, nodding her tall spars that seemed to touch a weeping sky of lame=
ntable
greyness.
Whenever he came =
into
the lagoon tugging with bare arms, Jorgenson, who would be watching the
entrance of the creek ever since a muffled detonation of a gun to seaward h=
ad
warned him of the brig's arrival on the Shore of Refuge, would mutter to
himself--"Here's Tom coming in his nutshell." And indeed she was =
in
shape somewhat like half a nutshell and also in the colour of her dark
varnished planks. The man's shoulders and head rose high above her gunwales;
loaded with Lingard's heavy frame she would climb sturdily the steep ridges,
slide squatting into the hollows of the sea, or, now and then, take a sedate
leap over a short wave. Her behaviour had a stout trustworthiness about it,=
and
she reminded one of a surefooted mountain-pony carrying over difficult grou=
nd a
rider much bigger than himself.
Wasub wiped the
thwarts, ranged the mast and sail along the side, shipped the rowlocks. Lin=
gard
looked down at his old servant's spare shoulders upon which the light from
above fell unsteady but vivid. Wasub worked for the comfort of his commander
and his singleminded absorption in that task flashed upon Lingard the
consolation of an act of friendliness. The elderly Malay at last lifted his
head with a deferential murmur; his wrinkled old face with half a dozen wiry
hairs pendulous at each corner of the dark lips expressed a kind of weary s=
atisfaction,
and the slightly oblique worn eyes stole a discreet upward glance containin=
g a
hint of some remote meaning. Lingard found himself compelled by the justice=
of
that obscure claim to murmur as he stepped into the boat:
"These are t=
imes
of danger."
He sat down and t=
ook
up the sculls. Wasub held on to the gunwale as to a last hope of a further
confidence. He had served in the brig five years. Lingard remembered that v=
ery
well. This aged figure had been intimately associated with the brig's life =
and
with his own, appearing silently ready for every incident and emergency in =
an
unquestioning expectation of orders; symbolic of blind trust in his strengt=
h,
of an unlimited obedience to his will. Was it unlimited?
"We shall
require courage and fidelity," added Lingard, in a tentative tone.
"There are t=
hose
who know me," snapped the old man, readily, as if the words had been
waiting for a long time. "Observe, Tuan. I have filled with fresh water
the little breaker in the bows."
"I know you,
too," said Lingard.
"And the
wind--and the sea," ejaculated the serang, jerkily. "These also a=
re
faithful to the strong. By Allah! I who am a pilgrim and have listened to w=
ords
of wisdom in many places, I tell you, Tuan, there is strength in the knowle=
dge
of what is hidden in things without life, as well as in the living men. Will
Tuan be gone long?"
"I come back=
in
a short time--together with the rest of the whites from over there. This is=
the
beginning of many stratagems. Wasub! Daman, the son of a dog, has suddenly =
made
prisoners two of my own people. My face is made black."
"Tse! Tse! W=
hat
ferocity is that! One should not offer shame to a friend or to a friend's
brother lest revenge come sweeping like a flood. Yet can an Illanun chief be
other than tyrannical? My old eyes have seen much but they never saw a tiger
change its stripes. Ya-wa! The tiger can not. This is the wisdom of us igno=
rant
Malay men. The wisdom of white Tuans is great. They think that by the power=
of
many speeches the tiger may--" He broke off and in a crisp, busy tone
said: "The rudder dwells safely under the aftermost seat should Tuan be
pleased to sail the boat. This breeze will not die away before sunrise.&quo=
t;
Again his voice changed as if two different souls had been flitting in and =
out
of his body. "No, no, kill the tiger and then the stripes may be count=
ed
without fear--one by one, thus."
He pointed a frail
brown finger and, abruptly, made a mirthless dry sound as if a rattle had b=
een
sprung in his throat.
"The wretches
are many," said Lingard.
"Nay, Tuan. =
They
follow their great men even as we in the brig follow you. That is right.&qu=
ot;
Lingard reflected=
for
a moment.
"My men will
follow me then," he said.
"They are po=
or
calashes without sense," commented Wasub with pitying superiority.
"Some with no more comprehension than men of the bush freshly caught.
There is Sali, the foolish son of my sister and by your great favour appoin=
ted
to mind the tiller of this ship. His stupidity is extreme, but his eyes are
good--nearly as good as mine that by praying and much exercise can see far =
into
the night."
Lingard laughed l=
ow
and then looked earnestly at the serang. Above their heads a man shook a fl=
are
over the side and a thin shower of sparks floated downward and expired befo=
re
touching the water.
"So you can =
see
in the night, O serang! Well, then, look and speak. Speak! Fight--or no fig=
ht?
Weapons or words? Which folly? Well, what do you see?"
"A darkness,=
a
darkness," whispered Wasub at last in a frightened tone. "There a=
re
nights--" He shook his head and muttered. "Look. The tide has tur=
ned.
Ya, Tuan. The tide has turned."
Lingard looked
downward where the water could be seen, gliding past the ship's side, moving
smoothly, streaked with lines of froth, across the illumined circle thrown
round the brig by the lights on her poop. Air bubbles sparkled, lines of
darkness, ripples of glitter appeared, glided, went astern without a splash,
without a trickle, without a plaint, without a break. The unchecked gentlen=
ess
of the flow captured the eye by a subtle spell, fastened insidiously upon t=
he
mind a disturbing sense of the irretrievable. The ebbing of the sea athwart=
the
lonely sheen of flames resembled the eternal ebb-tide of time; and when at =
last
Lingard looked up, the knowledge of that noiseless passage of the waters
produced on his mind a bewildering effect. For a moment the speck of light =
lost
in vast obscurity the brig, the boat, the hidden coast, the Shallows, the v=
ery
walls and roof of darkness--the seen and the unseen alike seemed to be glid=
ing
smoothly onward through the enormous gloom of space. Then, with a great men=
tal
effort, he brought everything to a sudden standstill; and only the froth and
bubbles went on streaming past ceaselessly, unchecked by the power of his w=
ill.
"The tide has
turned--you say, serang? Has it--? Well, perhaps it has, perhaps it has,&qu=
ot;
he finished, muttering to himself.
"Truly it ha=
s.
Can not Tuan see it run under his own eyes?" said Wasub with an alarmed
earnestness. "Look. Now it is in my mind that a prau coming from among=
st
the southern islands, if steered cunningly in the free set of the current,
would approach the bows of this, our brig, drifting silently as a shape wit=
hout
a substance."
"And board
suddenly--is that it?" said Lingard.
"Daman is cr=
afty
and the Illanuns are very bloodthirsty. Night is nothing to them. They are
certainly valorous. Are they not born in the midst of fighting and are they=
not
inspired by the evil of their hearts even before they can speak? And their
chiefs would be leading them while you, Tuan, are going from us even
now--"
"You don't w=
ant
me to go?" asked Lingard.
For a time Wasub
listened attentively to the profound silence.
"Can we figh=
t without
a leader?" he began again. "It is the belief in victory that gives
courage. And what would poor calashes do, sons of peasants and fishermen,
freshly caught--without knowledge? They believe in your strength--and in yo=
ur
power--or else--Will those whites that came so suddenly avenge you? They are
here like fish within the stakes. Ya-wa! Who will bring the news and who wi=
ll
come to find the truth and perchance to carry off your body? You go alone,
Tuan!"
"There must =
be
no fighting. It would be a calamity," insisted Lingard. "There is
blood that must not be spilt."
"Hear,
Tuan!" exclaimed Wasub with heat. "The waters are running out now=
."
He punctuated his speech by slight jerks at the dinghy. "The waters go=
and
at the appointed time they shall return. And if between their going and com=
ing
the blood of all the men in the world were poured into it, the sea would not
rise higher at the full by the breadth of my finger nail."
"But the wor=
ld
would not be the same. You do not see that, serang. Give the boat a good
shove."
"Directly,&q=
uot;
said the old Malay and his face became impassive. "Tuan knows when it =
is
best to go, and death sometimes retreats before a firm tread like a startled
snake. Tuan should take a follower with him, not a silly youth, but one who=
has
lived--who has a steady heart--who would walk close behind watchfully--and
quietly. Yes. Quietly and with quick eyes--like mine--perhaps with a weapon=
--I
know how to strike."
Lingard looked at=
the
wrinkled visage very near his own and into the peering old eyes. They shone
strangely. A tense eagerness was expressed in the squatting figure leaning =
out
toward him. On the other side, within reach of his arm, the night stood lik=
e a
wall -discouraging--opaque--impenetrable. No help would avail. The darkness=
he had
to combat was too impalpable to be cleft by a blow--too dense to be pierced=
by
the eye; yet as if by some enchantment in the words that made this vain off=
er
of fidelity, it became less overpowering to his sight, less crushing to his
thought. He had a moment of pride which soothed his heart for the space of =
two
beats. His unreasonable and misjudged heart, shrinking before the menace of
failure, expanded freely with a sense of generous gratitude. In the threate=
ning
dimness of his emotions this man's offer made a point of clearness, the gli=
mmer
of a torch held aloft in the night. It was priceless, no doubt, but ineffec=
tual;
too small, too far, too solitary. It did not dispel the mysterious obscurity
that had descended upon his fortunes so that his eyes could no longer see t=
he
work of his hands. The sadness of defeat pervaded the world.
"And what co=
uld
you do, O Wasub?" he said.
"I could alw=
ays
call out--'Take care, Tuan.'"
"And then for
these charm-words of mine. Hey? Turn danger aside? What? But perchance you
would die all the same. Treachery is a strong magic, too--as you said."=
;
"Yes, indeed!
The order might come to your servant. But I--Wasub--the son of a free man, a
follower of Rajahs, a fugitive, a slave, a pilgrim--diver for pearls, seran=
g of
white men's ships, I have had too many masters. Too many. You are the
last." After a silence he said in an almost indifferent voice: "If
you go, Tuan, let us go together."
For a time Lingard
made no sound.
"No use,&quo=
t;
he said at last. "No use, serang. One life is enough to pay for a man's
folly--and you have a household."
"I have
two--Tuan; but it is a long time since I sat on the ladder of a house to ta=
lk
at ease with neighbours. Yes. Two households; one in--" Lingard smiled
faintly. "Tuan, let me follow you."
"No. You have
said it, serang--I am alone. That is true, and alone I shall go on this very
night. But first I must bring all the white people here. Push."
"Ready, Tuan?
Look out!"
Wasub's body swung
over the sea with extended arms. Lingard caught up the sculls, and as the
dinghy darted away from the brig's side he had a complete view of the light=
ed
poop--Shaw leaning massively over the taffrail in sulky dejection, the flare
bearers erect and rigid, the heads along the rail, the eyes staring after h=
im
above the bulwarks. The fore-end of the brig was wrapped in a lurid and som=
bre
mistiness; the sullen mingling of darkness and of light; her masts pointing
straight up could be tracked by torn gleams and vanished above as if the tr=
ucks
had been tall enough to pierce the heavy mass of vapours motionless overhea=
d.
She was beautifully precious. His loving eyes saw her floating at rest in a
wavering halo, between an invisible sky and an invisible sea, like a miracu=
lous
craft suspended in the air. He turned his head away as if the sight had been
too much for him at the moment of separation, and, as soon as his little bo=
at
had passed beyond the limit of the light thrown upon the water, he perceived
very low in the black void of the west the stern lantern of the yacht shini=
ng
feebly like a star about to set, unattainable, infinitely remote--belonging=
to
another universe.
PART IV. THE GIFT OF THE
SHALLOWS
I
Lingard brought M=
rs.
Travers away from the yacht, going alone with her in the little boat. During
the bustle of the embarkment, and till the last of the crew had left the
schooner, he had remained towering and silent by her side. It was only when=
the
murmuring and uneasy voices of the sailors going away in the boats had been
completely lost in the distance that his voice was heard, grave in the sile=
nce,
pronouncing the words--"Follow me." She followed him; their foots=
teps
rang hollow and loud on the empty deck. At the bottom of the steps he turned
round and said very low:
"Take
care."
He got into the b=
oat
and held on. It seemed to him that she was intimidated by the darkness. She
felt her arm gripped firmly--"I've got you," he said. She stepped=
in,
headlong, trusting herself blindly to his grip, and sank on the stern seat
catching her breath a little. She heard a slight splash, and the indistinct
side of the deserted yacht melted suddenly into the body of the night.
Rowing, he faced =
her,
a hooded and cloaked shape, and above her head he had before his eyes the g=
leam
of the stern lantern expiring slowly on the abandoned vessel. When it went =
out
without a warning flicker he could see nothing of the stranded yacht's outl=
ine.
She had vanished utterly like a dream; and the occurrences of the last
twenty-four hours seemed also to be a part of a vanished dream. The hooded =
and
cloaked figure was part of it, too. It spoke not; it moved not; it would va=
nish
presently. Lingard tried to remember Mrs. Travers' features, even as she sat
within two feet of him in the boat. He seemed to have taken from that vanis=
hed
schooner not a woman but a memory--the tormenting recollection of a human b=
eing
he would see no more.
At every stroke of
the short sculls Mrs. Travers felt the boat leap forward with her. Lingard,=
to
keep his direction, had to look over his shoulder frequently--"You wil=
l be
safe in the brig," he said. She was silent. A dream! A dream! He lay b=
ack
vigorously; the water slapped loudly against the blunt bows. The ruddy glow
thrown afar by the flares was reflected deep within the hood. The dream had=
a
pale visage, the memory had living eyes.
"I had to co=
me
for you myself," he said.
"I expected =
it
of you." These were the first words he had heard her say since they had
met for the third time.
"And I
swore--before you, too--that I would never put my foot on board your
craft."
"It was good=
of
you to--" she began.
"I forgot
somehow," he said, simply.
"I expected =
it
of you," she repeated. He gave three quick strokes before he asked very
gently:
"What more do
you expect?"
"Everything,=
"
she said. He was rounding then the stern of the brig and had to look away. =
Then
he turned to her.
"And you tru=
st
me to--" he exclaimed.
"I would lik=
e to
trust you," she interrupted, "because--"
Above them a star=
tled
voice cried in Malay, "Captain coming." The strange sound silenced
her. Lingard laid in his sculls and she saw herself gliding under the high =
side
of the brig. A dark, staring face appeared very near her eyes, black fingers
caught the gunwale of the boat. She stood up swaying. "Take care,"
said Lingard again, but this time, in the light, did not offer to help her.=
She
went up alone and he followed her over the rail.
The quarter-deck =
was
thronged by men of two races. Lingard and Mrs. Travers crossed it rapidly
between the groups that moved out of the way on their passage. Lingard threw
open the cabin door for her, but remained on deck to inquire about his boat=
s.
They had returned while he was on board the yacht, and the two men in charg=
e of
them came aft to make their reports. The boat sent north had seen nothing. =
The
boat which had been directed to explore the banks and islets to the south h=
ad actually
been in sight of Daman's praus. The man in charge reported that several fir=
es
were burning on the shore, the crews of the two praus being encamped on a
sandbank. Cooking was going on. They had been near enough to hear the voice=
s.
There was a man keeping watch on the ridge; they knew this because they hea=
rd
him shouting to the people below, by the fires. Lingard wanted to know how =
they
had managed to remain unseen. "The night was our hiding place,"
answered the man in his deep growling voice. He knew nothing of any white m=
en
being in Daman's camp. Why should there be? Rajah Hassim and the Lady, his
sister, appeared unexpectedly near his boat in their canoe. Rajah Hassim had
ordered him then in whispers to go back to the brig at once, and tell Tuan =
what
he had observed. Rajah Hassim said also that he would return to the brig wi=
th
more news very soon. He obeyed because the Rajah was to him a person of
authority, "having the perfect knowledge of Tuan's mind as we all
know."--"Enough," cried Lingard, suddenly.
The man looked up
heavily for a moment, and retreated forward without another word. Lingard
followed him with irritated eyes. A new power had come into the world, had
possessed itself of human speech, had imparted to it a sinister irony of
allusion. To be told that someone had "a perfect knowledge of his
mind" startled him and made him wince. It made him aware that now he d=
id
not know his mind himself--that it seemed impossible for him ever to regain
that knowledge. And the new power not only had cast its spell upon the word=
s he
had to hear, but also upon the facts that assailed him, upon the people he =
saw,
upon the thoughts he had to guide, upon the feelings he had to bear. They
remained what they had ever been--the visible surface of life open in the s=
un
to the conquering tread of an unfettered will. Yesterday they could have be=
en discerned
clearly, mastered and despised; but now another power had come into the wor=
ld,
and had cast over them all the wavering gloom of a dark and inscrutable
purpose.
II
Recovering himself
with a slight start Lingard gave the order to extinguish all the lights in =
the
brig. Now the transfer of the crew from the yacht had been effected there w=
as
every advantage in the darkness. He gave the order from instinct, it being =
the
right thing to do in the circumstances. His thoughts were in the cabin of h=
is
brig, where there was a woman waiting. He put his hand over his eyes,
collecting himself as if before a great mental effort. He could hear about =
him
the excited murmurs of the white men whom in the morning he had so ardently
desired to have safe in his keeping. He had them there now; but accident, i=
ll-luck,
a cursed folly, had tricked him out of the success of his plan. He would ha=
ve
to go in and talk to Mrs. Travers. The idea dismayed him. Of necessity he w=
as
not one of those men who have the mastery of expression. To liberate his so=
ul
was for him a gigantic undertaking, a matter of desperate effort, of doubtf=
ul
success. "I must have it out with her," he murmured to himself as
though at the prospect of a struggle. He was uncertain of himself, of her; =
he
was uncertain of everything and everybody; but he was very certain he wante=
d to
look at her.
At the moment he
turned to the door of the cabin both flares went out together and the black
vault of the night upheld above the brig by the fierce flames fell behind h=
im
and buried the deck in sudden darkness. The buzz of strange voices instantly
hummed louder with a startled note. "Hallo!"--"Can't see a
mortal thing"--"Well, what next?"--insisted a voice--"I
want to know what next?"
Lingard checked
himself ready to open the door and waited absurdly for the answer as though=
in
the hope of some suggestion. "What's up with you? Think yourself
lucky," said somebody.--"It's all very well--for to-night,"
began the voice.--"What are you fashing yourself for?" remonstrat=
ed
the other, reasonably, "we'll get home right enough."--"I am=
not
so sure; the second mate he says--" "Never mind what he says; that
'ere man who has got this brig will see us through. The owner's wife will t=
alk
to him--she will. Money can do a lot." The two voices came nearer, and
spoke more distinctly, close behind Lingard. "Suppose them blooming
savages set fire to the yacht. What's to prevent them?"--"And sup=
pose
they do. This 'ere brig's good enough to get away in. Ain't she? Guns and a=
ll.
We'll get home yet all right. What do you say, John?"
"I say nothi=
ng
and care less," said a third voice, peaceful and faint.
"D'you mean =
to
say, John, you would go to the bottom as soon as you would go home? Come
now!"--"To the bottom," repeated the wan voice, composedly.
"Aye! That's where we all are going to, in one way or another. The way
don't matter."
"Ough! You w=
ould
give the blues to the funny man of a blooming circus. What would my missus =
say
if I wasn't to turn up never at all?"--"She would get another man;
there's always plenty of fools about." A quiet and mirthless chuckle w=
as
heard in the pause of shocked silence. Lingard, with his hand on the door,
remained still. Further off a growl burst out: "I do hate to be chucke=
d in
the dark aboard a strange ship. I wonder where they keep their fresh water.
Can't get any sense out of them silly niggers. We don't seem to be more acc=
ount
here than a lot of cattle. Likely as not we'll have to berth on this bloomi=
ng
quarter-deck for God knows how long." Then again very near Lingard the
first voice said, deadened discreetly--"There's something curious about
this here brig turning up sudden-like, ain't there? And that skipper of
her--now? What kind of a man is he--anyhow?"
"Oh, he's on=
e of
them skippers going about loose. The brig's his own, I am thinking. He just
goes about in her looking for what he may pick up honest or dishonest. My
brother-in-law has served two commissions in these seas, and was telling me
awful yarns about what's going on in them God-forsaken parts. Likely he lie=
d,
though. Them man-of-war's men are a holy terror for yarns. Bless you, what =
do I
care who this skipper is? Let him do his best and don't trouble your head. =
You
won't see him again in your life once we get clear."
"And can he =
do
anything for the owner?" asked the first voice again.--"Can he! We
can do nothing--that's one thing certain. The owner may be lying clubbed to
death this very minute for all we know. By all accounts these savages here =
are
a crool murdering lot. Mind you, I am sorry for him as much as
anybody."--"Aye, aye," muttered the other, approvingly.--&qu=
ot;He
may not have been ready, poor man," began again the reasonable voice.
Lingard heard a deep sigh.--"If there's anything as can be done for hi=
m,
the owner's wife she's got to fix it up with this 'ere skipper. Under
Providence he may serve her turn."
Lingard flung open
the cabin door, entered, and, with a slam, shut the darkness out.
"I am, under
Providence, to serve your turn," he said after standing very still for=
a
while, with his eyes upon Mrs. Travers. The brig's swing-lamp lighted the c=
abin
with an extraordinary brilliance. Mrs. Travers had thrown back her hood. The
radiant brightness of the little place enfolded her so close, clung to her =
with
such force that it might have been part of her very essence. There were no
shadows on her face; it was fiercely lighted, hermetically closed, of impen=
etrable
fairness.
Lingard looked in
unconscious ecstasy at this vision, so amazing that it seemed to have stray=
ed
into his existence from beyond the limits of the conceivable. It was imposs=
ible
to guess her thoughts, to know her feelings, to understand her grief or her
joy. But she knew all that was at the bottom of his heart. He had told her
himself, impelled by a sudden thought, going to her in darkness, in
desperation, in absurd hope, in incredible trust. He had told her what he h=
ad
told no one on earth, except perhaps, at times, himself, but without
words--less clearly. He had told her and she had listened in silence. She h=
ad listened
leaning over the rail till at last her breath was on his forehead. He
remembered this and had a moment of soaring pride and of unutterable dismay=
. He
spoke, with an effort.
"You've heard
what I said just now? Here I am."
"Do you expe=
ct
me to say something?" she asked. "Is it necessary? Is it possible=
?"
"No," he
answered. "It is said already. I know what you expect from me. Everyth=
ing."
"Everything,=
"
she repeated, paused, and added much lower, "It is the very least.&quo=
t;
He seemed to lose himself in thought.
"It is
extraordinary," he reflected half aloud, "how I dislike that man.=
"
She leaned forward a little.
"Remember th=
ose
two men are innocent," she began.
"So am
I--innocent. So is everybody in the world. Have you ever met a man or a wom=
an
that was not? They've got to take their chances all the same."
"I expect yo=
u to
be generous," she said.
"To you?&quo=
t;
"Well--to me.
Yes--if you like to me alone."
"To you alon=
e!
And you know everything!" His voice dropped. "You want your
happiness."
She made an impat=
ient
movement and he saw her clench the hand that was lying on the table.
"I want my
husband back," she said, sharply.
"Yes. Yes. I=
t's
what I was saying. Same thing," he muttered with strange placidity. She
looked at him searchingly. He had a large simplicity that filled one's visi=
on.
She found herself slowly invaded by this masterful figure. He was not medio=
cre.
Whatever he might have been he was not mediocre. The glamour of a lawless l=
ife
stretched over him like the sky over the sea down on all sides to an unbrok=
en
horizon. Within, he moved very lonely, dangerous and romantic. There was in=
him
crime, sacrifice, tenderness, devotion, and the madness of a fixed idea. She
thought with wonder that of all the men in the world he was indeed the one =
she
knew the best and yet she could not foresee the speech or the act of the ne=
xt minute.
She said distinctly:
"You've give=
n me
your confidence. Now I want you to give me the life of these two men. The l=
ife
of two men whom you do not know, whom to-morrow you will forget. It can be
done. It must be done. You cannot refuse them to me." She waited.
"Why can't I
refuse?" he whispered, gloomily, without looking up.
"You ask!&qu=
ot;
she exclaimed. He made no sign. He seemed at a loss for words.
"You ask . .=
.
Ah!" she cried. "Don't you see that I have no kingdoms to conquer=
?"
III
A slight change of
expression which passed away almost directly showed that Lingard heard the
passionate cry wrung from her by the distress of her mind. He made no sign.=
She
perceived clearly the extreme difficulty of her position. The situation was
dangerous; not so much the facts of it as the feeling of it. At times it
appeared no more actual than a tradition; and she thought of herself as of =
some
woman in a ballad, who has to beg for the lives of innocent captives. To sa=
ve
the lives of Mr. Travers and Mr. d'Alcacer was more than a duty. It was a
necessity, it was an imperative need, it was an irresistible mission. Yet s=
he
had to reflect upon the horrors of a cruel and obscure death before she cou=
ld feel
for them the pity they deserved. It was when she looked at Lingard that her
heart was wrung by an extremity of compassion. The others were pitiful, but=
he,
the victim of his own extravagant impulses, appeared tragic, fascinating, a=
nd
culpable. Lingard lifted his head. Whispers were heard at the door and Hass=
im
followed by Immada entered the cabin.
Mrs. Travers look=
ed
at Lingard, because of all the faces in the cabin his was the only one that=
was
intelligible to her. Hassim began to speak at once, and when he ceased Imma=
da's
deep sigh was heard in the sudden silence. Then Lingard looked at Mrs. Trav=
ers
and said:
"The gentlem=
en
are alive. Rajah Hassim here has seen them less than two hours ago, and so =
has
the girl. They are alive and unharmed, so far. And now. . . ."
He paused. Mrs.
Travers, leaning on her elbow, shaded her eyes under the glint of suspended
thunderbolts.
"You must ha=
te
us," she murmured.
"Hate you,&q=
uot;
he repeated with, as she fancied, a tinge of disdain in his tone. "No.=
I
hate myself."
"Why
yourself?" she asked, very low.
"For not kno=
wing
my mind," he answered. "For not knowing my mind. For not knowing =
what
it is that's got hold of me since--since this morning. I was angry then. . =
. .
Nothing but very angry. . . ."
"And now?&qu=
ot;
she murmured.
"I am . . .
unhappy," he said. After a moment of silence which gave to Mrs. Travers
the time to wonder how it was that this man had succeeded in penetrating in=
to
the very depths of her compassion, he hit the table such a blow that all the
heavy muskets seemed to jump a little.
Mrs. Travers heard
Hassim pronounce a few words earnestly, and a moan of distress from Immada.=
"I believed =
in
you before you . . . before you gave me your confidence," she began.
"You could see that. Could you not?"
He looked at her
fixedly. "You are not the first that believed in me," he said.
Hassim, lounging =
with
his back against the closed door, kept his eye on him watchfully and Immada=
's
dark and sorrowful eyes rested on the face of the white woman. Mrs. Travers
felt as though she were engaged in a contest with them; in a struggle for t=
he
possession of that man's strength and of that man's devotion. When she look=
ed
up at Lingard she saw on his face--which should have been impassive or exal=
ted,
the face of a stern leader or the face of a pitiless dreamer--an expression=
of
utter forgetfulness. He seemed to be tasting the delight of some profound a=
nd
amazing sensation. And suddenly in the midst of her appeal to his generosit=
y,
in the middle of a phrase, Mrs. Travers faltered, becoming aware that she w=
as
the object of his contemplation.
"Do not! Do =
not
look at that woman!" cried Immada. "O! Master--look away. . . .&q=
uot;
Hassim threw one arm round the girl's neck. Her voice sank. "O!
Master--look at us." Hassim, drawing her to himself, covered her lips =
with
his hand. She struggled a little like a snared bird and submitted, hiding h=
er
face on his shoulder, very quiet, sobbing without noise.
"What do they
say to you?" asked Mrs. Travers with a faint and pained smile. "W=
hat
can they say? It is intolerable to think that their words which have no mea=
ning
for me may go straight to your heart. . . ."
"Look
away," whispered Lingard without making the slightest movement.
Mrs. Travers sigh=
ed.
"Yes, it is =
very
hard to think that I who want to touch you cannot make myself understood as
well as they. And yet I speak the language of your childhood, the language =
of
the man for whom there is no hope but in your generosity."
He shook his head.
She gazed at him anxiously for a moment. "In your memories then,"=
she
said and was surprised by the expression of profound sadness that over-spre=
ad
his attentive face.
"Do you know
what I remember?" he said. "Do you want to know?" She listen=
ed
with slightly parted lips. "I will tell you. Poverty, hard work--and
death," he went on, very quietly. "And now I've told you, and you
don't know. That's how it is between us. You talk to me--I talk to you--and=
we
don't know."
Her eyelids dropp=
ed.
"What can I =
find
to say?" she went on. "What can I do? I mustn't give in. Think!
Amongst your memories there must be some face--some voice--some name, if
nothing more. I can not believe that there is nothing but bitterness."=
"There's no
bitterness," he murmured.
"O! Brother,=
my
heart is faint with fear," whispered Immada. Lingard turned swiftly to
that whisper.
"Then, they =
are
to be saved," exclaimed Mrs. Travers. "Ah, I knew. . . ."
"Bear thy fe=
ar
in patience," said Hassim, rapidly, to his sister.
"They are to=
be
saved. You have said it," Lingard pronounced aloud, suddenly. He felt =
like
a swimmer who, in the midst of superhuman efforts to reach the shore, perce=
ives
that the undertow is taking him to sea. He would go with the mysterious
current; he would go swiftly--and see the end, the fulfilment both blissful=
and
terrible.
With this state of
exaltation in which he saw himself in some incomprehensible way always
victorious, whatever might befall, there was mingled a tenacity of purpose.=
He
could not sacrifice his intention, the intention of years, the intention of=
his
life; he could no more part with it and exist than he could cut out his hea=
rt
and live. The adventurer held fast to his adventure which made him in his o=
wn
sight exactly what he was.
He considered the
problem with cool audacity, backed by a belief in his own power. It was not
these two men he had to save; he had to save himself! And looked upon in th=
is
way the situation appeared familiar.
Hassim had told h=
im
the two white men had been taken by their captors to Daman's camp. The young
Rajah, leaving his sister in the canoe, had landed on the sand and had crep=
t to
the very edge of light thrown by the fires by which the Illanuns were cooki=
ng.
Daman was sitting apart by a larger blaze. Two praus rode in shallow water =
near
the sandbank; on the ridge, a sentry walked watching the lights of the brig;
the camp was full of quiet whispers. Hassim returned to his canoe, then he =
and
his sister, paddling cautiously round the anchored praus, in which women's =
voices
could be heard, approached the other end of the camp. The light of the big
blaze there fell on the water and the canoe skirted it without a splash,
keeping in the night. Hassim, landing for the second time, crept again clos=
e to
the fires. Each prau had, according to the customs of the Illanun rovers wh=
en
on a raiding expedition, a smaller war-boat and these being light and
manageable were hauled up on the sand not far from the big blaze; they sat =
high
on the shelving shore throwing heavy shadows. Hassim crept up toward the
largest of them and then standing on tiptoe could look at the camp across t=
he
gunwales. The confused talking of the men was like the buzz of insects in a=
forest.
A child wailed on board one of the praus and a woman hailed the shore shril=
ly.
Hassim unsheathed his kris and held it in his hand.
Very soon--he
said--he saw the two white men walking amongst the fires. They waved their =
arms
and talked together, stopping from time to time; they approached Daman; and=
the
short man with the hair on his face addressed him earnestly and at great
length. Daman sat cross-legged upon a little carpet with an open Koran on h=
is
knees and chanted the versets swaying to and fro with his eyes shut.
The Illanun chiefs
reclining wrapped in cloaks on the ground raised themselves on their elbows=
to
look at the whites. When the short white man finished speaking he gazed dow=
n at
them for a while, then stamped his foot. He looked angry because no one
understood him. Then suddenly he looked very sad; he covered his face with =
his
hands; the tall man put his hand on the short man's shoulder and whispered =
into
his ear. The dry wood of the fires crackled, the Illanuns slept, cooked,
talked, but with their weapons at hand. An armed man or two came up to star=
e at
the prisoners and then returned to their fire. The two whites sank down in =
the
sand in front of Daman. Their clothes were soiled, there was sand in their
hair. The tall man had lost his hat; the glass in the eye of the short man
glittered very much; his back was muddy and one sleeve of his coat torn up =
to
the elbow.
All this Hassim s=
aw
and then retreated undetected to that part of the shore where Immada waited=
for
him, keeping the canoe afloat. The Illanuns, trusting to the sea, kept very=
bad
watch on their prisoners, and had he been able to speak with them Hassim
thought an escape could have been effected. But they could not have underst=
ood
his signs and still less his words. He consulted with his sister. Immada
murmured sadly; at their feet the ripple broke with a mournful sound no lou=
der than
their voices.
Hassim's loyalty =
was
unshaken, but now it led him on not in the bright light of hopes but in the
deepened shadow of doubt. He wanted to obtain information for his friend who
was so powerful and who perhaps would know how to be constant. When followe=
d by
Immada he approached the camp again--this time openly--their appearance did=
not
excite much surprise. It was well known to the Chiefs of the Illanuns that =
the
Rajah for whom they were to fight--if God so willed--was upon the shoals
looking out for the coming of the white man who had much wealth and a store=
of weapons
and who was his servant. Daman, who alone understood the exact relation,
welcomed them with impenetrable gravity. Hassim took his seat on the carpet=
at
his right hand. A consultation was being held half-aloud in short and
apparently careless sentences, with long intervals of silence between. Imma=
da,
nestling close to her brother, leaned one arm on his shoulder and listened =
with
serious attention and with outward calm as became a princess of Wajo accust=
omed
to consort with warriors and statesmen in moments of danger and in the hour=
s of
deliberation. Her heart was beating rapidly, and facing her the silent white
men stared at these two known faces, as if across a gulf. Four Illanun chie=
fs
sat in a row. Their ample cloaks fell from their shoulders, and lay behind =
them
on the sand in which their four long lances were planted upright, each
supporting a small oblong shield of wood, carved on the edges and stained a
dull purple. Daman stretched out his arm and pointed at the prisoners. The
faces of the white men were very quiet. Daman looked at them mutely and
ardently, as if consumed by an unspeakable longing.
The Koran, in a s=
ilk
cover, hung on his breast by a crimson cord. It rested over his heart and, =
just
below, the plain buffalo-horn handle of a kris, stuck into the twist of his
sarong, protruded ready to his hand. The clouds thickening over the camp ma=
de
the darkness press heavily on the glow of scattered fires. "There is b=
lood
between me and the whites," he pronounced, violently. The Illanun chie=
fs
remained impassive. There was blood between them and all mankind. Hassim re=
marked
dispassionately that there was one white man with whom it would be wise to
remain friendly; and besides, was not Daman his friend already? Daman smile=
d with
half-closed eyes. He was that white man's friend, not his slave. The Illanu=
ns
playing with their sword-handles grunted assent. Why, asked Daman, did these
strange whites travel so far from their country? The great white man whom t=
hey
all knew did not want them. No one wanted them. Evil would follow in their
footsteps. They were such men as are sent by rulers to examine the aspects =
of
far-off countries and talk of peace and make treaties. Such is the beginnin=
g of
great sorrows. The Illanuns were far from their country, where no white man
dared to come, and therefore they were free to seek their enemies upon the =
open
waters. They had found these two who had come to see. He asked what they ha=
d come
to see? Was there nothing to look at in their own country?
He talked in an
ironic and subdued tone. The scattered heaps of embers glowed a deeper red;=
the
big blaze of the chief's fire sank low and grew dim before he ceased.
Straight-limbed figures rose, sank, moved, whispered on the beach. Here and
there a spear-blade caught a red gleam above the black shape of a head.
"The Illanuns
seek booty on the sea," cried Daman. "Their fathers and the fathe=
rs
of their fathers have done the same, being fearless like those who embrace
death closely."
A low laugh was
heard. "We strike and go," said an exulting voice. "We live =
and
die with our weapons in our hands." The Illanuns leaped to their feet.
They stamped on the sand, flourishing naked blades over the heads of their
prisoners. A tumult arose.
When it subsided
Daman stood up in a cloak that wrapped him to his feet and spoke again givi=
ng
advice.
The white men sat=
on
the sand and turned their eyes from face to face as if trying to understand=
. It
was agreed to send the prisoners into the lagoon where their fate would be
decided by the ruler of the land. The Illanuns only wanted to plunder the s=
hip.
They did not care what became of the men. "But Daman cares," rema=
rked
Hassim to Lingard, when relating what took place. "He cares, O Tuan!&q=
uot;
Hassim had learned
also that the Settlement was in a state of unrest as if on the eve of war.
Belarab with his followers was encamped by his father's tomb in the hollow
beyond the cultivated fields. His stockade was shut up and no one appeared =
on
the verandahs of the houses within. You could tell there were people inside
only by the smoke of the cooking fires. Tengga's followers meantime swagger=
ed
about the Settlement behaving tyrannically to those who were peaceable. A g=
reat
madness had descended upon the people, a madness strong as the madness of l=
ove,
the madness of battle, the desire to spill blood. A strange fear also had m=
ade
them wild. The big smoke seen that morning above the forests of the coast w=
as
some agreed signal from Tengga to Daman but what it meant Hassim had been
unable to find out. He feared for Jorgenson's safety. He said that while on=
e of
the war-boats was being made ready to take the captives into the lagoon, he=
and
his sister left the camp quietly and got away in their canoe. The flares of=
the
brig, reflected in a faint loom upon the clouds, enabled them to make strai=
ght
for the vessel across the banks. Before they had gone half way these flames
went out and the darkness seemed denser than any he had known before. But it
was no greater than the darkness of his mind--he added. He had looked upon =
the
white men sitting unmoved and silent under the edge of swords; he had looke=
d at
Daman, he had heard bitter words spoken; he was looking now at his white
friend--and the issue of events he could not see. One can see men's faces b=
ut
their fate, which is written on their foreheads, one cannot see. He had no =
more
to say, and what he had spoken was true in every word.
IV
Lingard repeated =
it
all to Mrs. Travers. Her courage, her intelligence, the quickness of her
apprehension, the colour of her eyes and the intrepidity of her glance evok=
ed
in him an admiring enthusiasm. She stood by his side! Every moment that fat=
al
illusion clung closer to his soul--like a garment of light--like an armour =
of
fire.
He was unwilling =
to
face the facts. All his life--till that day--had been a wrestle with events=
in
the daylight of this world, but now he could not bring his mind to the
consideration of his position. It was Mrs. Travers who, after waiting awhil=
e,
forced on him the pain of thought by wanting to know what bearing Hassim's =
news
had upon the situation.
Lingard had not t=
he
slightest doubt Daman wanted him to know what had been done with the prison=
ers.
That is why Daman had welcomed Hassim, and let him hear the decision and had
allowed him to leave the camp on the sandbank. There could be only one obje=
ct
in this; to let him, Lingard, know that the prisoners had been put out of h=
is
reach as long as he remained in his brig. Now this brig was his strength. To
make him leave his brig was like removing his hand from his sword.
"Do you
understand what I mean, Mrs. Travers?" he asked. "They are afraid=
of
me because I know how to fight this brig. They fear the brig because when I=
am
on board her, the brig and I are one. An armed man--don't you see? Without =
the
brig I am disarmed, without me she can't strike. So Daman thinks. He does n=
ot
know everything but he is not far off the truth. He says to himself that if=
I
man the boats to go after these whites into the lagoon then his Illanuns wi=
ll
get the yacht for sure--and perhaps the brig as well. If I stop here with my
brig he holds the two white men and can talk as big as he pleases. Belarab
believes in me no doubt, but Daman trusts no man on earth. He simply does n=
ot
know how to trust any one, because he is always plotting himself. He came t=
o help
me and as soon as he found I was not there he began to plot with Tengga. No=
w he
has made a move--a clever move; a cleverer move than he thinks. Why? I'll t=
ell
you why. Because I, Tom Lingard, haven't a single white man aboard this bri=
g I
can trust. Not one. I only just discovered my mate's got the notion I am so=
me
kind of pirate. And all your yacht people think the same. It is as though y=
ou
had brought a curse on me in your yacht. Nobody believes me. Good God! What
have I come to! Even those two--look at them--I say look at them! By all the
stars they doubt me! Me! . . ."
He pointed at Has=
sim
and Immada. The girl seemed frightened. Hassim looked on calm and intellige=
nt
with inexhaustible patience. Lingard's voice fell suddenly.
"And by heav=
ens
they may be right. Who knows? You? Do you know? They have waited for years.
Look. They are waiting with heavy hearts. Do you think that I don't care? O=
ught
I to have kept it all in--told no one--no one--not even you? Are they waiti=
ng
for what will never come now?"
Mrs. Travers rose=
and
moved quickly round the table. "Can we give anything to this--this Dam=
an
or these other men? We could give them more than they could think of asking.
I--my husband. . . ."
"Don't talk =
to
me of your husband," he said, roughly. "You don't know what you a=
re
doing." She confronted the sombre anger of his eyes--"But I must,=
"
she asserted with heat.--"Must," he mused, noticing that she was =
only
half a head less tall than himself. "Must! Oh, yes. Of course, you mus=
t.
Must! Yes. But I don't want to hear. Give! What can you give? You may have =
all
the treasures of the world for all I know. No! You can't give anything. . .
."
"I was think=
ing
of your difficulty when I spoke," she interrupted. His eyes wandered
downward following the line of her shoulder.--"Of me--of me!" he
repeated.
All this was said=
almost
in whispers. The sound of slow footsteps was heard on deck above their head=
s.
Lingard turned his face to the open skylight.
"On deck the=
re!
Any wind?"
All was still for=
a
moment. Somebody above answered in a leisurely tone:
"A steady li=
ttle
draught from the northward."
Then after a pause
added in a mutter:
"Pitch
dark."
"Aye, dark
enough," murmured Lingard. He must do something. Now. At once. The wor=
ld
was waiting. The world full of hopes and fear. What should he do? Instead of
answering that question he traced the ungleaming coils of her twisted hair =
and
became fascinated by a stray lock at her neck. What should he do? No one to
leave his brig to. The voice that had answered his question was Carter's vo=
ice.
"He is hanging about keeping his eye on me," he said to Mrs. Trav=
ers.
She shook her head and tried to smile. The man above coughed discreetly.
"No," said Lingard, "you must understand that you have nothi=
ng
to give."
The man on deck w=
ho
seemed to have lingered by the skylight was heard saying quietly, "I a=
m at
hand if you want me, Mrs. Travers." Hassim and Immada looked up. "=
;You
see," exclaimed Lingard. "What did I tell you? He's keeping his e=
ye
on me! On board my own ship. Am I dreaming? Am I in a fever? Tell him to co=
me
down," he said after a pause. Mrs. Travers did so and Lingard thought =
her
voice very commanding and very sweet. "There's nothing in the world I =
love
so much as this brig," he went on. "Nothing in the world. If I lo=
st
her I would have no standing room on the earth for my feet. You don't
understand this. You can't."
Carter came in and
shut the cabin door carefully. He looked with serenity at everyone in turn.=
"All
quiet?" asked Lingard.
"Quiet enoug=
h if
you like to call it so," he answered. "But if you only put your h=
ead
outside the door you'll hear them all on the quarter-deck snoring against e=
ach
other, as if there were no wives at home and no pirates at sea."
"Look
here," said Lingard. "I found out that I can't trust my mate.&quo=
t;
"Can't
you?" drawled Carter. "I am not exactly surprised. I must say he =
does
not snore but I believe it is because he is too crazy to sleep. He waylaid =
me
on the poop just now and said something about evil communications corrupting
good manners. Seems to me I've heard that before. Queer thing to say. He tr=
ied
to make it out somehow that if he wasn't corrupt it wasn't your fault. As if
this was any concern of mine. He's as mad as he's fat--or else he puts it
on." Carter laughed a little and leaned his shoulders against a bulkhe=
ad.
Lingard gazed at =
the woman
who expected so much from him and in the light she seemed to shed he saw
himself leading a column of armed boats to the attack of the Settlement. He
could burn the whole place to the ground and drive every soul of them into =
the
bush. He could! And there was a surprise, a shock, a vague horror at the
thought of the destructive power of his will. He could give her ever so many
lives. He had seen her yesterday, and it seemed to him he had been all his =
life
waiting for her to make a sign. She was very still. He pondered a plan of
attack. He saw smoke and flame--and next moment he saw himself alone amongst
shapeless ruins with the whispers, with the sigh and moan of the Shallows in
his ears. He shuddered, and shaking his hand:
"No! I cannot
give you all those lives!" he cried.
Then, before Mrs.
Travers could guess the meaning of this outburst, he declared that as the t=
wo
captives must be saved he would go alone into the lagoon. He could not thin=
k of
using force. "You understand why," he said to Mrs. Travers and she
whispered a faint "Yes." He would run the risk alone. His hope wa=
s in
Belarab being able to see where his true interest lay. "If I can only =
get
at him I would soon make him see," he mused aloud. "Haven't I kept
his power up for these two years past? And he knows it, too. He feels it.&q=
uot;
Whether he would be allowed to reach Belarab was another matter. Lingard lo=
st
himself in deep thought. "He would not dare," he burst out. Mrs.
Travers listened with parted lips. Carter did not move a muscle of his yout=
hful
and self-possessed face; only when Lingard, turning suddenly, came up close=
to
him and asked with a red flash of eyes and in a lowered voice, "Could =
you
fight this brig?" something like a smile made a stir amongst the hairs=
of
his little fair moustache.
"'Could I?&q=
uot;
he said. "I could try, anyhow." He paused, and added hardly above=
his
breath, "For the lady--of course."
Lingard seemed
staggered as though he had been hit in the chest. "I was thinking of t=
he
brig," he said, gently.
"Mrs. Travers
would be on board," retorted Carter.
"What! on bo=
ard.
Ah yes; on board. Where else?" stammered Lingard.
Carter looked at =
him
in amazement. "Fight! You ask!" he said, slowly. "You just t=
ry
me."
"I shall,&qu=
ot;
ejaculated Lingard. He left the cabin calling out "serang!" A thin
cracked voice was heard immediately answering, "Tuan!" and the do=
or slammed
to.
"You trust h=
im,
Mrs. Travers?" asked Carter, rapidly.
"You do
not--why?" she answered.
"I can't make
him out. If he was another kind of man I would say he was drunk," said
Carter. "Why is he here at all--he, and this brig of his? Excuse my
boldness--but have you promised him anything?"
"I--I
promised!" exclaimed Mrs. Travers in a bitter tone which silenced Cart=
er
for a moment.
"So much the
better," he said at last. "Let him show what he can do first and =
. .
."
"Here! Take
this," said Lingard, who re-entered the cabin fumbling about his neck.
Carter mechanically extended his hand.
"What's this
for?" he asked, looking at a small brass key attached to a thin chain.=
"Powder
magazine. Trap door under the table. The man who has this key commands the =
brig
while I am away. The serang understands. You have her very life in your hand
there."
Carter looked at =
the
small key lying in his half-open palm.
"I was just
telling Mrs. Travers I didn't trust you--not altogether. . . ."
"I know all
about it," interrupted Lingard, contemptuously. "You carry a blam=
ed
pistol in your pocket to blow my brains out--don't you? What's that to me? =
I am
thinking of the brig. I think I know your sort. You will do."
"Well, perha=
ps I
might," mumbled Carter, modestly.
"Don't be
rash," said Lingard, anxiously. "If you've got to fight use your =
head
as well as your hands. If there's a breeze fight under way. If they should =
try
to board in a calm, trust to the small arms to hold them off. Keep your head
and--" He looked intensely into Carter's eyes; his lips worked without=
a
sound as though he had been suddenly struck dumb. "Don't think about m=
e.
What's that to you who I am? Think of the ship," he burst out. "D=
on't
let her go!--Don't let her go!" The passion in his voice impressed his
hearers who for a time preserved a profound silence.
"All
right," said Carter at last. "I will stick to your brig as though=
she
were my own; but I would like to see clear through all this. Look here--you=
are
going off somewhere? Alone, you said?"
"Yes.
Alone."
"Very well.
Mind, then, that you don't come back with a crowd of those brown friends of
yours--or by the Heavens above us I won't let you come within hail of your =
own
ship. Am I to keep this key?"
"Captain
Lingard," said Mrs. Travers suddenly. "Would it not be better to =
tell
him everything?"
"Tell him
everything?" repeated Lingard. "Everything! Yesterday it might ha=
ve
been done. Only yesterday! Yesterday, did I say? Only six hours ago--only s=
ix
hours ago I had something to tell. You heard it. And now it's gone. Tell hi=
m!
There's nothing to tell any more." He remained for a time with bowed h=
ead,
while before him Mrs. Travers, who had begun a gesture of protest, dropped =
her
arms suddenly. In a moment he looked up again.
"Keep the
key," he said, calmly, "and when the time comes step forward and =
take
charge. I am satisfied."
"I would lik=
e to
see clear through all this though," muttered Carter again. "And f=
or
how long are you leaving us, Captain?" Lingard made no answer. Carter
waited awhile. "Come, sir," he urged. "I ought to have some
notion. What is it? Two, three days?" Lingard started.
"Days,"=
he
repeated. "Ah, days. What is it you want to know? Two . . . three--what
did the old fellow say--perhaps for life." This was spoken so low that=
no
one but Carter heard the last words.--"Do you mean it?" he murmur=
ed.
Lingard nodded.--"Wait as long as you can--then go," he said in t=
he
same hardly audible voice. "Go where?"--"Where you like, nea=
rest
port, any port."--"Very good. That's something plain at any rate,=
"
commented the young man with imperturbable good humour.
"I go, O
Hassim!" began Lingard and the Malay made a slow inclination of the he=
ad
which he did not raise again till Lingard had ceased speaking. He betrayed
neither surprise nor any other emotion while Lingard in a few concise and s=
harp
sentences made him acquainted with his purpose to bring about singlehanded =
the
release of the prisoners. When Lingard had ended with the words: "And =
you
must find a way to help me in the time of trouble, O Rajah Hassim," he
looked up and said:
"Good. You n=
ever
asked me for anything before."
He smiled at his
white friend. There was something subtle in the smile and afterward an added
firmness in the repose of the lips. Immada moved a step forward. She looked=
at
Lingard with terror in her black and dilated eyes. She exclaimed in a voice
whose vibration startled the hearts of all the hearers with an indefinable
sense of alarm, "He will perish, Hassim! He will perish alone!"
"No," s=
aid
Hassim. "Thy fear is as vain to-night as it was at sunrise. He shall n=
ot
perish alone."
Her eyelids dropp=
ed
slowly. From her veiled eyes the tears fell, vanishing in the silence.
Lingard's forehead became furrowed by folds that seemed to contain an infin=
ity
of sombre thoughts. "Remember, O Hassim, that when I promised you to t=
ake
you back to your country you promised me to be a friend to all white men. A
friend to all whites who are of my people, forever."
"My memory is
good, O Tuan," said Hassim; "I am not yet back in my country, but=
is
not everyone the ruler of his own heart? Promises made by a man of noble bi=
rth
live as long as the speaker endures."
"Good-bye,&q=
uot;
said Lingard to Mrs. Travers. "You will be safe here." He looked =
all
around the cabin. "I leave you," he began again and stopped short.
Mrs. Travers' hand, resting lightly on the edge of the table, began to trem=
ble.
"It's for you . . . Yes. For you alone . . . and it seems it can't be.=
. .
."
It seemed to him =
that
he was saying good-bye to all the world, that he was taking a last leave of=
his
own self. Mrs. Travers did not say a word, but Immada threw herself between
them and cried:
"You are a c=
ruel
woman! You are driving him away from where his strength is. You put madness
into his heart, O! Blind--without pity--without shame! . . ."
"Immada,&quo=
t;
said Hassim's calm voice. Nobody moved.
"What did she
say to me?" faltered Mrs. Travers and again repeated in a voice that
sounded hard, "What did she say?"
"Forgive
her," said Lingard. "Her fears are for me . . ."--"It's
about your going?" Mrs. Travers interrupted, swiftly.
"Yes, it is-=
-and
you must forgive her." He had turned away his eyes with something that
resembled embarrassment but suddenly he was assailed by an irresistible lon=
ging
to look again at that woman. At the moment of parting he clung to her with =
his
glance as a man holds with his hands a priceless and disputed possession. T=
he
faint blush that overspread gradually Mrs. Travers' features gave her face =
an
air of extraordinary and startling animation.
"The danger =
you
run?" she asked, eagerly. He repelled the suggestion by a slighting
gesture of the hand.--"Nothing worth looking at twice. Don't give it a
thought," he said. "I've been in tighter places." He clapped=
his
hands and waited till he heard the cabin door open behind his back. "S=
teward,
my pistols." The mulatto in slippers, aproned to the chin, glided thro=
ugh
the cabin with unseeing eyes as though for him no one there had existed. . .
.--"Is it my heart that aches so?" Mrs. Travers asked herself,
contemplating Lingard's motionless figure. "How long will this sensati=
on
of dull pain last? Will it last forever. . . ."--"How many change=
s of
clothes shall I put up, sir?" asked the steward, while Lingard took the
pistols from him and eased the hammers after putting on fresh caps.--"I
will take nothing this time, steward." He received in turn from the
mulatto's hands a red silk handkerchief, a pocket book, a cigar-case. He
knotted the handkerchief loosely round his throat; it was evident he was go=
ing
through the routine of every departure for the shore; he even opened the
cigar-case to see whether it had been filled.--"Hat, sir," murmur=
ed
the half-caste. Lingard flung it on his head.--"Take your orders from =
this
lady, steward--till I come back. The cabin is hers--do you hear?" He
sighed ready to go and seemed unable to lift a foot.--"I am coming with
you," declared Mrs. Travers suddenly in a tone of unalterable decision=
. He
did not look at her; he did not even look up; he said nothing, till after
Carter had cried: "You can't, Mrs. Travers!"--when without budgin=
g he
whispered to himself:--"Of course." Mrs. Travers had pulled alrea=
dy
the hood of her cloak over her head and her face within the dark cloth had
turned an intense and unearthly white, in which the violet of her eyes appe=
ared
unfathomably mysterious. Carter started forward.--"You don't know this
man," he almost shouted.
"I do know
him," she said, and before the reproachfully unbelieving attitude of t=
he
other she added, speaking slowly and with emphasis: "There is not, I
verily believe, a single thought or act of his life that I don't
know."--"It's true--it's true," muttered Lingard to himself.
Carter threw up his arms with a groan. "Stand back," said a voice
that sounded to him like a growl of thunder, and he felt a grip on his hand
which seemed to crush every bone. He jerked it away.--"Mrs. Travers!
stay," he cried. They had vanished through the open door and the sound=
of
their footsteps had already died away. Carter turned about bewildered as if
looking for help.--"Who is he, steward? Who in the name of all the mad
devils is he?" he asked, wildly. He was confounded by the cold and
philosophical tone of the answer:--"'Tain't my place to trouble about
that, sir--nor yours I guess."--"Isn't it!" shouted Carter.
"Why, he has carried the lady off." The steward was looking
critically at the lamp and after a while screwed the light down.--"Tha=
t's
better," he mumbled.--"Good God! What is a fellow to do?"
continued Carter, looking at Hassim and Immada who were whispering together=
and
gave him only an absent glance. He rushed on deck and was struck blind
instantly by the night that seemed to have been lying in wait for him; he
stumbled over something soft, kicked something hard, flung himself on the r=
ail.
"Come back," he cried. "Come back. Captain! Mrs. Travers!--or
let me come, too."
He listened. The
breeze blew cool against his cheek. A black bandage seemed to lie over his
eyes. "Gone," he groaned, utterly crushed. And suddenly he heard =
Mrs.
Travers' voice remote in the depths of the night.--"Defend the brig,&q=
uot;
it said, and these words, pronouncing themselves in the immensity of a
lightless universe, thrilled every fibre of his body by the commanding sadn=
ess
of their tone. "Defend, defend the brig." . . . "I am damned=
if
I do," shouted Carter in despair. "Unless you come back! . . . Mr=
s.
Travers!"
". . . as
though--I were--on board--myself," went on the rising cadence of the
voice, more distant now, a marvel of faint and imperious clearness.
Carter shouted no
more; he tried to make out the boat for a time, and when, giving it up, he
leaped down from the rail, the heavy obscurity of the brig's main deck was
agitated like a sombre pool by his jump, swayed, eddied, seemed to break up.
Blotches of darkness recoiled, drifted away, bare feet shuffled hastily,
confused murmurs died out. "Lascars," he muttered, "The crew=
is
all agog." Afterward he listened for a moment to the faintly tumultuous
snores of the white men sleeping in rows, with their heads under the break =
of
the poop. Somewhere about his feet, the yacht's black dog, invisible, and
chained to a deck-ringbolt, whined, rattled the thin links, pattered with h=
is
claws in his distress at the unfamiliar surroundings, begging for the chari=
ty of
human notice. Carter stooped impulsively, and was met by a startling lick in
the face.--"Hallo, boy!" He thumped the thick curly sides, stroked
the smooth head--"Good boy, Rover. Down. Lie down, dog. You don't know
what to make of it--do you, boy?" The dog became still as death.
"Well, neither do I," muttered Carter. But such natures are helpe=
d by
a cheerful contempt for the intricate and endless suggestions of thought. He
told himself that he would soon see what was to come of it, and dismissed a=
ll
speculation. Had he been a little older he would have felt that the situati=
on
was beyond his grasp; but he was too young to see it whole and in a manner
detached from himself. All these inexplicable events filled him with deep
concern--but then on the other hand he had the key of the magazine and he c=
ould
not find it in his heart to dislike Lingard. He was positive about this at
last, and to know that much after the discomfort of an inward conflict went=
a
long way toward a solution. When he followed Shaw into the cabin he could n=
ot repress
a sense of enjoyment or hide a faint and malicious smile.
"Gone away--= did you say? And carried off the lady with him?" discoursed Shaw very loud= in the doorway. "Did he? Well, I am not surprised. What can you expect fr= om a man like that, who leaves his ship in an open roadstead without--I won't say orders--but without as much as a single word to his next in command? And at night at that! That just shows you the kind of man. Is this the way to trea= t a chief mate? I apprehend he was riled at the little al-ter-cation we had just before you came on board. I told him a truth or two--but--never mind. There= 's the law and that's enough for me. I am captain as long as he is out of the ship, and if his address before very long is not in one of Her Majesty's ja= ils or other I au-tho-rize you to call me a Dutchman. You mark my words."<= o:p>
He walked in
masterfully, sat down and surveyed the cabin in a leisurely and autocratic
manner; but suddenly his eyes became stony with amazement and indignation; =
he
pointed a fat and trembling forefinger.
"Niggers,&qu=
ot;
he said, huskily. "In the cuddy! In the cuddy!" He appeared beref=
t of
speech for a time.
Since he entered =
the
cabin Hassim had been watching him in thoughtful and expectant silence. &qu=
ot;I
can't have it," he continued with genuine feeling in his voice.
"Damme! I've too much respect for myself." He rose with heavy
deliberation; his eyes bulged out in a severe and dignified stare. "Out
you go!" he bellowed; suddenly, making a step forward.--"Great Sc=
ott!
What are you up to, mister?" asked in a tone of dispassionate surprise=
the
steward whose head appeared in the doorway. "These are the Captain's
friends." "Show me a man's friends and . . ." began Shaw, do=
gmatically,
but abruptly passed into the tone of admonition. "You take your mug ou=
t of
the way, bottle-washer. They ain't friends of mine. I ain't a vagabond. I k=
now
what's due to myself. Quit!" he hissed, fiercely. Hassim, with an alert
movement, grasped the handle of his kris. Shaw puffed out his cheeks and
frowned.--"Look out! He will stick you like a prize pig," murmured
Carter without moving a muscle. Shaw looked round helplessly.--"And you
would enjoy the fun--wouldn't you?" he said with slow bitterness. Cart=
er's
distant non-committal smile quite overwhelmed him by its horrid frigidity. =
Extreme
despondency replaced the proper feeling of racial pride in the primitive so=
ul
of the mate. "My God! What luck! What have I done to fall amongst that
lot?" he groaned, sat down, and took his big grey head in his hands.
Carter drew aside to make room for Immada, who, in obedience to a whisper f=
rom
her brother, sought to leave the cabin. She passed out after an instant of
hesitation, during which she looked up at Carter once. Her brother, motionl=
ess
in a defensive attitude, protected her retreat. She disappeared; Hassim's g=
rip
on his weapon relaxed; he looked in turn at every object in the cabin as if=
to
fix its position in his mind forever, and following his sister, walked out =
with
noiseless footfalls.
They entered the =
same
darkness which had received, enveloped, and hidden the troubled souls of
Lingard and Edith, but to these two the light from which they had felt
themselves driven away was now like the light of forbidden hopes; it had the
awful and tranquil brightness that a light burning on the shore has for an
exhausted swimmer about to give himself up to the fateful sea. They looked
back; it had disappeared; Carter had shut the cabin door behind them to hav=
e it
out with Shaw. He wanted to arrive at some kind of working compromise with =
the
nominal commander, but the mate was so demoralized by the novelty of the
assaults made upon his respectability that the young defender of the brig c=
ould
get nothing from him except lamentations mingled with mild blasphemies. The
brig slept, and along her quiet deck the voices raised in her cabin--Shaw's=
appeals
and reproaches directed vociferously to heaven, together with Carter's
inflexible drawl mingled into one deadened, modulated, and continuous murmu=
r.
The lockouts in the waist, motionless and peering into obscurity, one ear
turned to the sea, were aware of that strange resonance like the ghost of a
quarrel that seemed to hover at their backs. Wasub, after seeing Hassim and
Immada into their canoe, prowled to and fro the whole length of the vessel
vigilantly. There was not a star in the sky and no gleam on the water; there
was no horizon, no outline, no shape for the eye to rest upon, nothing for =
the
hand to grasp. An obscurity that seemed without limit in space and time had=
submerged
the universe like a destroying flood.
A lull of the bre=
eze
kept for a time the small boat in the neighbourhood of the brig. The hoisted
sail, invisible, fluttered faintly, mysteriously, and the boat rising and
falling bodily to the passage of each invisible undulation of the waters se=
emed
to repose upon a living breast. Lingard, his hand on the tiller, sat up ere=
ct,
expectant and silent. Mrs. Travers had drawn her cloak close around her bod=
y.
Their glances plunged infinitely deep into a lightless void, and yet they w=
ere still
so near the brig that the piteous whine of the dog, mingled with the angry
rattling of the chain, reached their ears faintly, evoking obscure images of
distress and fury. A sharp bark ending in a plaintive howl that seemed rais=
ed
by the passage of phantoms invisible to men, rent the black stillness, as
though the instinct of the brute inspired by the soul of night had voiced i=
n a
lamentable plaint the fear of the future, the anguish of lurking death, the
terror of shadows. Not far from the brig's boat Hassim and Immada in their
canoe, letting their paddles trail in the water, sat in a silent and invinc=
ible
torpor as if the fitful puffs of wind had carried to their hearts the breat=
h of
a subtle poison that, very soon, would make them die.--"Have you seen =
the
white woman's eyes?" cried the girl. She struck her palms together lou=
dly
and remained with her arms extended, with her hands clasped. "O Hassim!
Have you seen her eyes shining under her eyebrows like rays of light darting
under the arched boughs in a forest? They pierced me. I shuddered at the so=
und
of her voice! I saw her walk behind him--and it seems to me that she does n=
ot
live on earth--that all this is witchcraft."
She lamented in t=
he
night. Hassim kept silent. He had no illusions and in any other man but Lin=
gard
he would have thought the proceeding no better than suicidal folly. For him
Travers and d'Alcacer were two powerful Rajahs--probably relatives of the R=
uler
of the land of the English whom he knew to be a woman; but why they should =
come
and interfere with the recovery of his own kingdom was an obscure problem. =
He
was concerned for Lingard's safety. That the risk was incurred mostly for h=
is
sake--so that the prospects of the great enterprise should not be ruined by=
a
quarrel over the lives of these whites--did not strike him so much as may be
imagined. There was that in him which made such an action on Lingard's part
appear all but unavoidable. Was he not Rajah Hassim and was not the other a=
man
of strong heart, of strong arm, of proud courage, a man great enough to pro=
tect
highborn princes--a friend? Immada's words called out a smile which, like t=
he
words, was lost in the darkness. "Forget your weariness," he said,
gently, "lest, O Sister, we should arrive too late." The coming d=
ay
would throw its light on some decisive event. Hassim thought of his own men=
who
guarded the Emma and he wished to be where they could hear his voice. He
regretted Jaffir was not there. Hassim was saddened by the absence from his
side of that man who once had carried what he thought would be his last mes=
sage
to his friend. It had not been the last. He had lived to cherish new hopes =
and to
face new troubles and, perchance, to frame another message yet, while death
knocked with the hands of armed enemies at the gate. The breeze steadied; t=
he
succeeding swells swung the canoe smoothly up the unbroken ridges of water
travelling apace along the land. They progressed slowly; but Immada's heart=
was
more weary than her arms, and Hassim, dipping the blade of his paddle witho=
ut a
splash, peered right and left, trying to make out the shadowy forms of isle=
ts.
A long way ahead of the canoe and holding the same course, the brig's dinghy
ran with broad lug extended, making for that narrow and winding passage bet=
ween
the coast and the southern shoals, which led to the mouth of the creek
connecting the lagoon with the sea.
Thus on that star=
less
night the Shallows were peopled by uneasy souls. The thick veil of clouds
stretched over them, cut them off from the rest of the universe. At times M=
rs.
Travers had in the darkness the impression of dizzy speed, and again it see=
med
to her that the boat was standing still, that everything in the world was
standing still and only her fancy roamed free from all trammels. Lingard,
perfectly motionless by her side, steered, shaping his course by the feel of
the wind. Presently he perceived ahead a ghostly flicker of faint, livid li=
ght which
the earth seemed to throw up against the uniform blackness of the sky. The
dinghy was approaching the expanse of the Shallows. The confused clamour of
broken water deepened its note.
"How long ar=
e we
going to sail like this?" asked Mrs. Travers, gently. She did not
recognize the voice that pronounced the word "Always" in answer to
her question. It had the impersonal ring of a voice without a master. Her h=
eart
beat fast.
"Captain
Lingard!" she cried.
"Yes.
What?" he said, nervously, as if startled out of a dream.
"I asked you=
how
long we were going to sail like this," she repeated, distinctly.
"If the bree=
ze
holds we shall be in the lagoon soon after daybreak. That will be the right
time, too. I shall leave you on board the hulk with Jorgenson."
"And you? Wh=
at
will you do?" she asked. She had to wait for a while.
"I will do w=
hat
I can," she heard him say at last. There was another pause. "All I
can," he added.
The breeze droppe=
d,
the sail fluttered.
"I have perf=
ect
confidence in you," she said. "But are you certain of success?&qu=
ot;
"No."
The futility of h=
er
question came home to Mrs. Travers. In a few hours of life she had been torn
away from all her certitudes, flung into a world of improbabilities. This
thought instead of augmenting her distress seemed to soothe her. What she
experienced was not doubt and it was not fear. It was something else. It mi=
ght
have been only a great fatigue.
She heard a dull
detonation as if in the depth of the sea. It was hardly more than a shock a=
nd a
vibration. A roller had broken amongst the shoals; the livid clearness Ling=
ard
had seen ahead flashed and flickered in expanded white sheets much nearer to
the boat now. And all this--the wan burst of light, the faint shock as of
something remote and immense falling into ruins, was taking place outside t=
he
limits of her life which remained encircled by an impenetrable darkness and=
by
an impenetrable silence. Puffs of wind blew about her head and expired; the
sail collapsed, shivered audibly, stood full and still in turn; and again t=
he
sensation of vertiginous speed and of absolute immobility succeeding each o=
ther
with increasing swiftness merged at last into a bizarre state of headlong
motion and profound peace. The darkness enfolded her like the enervating ca=
ress
of a sombre universe. It was gentle and destructive. Its languor seduced her
soul into surrender. Nothing existed and even all her memories vanished into
space. She was content that nothing should exist.
Lingard, aware all
the time of their contact in the narrow stern sheets of the boat, was start=
led
by the pressure of the woman's head drooping on his shoulder. He stiffened
himself still more as though he had tried on the approach of a danger to
conceal his life in the breathless rigidity of his body. The boat soared and
descended slowly; a region of foam and reefs stretched across her course
hissing like a gigantic cauldron; a strong gust of wind drove her straight =
at
it for a moment then passed on and abandoned her to the regular balancing of
the swell. The struggle of the rocks forever overwhelmed and emerging, with=
the
sea forever victorious and repulsed, fascinated the man. He watched it as h=
e would
have watched something going on within himself while Mrs. Travers slept
sustained by his arm, pressed to his side, abandoned to his support. The sh=
oals
guarding the Shore of Refuge had given him his first glimpse of success--the
solid support he needed for his action. The Shallows were the shelter of his
dreams; their voice had the power to soothe and exalt his thoughts with the
promise of freedom for his hopes. Never had there been such a generous
friendship. . . . A mass of white foam whirling about a centre of intense
blackness spun silently past the side of the boat. . . . That woman he held
like a captive on his arm had also been given to him by the Shallows.
Suddenly his eyes
caught on a distant sandbank the red gleam of Daman's camp fire instantly
eclipsed like the wink of a signalling lantern along the level of the water=
s.
It brought to his mind the existence of the two men--those other captives. =
If
the war canoe transporting them into the lagoon had left the sands shortly
after Hassim's retreat from Daman's camp, Travers and d'Alcacer were by this
time far away up the creek. Every thought of action had become odious to
Lingard since all he could do in the world now was to hasten the moment of =
his
separation from that woman to whom he had confessed the whole secret of his
life.
And she slept. She
could sleep! He looked down at her as he would have looked at the slumbering
ignorance of a child, but the life within him had the fierce beat of supreme
moments. Near by, the eddies sighed along the reefs, the water soughed amon=
gst
the stones, clung round the rocks with tragic murmurs that resembled promis=
es,
good-byes, or prayers. From the unfathomable distances of the night came the
booming of the swell assaulting the seaward face of the Shallows. He felt t=
he
woman's nearness with such intensity that he heard nothing. . . . Then sudd=
enly
he thought of death.
"Wake up!&qu=
ot;
he shouted in her ear, swinging round in his seat. Mrs. Travers gasped; a
splash of water flicked her over the eyes and she felt the separate drops r=
un
down her cheeks, she tasted them on her lips, tepid and bitter like tears. A
swishing undulation tossed the boat on high followed by another and still
another; and then the boat with the breeze abeam glided through still water,
laying over at a steady angle.
"Clear of the
reef now," remarked Lingard in a tone of relief.
"Were we in =
any
danger?" asked Mrs. Travers in a whisper.
"Well, the
breeze dropped and we drifted in very close to the rocks," he answered.
"I had to rouse you. It wouldn't have done for you to wake up suddenly
struggling in the water."
So she had slept!=
It
seemed to her incredible that she should have closed her eyes in this small=
boat,
with the knowledge of their desperate errand, on so disturbed a sea. The ma=
n by
her side leaned forward, extended his arm, and the boat going off before the
wind went on faster on an even keel. A motionless black bank resting on the=
sea
stretched infinitely right in their way in ominous stillness. She called Li=
ngard's
attention to it. "Look at this awful cloud."
"This cloud =
is
the coast and in a moment we shall be entering the creek," he said,
quietly. Mrs. Travers stared at it. Was it land--land! It seemed to her even
less palpable than a cloud, a mere sinister immobility above the unrest of =
the
sea, nursing in its depth the unrest of men who, to her mind, were no more =
real
than fantastic shadows.
V
What struck Mrs.
Travers most, directly she set eyes on him, was the other-world aspect of
Jorgenson. He had been buried out of sight so long that his tall, gaunt bod=
y,
his unhurried, mechanical movements, his set face and his eyes with an empty
gaze suggested an invincible indifference to all the possible surprises of =
the
earth. That appearance of a resuscitated man who seemed to be commanded by a
conjuring spell strolled along the decks of what was even to Mrs. Travers' =
eyes
the mere corpse of a ship and turned on her a pair of deep-sunk, expression=
less
eyes with an almost unearthly detachment. Mrs. Travers had never been looke=
d at
before with that strange and pregnant abstraction. Yet she didn't dislike
Jorgenson. In the early morning light, white from head to foot in a perfect=
ly
clean suit of clothes which seemed hardly to contain any limbs, freshly sha=
ven
(Jorgenson's sunken cheeks with their withered colouring always had a sort =
of
gloss as though he had the habit of shaving every two hours or so), he look=
ed
as immaculate as though he had been indeed a pure spirit superior to the
soiling contacts of the material earth. He was disturbing but he was not
repulsive. He gave no sign of greeting.
Lingard addressed=
him
at once.
"You have ha=
d a
regular staircase built up the side of the hulk, Jorgenson," he said.
"It was very convenient for us to come aboard now, but in case of an
attack don't you think . . ."
"I did
think." There was nothing so dispassionate in the world as the voice of
Captain H. C. Jorgenson, ex Barque Wild Rose, since he had recrossed the Wa=
ters
of Oblivion to step back into the life of men. "I did think, but since=
I
don't want to make trouble. . . ."
"Oh, you don=
't
want to make trouble," interrupted Lingard.
"No. Don't
believe in it. Do you, King Tom?"
"I may have =
to
make trouble."
"So you came=
up
here in this small dinghy of yours like this to start making trouble, did
you?"
"What's the
matter with you? Don't you know me yet, Jorgenson?"
"I thought I
knew you. How could I tell that a man like you would come along for a fight
bringing a woman with him?"
"This lady is
Mrs. Travers," said Lingard. "The wife of one of the luckless
gentlemen Daman got hold of last evening. . . . This is Jorgenson, the frie=
nd
of whom I have been telling you, Mrs. Travers."
Mrs. Travers smil=
ed
faintly. Her eyes roamed far and near and the strangeness of her surroundin=
gs,
the overpowering curiosity, the conflict of interest and doubt gave her the
aspect of one still new to life, presenting an innocent and naive attitude
before the surprises of experience. She looked very guileless and youthful
between those two men. Lingard gazed at her with that unconscious tenderness
mingled with wonder, which some men manifest toward girlhood. There was not=
hing
of a conqueror of kingdoms in his bearing. Jorgenson preserved his amazing
abstraction which seemed neither to hear nor see anything. But, evidently, =
he
kept a mysterious grip on events in the world of living men because he asked
very naturally:
"How did she=
get
away?"
"The lady wa=
sn't
on the sandbank," explained Lingard, curtly.
"What
sandbank?" muttered Jorgenson, perfunctorily. . . . "Is the yacht=
looted,
Tom?"
"Nothing of =
the
kind," said Lingard.
"Ah, many
dead?" inquired Jorgenson.
"I tell you
there was nothing of the kind," said Lingard, impatiently.
"What? No
fight!" inquired Jorgenson again without the slightest sign of animati=
on.
"No."
"And you a
fighting man."
"Listen to m=
e,
Jorgenson. Things turned out so that before the time came for a fight it was
already too late." He turned to Mrs. Travers still looking about with
anxious eyes and a faint smile on her lips. "While I was talking to you
that evening from the boat it was already too late. No. There was never any
time for it. I have told you all about myself, Mrs. Travers, and you know t=
hat
I speak the truth when I say too late. If you had only been alone in that y=
acht
going about the seas!"
"Yes," =
she
struck in, "but I was not alone."
Lingard dropped h=
is
chin on his breast. Already a foretaste of noonday heat staled the sparkling
freshness of the morning. The smile had vanished from Edith Travers' lips a=
nd
her eyes rested on Lingard's bowed head with an expression no longer curious
but which might have appeared enigmatic to Jorgenson if he had looked at he=
r.
But Jorgenson looked at nothing. He asked from the remoteness of his dead p=
ast,
"What have you left outside, Tom? What is there now?"
"There's the
yacht on the shoals, my brig at anchor, and about a hundred of the worst ki=
nd
of Illanun vagabonds under three chiefs and with two war-praus moored to the
edge of the bank. Maybe Daman is with them, too, out there."
"No," s=
aid
Jorgenson, positively.
"He has come
in," cried Lingard. "He brought his prisoners in himself then.&qu=
ot;
"Landed by
torchlight," uttered precisely the shade of Captain Jorgenson, late of=
the
Barque Wild Rose. He swung his arm pointing across the lagoon and Mrs. Trav=
ers
turned about in that direction.
All the scene was=
but
a great light and a great solitude. Her gaze travelled over the lustrous, d=
ark
sheet of empty water to a shore bordered by a white beach empty, too, and
showing no sign of human life. The human habitations were lost in the shade=
of
the fruit trees, masked by the cultivated patches of Indian corn and the ba=
nana
plantations. Near the shore the rigid lines of two stockaded forts could be=
distinguished
flanking the beach, and between them with a great open space before it, the
brown roof slope of an enormous long building that seemed suspended in the =
air
had a great square flag fluttering above it. Something like a small white f=
lame
in the sky was the carved white coral finial on the gable of the mosque whi=
ch
had caught full the rays of the sun. A multitude of gay streamers, white and
red, flew over the half-concealed roofs, over the brilliant fields and amon=
gst
the sombre palm groves. But it might have been a deserted settlement decora=
ted
and abandoned by its departed population. Lingard pointed to the stockade o=
n the
right.
"That's where
your husband is," he said to Mrs. Travers.
"Who is the
other?" uttered Jorgenson's voice at their backs. He also was turned t=
hat
way with his strange sightless gaze fixed beyond them into the void.
"A Spanish
gentleman I believe you said, Mrs Travers," observed Lingard.
"It is extre=
mely
difficult to believe that there is anybody there," murmured Mrs. Trave=
rs.
"Did you see
them both, Jorgenson?" asked Lingard.
"Made out
nobody. Too far. Too dark."
As a matter of fa=
ct
Jorgenson had seen nothing, about an hour before daybreak, but the distant
glare of torches while the loud shouts of an excited multitude had reached =
him
across the water only like a faint and tempestuous murmur. Presently the li=
ghts
went away processionally through the groves of trees into the armed stockad=
es.
The distant glare vanished in the fading darkness and the murmurs of the
invisible crowd ceased suddenly as if carried off by the retreating shadow =
of
the night. Daylight followed swiftly, disclosing to the sleepless Jorgenson=
the
solitude of the shore and the ghostly outlines of the familiar forms of gro=
uped
trees and scattered human habitations. He had watched the varied colours co=
me
out in the dawn, the wide cultivated Settlement of many shades of green, fr=
amed
far away by the fine black lines of the forest-edge that was its limit and =
its
protection.
Mrs. Travers stood
against the rail as motionless as a statue. Her face had lost all its mobil=
ity
and her cheeks were dead white as if all the blood in her body had flowed b=
ack
into her heart and had remained there. Her very lips had lost their colour.
Lingard caught hold of her arm roughly.
"Don't, Mrs.
Travers. Why are you terrifying yourself like this? If you don't believe wh=
at I
say listen to me asking Jorgenson. . . ."
"Yes, ask
me," mumbled Jorgenson in his white moustache.
"Speak strai=
ght,
Jorgenson. What do you think? Are the gentlemen alive?"
"Certainly,&=
quot;
said Jorgenson in a sort of disappointed tone as though he had expected a m=
uch
more difficult question.
"Is their li=
fe
in immediate danger?"
"Of course
not," said Jorgenson.
Lingard turned aw=
ay
from the oracle. "You have heard him, Mrs. Travers. You may believe ev=
ery
word he says. There isn't a thought or a purpose in that Settlement," =
he
continued, pointing at the dumb solitude of the lagoon, "that this man
doesn't know as if they were his own."
"I know. Ask
me," muttered Jorgenson, mechanically.
Mrs. Travers said
nothing but made a slight movement and her whole rigid figure swayed
dangerously. Lingard put his arm firmly round her waist and she did not seem
aware of it till after she had turned her head and found Lingard's face very
near her own. But his eyes full of concern looked so close into hers that s=
he
was obliged to shut them like a woman about to faint.
The effect this
produced upon Lingard was such that she felt the tightening of his arm and =
as
she opened her eyes again some of the colour returned to her face. She met =
the
deepened expression of his solicitude with a look so steady, with a gaze th=
at
in spite of herself was so profoundly vivid that its clearness seemed to
Lingard to throw all his past life into shade.--"I don't feel faint. It
isn't that at all," she declared in a perfectly calm voice. It seemed =
to
Lingard as cold as ice.
"Very
well," he agreed with a resigned smile. "But you just catch hold =
of
that rail, please, before I let you go." She, too, forced a smile on h=
er
lips.
"What
incredulity," she remarked, and for a time made not the slightest move=
ment.
At last, as if making a concession, she rested the tips of her fingers on t=
he
rail. Lingard gradually removed his arm. "And pray don't look upon me =
as a
conventional 'weak woman' person, the delicate lady of your own
conception," she said, facing Lingard, with her arm extended to the ra=
il.
"Make that effort please against your own conception of what a woman l=
ike
me should be. I am perhaps as strong as you are, Captain Lingard. I mean it
literally. In my body."--"Don't you think I have seen that long
ago?" she heard his deep voice protesting.--"And as to my
courage," Mrs. Travers continued, her expression charmingly undecided =
between
frowns and smiles; "didn't I tell you only a few hours ago, only last
evening, that I was not capable of thinking myself into a fright; you remem=
ber,
when you were begging me to try something of the kind. Don't imagine that I
would have been ashamed to try. But I couldn't have done it. No. Not even f=
or
the sake of somebody else's kingdom. Do you understand me?"
"God
knows," said the attentive Lingard after a time, with an unexpected si=
gh.
"You people seem to be made of another stuff."
"What has pu=
t that
absurd notion into your head?"
"I didn't me=
an
better or worse. And I wouldn't say it isn't good stuff either. What I mean=
t to
say is that it's different. One feels it. And here we are."
"Yes, here we
are," repeated Mrs. Travers. "And as to this moment of emotion, w=
hat
provoked it is not a concern for anybody or anything outside myself. I felt=
no
terror. I cannot even fix my fears upon any distinct image. You think I am
shamelessly heartless in telling you this."
Lingard made no s=
ign.
It didn't occur to him to make a sign. He simply hung on Mrs. Travers' word=
s as
it were only for the sake of the sound.--"I am simply frank with
you," she continued. "What do I know of savagery, violence, murde=
r? I
have never seen a dead body in my life. The light, the silence, the mysteri=
ous
emptiness of this place have suddenly affected my imagination, I suppose. W=
hat
is the meaning of this wonderful peace in which we stand--you and I
alone?"
Lingard shook his
head. He saw the narrow gleam of the woman's teeth between the parted lips =
of
her smile, as if all the ardour of her conviction had been dissolved at the=
end
of her speech into wistful recognition of their partnership before things
outside their knowledge. And he was warmed by something a little helpless in
that smile. Within three feet of them the shade of Jorgenson, very gaunt and
neat, stared into space.
"Yes. You are
strong," said Lingard. "But a whole long night sitting in a small
boat! I wonder you are not too stiff to stand."
"I am not st=
iff
in the least," she interrupted, still smiling. "I am really a very
strong woman," she added, earnestly. "Whatever happens you may re=
ckon
on that fact."
Lingard gave her =
an
admiring glance. But the shade of Jorgenson, perhaps catching in its remote=
ness
the sound of the word woman, was suddenly moved to begin scolding with all =
the
liberty of a ghost, in a flow of passionless indignation.
"Woman! That=
's
what I say. That's just about the last touch--that you, Tom Lingard, red-ey=
ed
Tom, King Tom, and all those fine names, that you should leave your weapons
twenty miles behind you, your men, your guns, your brig that is your streng=
th,
and come along here with your mouth full of fight, bare-handed and with a w=
oman
in tow.--Well--well!"
"Don't forge=
t,
Jorgenson, that the lady hears you," remonstrated Lingard in a vexed t=
one.
. . . "He doesn't mean to be rude," he remarked to Mrs. Travers q=
uite
loud, as if indeed Jorgenson were but an immaterial and feelingless illusio=
n.
"He has forgotten."
"The woman is
not in the least offended. I ask for nothing better than to be taken on that
footing."
"Forgot
nothing!" mumbled Jorgenson with a sort of ghostly assertiveness and a=
s it
were for his own satisfaction. "What's the world coming to?"
"It was I who
insisted on coming with Captain Lingard," said Mrs. Travers, treating
Jorgenson to a fascinating sweetness of tone.
"That's what=
I
say! What is the world coming to? Hasn't King Tom a mind of his own? What h=
as
come over him? He's mad! Leaving his brig with a hundred and twenty born and
bred pirates of the worst kind in two praus on the other side of a sandbank.
Did you insist on that, too? Has he put himself in the hands of a strange
woman?"
Jorgenson seemed =
to
be asking those questions of himself. Mrs. Travers observed the empty stare=
, the
self-communing voice, his unearthly lack of animation. Somehow it made it v=
ery
easy to speak the whole truth to him.
"No," s=
he
said, "it is I who am altogether in his hands."
Nobody would have
guessed that Jorgenson had heard a single word of that emphatic declaration=
if
he had not addressed himself to Lingard with the question neither more nor =
less
abstracted than all his other speeches.
"Why then did
you bring her along?"
"You don't
understand. It was only right and proper. One of the gentlemen is the lady's
husband."
"Oh, yes,&qu=
ot;
muttered Jorgenson. "Who's the other?"
"You have be=
en
told. A friend."
"Poor Mr.
d'Alcacer," said Mrs. Travers. "What bad luck for him to have acc=
epted
our invitation. But he is really a mere acquaintance."
"I hardly no=
ticed
him," observed Lingard, gloomily. "He was talking to you over the
back of your chair when I came aboard the yacht as if he had been a very go=
od
friend."
"We always
understood each other very well," said Mrs. Travers, picking up from t=
he
rail the long glass that was lying there. "I always liked him, the
frankness of his mind, and his great loyalty."
"What did he
do?" asked Lingard.
"He loved,&q=
uot;
said Mrs. Travers, lightly. "But that's an old story." She raised=
the
glass to her eyes, one arm extended fully to sustain the long tube, and Lin=
gard
forgot d'Alcacer in admiring the firmness of her pose and the absolute
steadiness of the heavy glass. She was as firm as a rock after all those
emotions and all that fatigue.
Mrs. Travers dire=
cted
the glass instinctively toward the entrance of the lagoon. The smooth water
there shone like a piece of silver in the dark frame of the forest. A black
speck swept across the field of her vision. It was some time before she cou=
ld
find it again and then she saw, apparently so near as to be within reach of=
the
voice, a small canoe with two people in it. She saw the wet paddles rising =
and
dipping with a flash in the sunlight. She made out plainly the face of Imma=
da,
who seemed to be looking straight into the big end of the telescope. The ch=
ief
and his sister, after resting under the bank for a couple of hours in the
middle of the night, had entered the lagoon and were making straight for the
hulk. They were already near enough to be perfectly distinguishable to the
naked eye if there had been anybody on board to glance that way. But nobody=
was
even thinking of them. They might not have existed except perhaps in the me=
mory
of old Jorgenson. But that was mostly busy with all the mysterious secrets =
of
his late tomb.
Mrs. Travers lowe=
red
the glass suddenly. Lingard came out from a sort of trance and said:
"Mr. d'Alcac=
er.
Loved! Why shouldn't he?"
Mrs. Travers look=
ed
frankly into Lingard's gloomy eyes. "It isn't that alone, of course,&q=
uot;
she said. "First of all he knew how to love and then. . . . You don't =
know
how artificial and barren certain kinds of life can be. But Mr. d'Alcacer's
life was not that. His devotion was worth having."
"You seem to
know a lot about him,'" said Lingard, enviously. "Why do you
smile?" She continued to smile at him for a little while. The long bra=
ss
tube over her shoulder shone like gold against the pale fairness of her bare
head.--"At a thought," she answered, preserving the low tone of t=
he
conversation into which they had fallen as if their words could have distur=
bed
the self-absorption of Captain H. C. Jorgenson. "At the thought that f=
or
all my long acquaintance with Mr. d'Alcacer I don't know half as much about=
him
as I know about you."
"Ah, that's
impossible," contradicted Lingard. "Spaniard or no Spaniard, he is
one of your kind."
"Tarred with=
the
same brush," murmured Mrs. Travers, with only a half-amused irony. But
Lingard continued:
"He was tryi=
ng
to make it up between me and your husband, wasn't he? I was too angry to pay
much attention, but I liked him well enough. What pleased me most was the w=
ay
in which he gave it up. That was done like a gentleman. Do you understand w=
hat
I mean, Mrs. Travers?"
"I quite
understand."
"Yes, you
would," he commented, simply. "But just then I was too angry to t=
alk
to anybody. And so I cleared out on board my own ship and stayed there, not
knowing what to do and wishing you all at the bottom of the sea. Don't mist=
ake
me, Mrs. Travers; it's you, the people aft, that I wished at the bottom of =
the
sea. I had nothing against the poor devils on board, They would have truste=
d me
quick enough. So I fumed there till--till. . . ."
"Till nine
o'clock or a little after," suggested Mrs. Travers, impenetrably.
"No. Till I
remembered you," said Lingard with the utmost innocence.
"Do you mean=
to
say that you forgot my existence so completely till then? You had spoken to=
me
on board the yacht, you know."
"Did I? I
thought I did. What did I say?"
"You told me=
not
to touch a dusky princess," answered Mrs. Travers with a short laugh. =
Then
with a visible change of mood as if she had suddenly out of a light heart b=
een
recalled to the sense of the true situation: "But indeed I meant no ha=
rm
to this figure of your dream. And, look over there. She is pursuing you.&qu=
ot;
Lingard glanced toward the north shore and suppressed an exclamation of
remorse. For the second time he discovered that he had forgotten the existe=
nce
of Hassim and Immada. The canoe was now near enough for its occupants to
distinguish plainly the heads of three people above the low bulwark of the
Emma. Immada let her paddle trail suddenly in the water, with the exclamati=
on,
"I see the white woman there." Her brother looked over his should=
er
and the canoe floated, arrested as if by the sudden power of a
spell.--"They are no dream to me," muttered Lingard, sturdily. Mr=
s.
Travers turned abruptly away to look at the further shore. It was still and
empty to the naked eye and seemed to quiver in the sunshine like an immense
painted curtain lowered upon the unknown.
"Here's Rajah
Hassim coming, Jorgenson. I had an idea he would perhaps stay outside."
Mrs. Travers heard Lingard's voice at her back and the answering grunt of
Jorgenson. She raised deliberately the long glass to her eye, pointing it at
the shore.
She distinguished=
plainly
now the colours in the flutter of the streamers above the brown roofs of the
large Settlement, the stir of palm groves, the black shadows inland and the
dazzling white beach of coral sand all ablaze in its formidable mystery. She
swept the whole range of the view and was going to lower the glass when from
behind the massive angle of the stockade there stepped out into the brillia=
nt immobility
of the landscape a man in a long white gown and with an enormous black turb=
an
surmounting a dark face. Slow and grave he paced the beach ominously in the
sunshine, an enigmatical figure in an Oriental tale with something weird and
menacing in its sudden emergence and lonely progress.
With an involunta=
ry
gasp Mrs. Travers lowered the glass. All at once behind her back she heard a
low musical voice beginning to pour out incomprehensible words in a tone of
passionate pleading. Hassim and Immada had come on board and had approached
Lingard. Yes! It was intolerable to feel that this flow of soft speech which
had no meaning for her could make its way straight into that man's heart.
PART V. THE POINT OF HONO=
UR
AND THE POINT OF PASSION
I
"May I come
in?"
"Yes," =
said
a voice within. "The door is open." It had a wooden latch. Mr.
Travers lifted it while the voice of his wife continued as he entered.
"Did you imagine I had locked myself in? Did you ever know me lock mys=
elf
in?"
Mr. Travers closed
the door behind him. "No, it has never come to that," he said in a
tone that was not conciliatory. In that place which was a room in a wooden =
hut
and had a square opening without glass but with a half-closed shutter he co=
uld
not distinguish his wife very well at once. She was sitting in an armchair =
and
what he could see best was her fair hair all loose over the back of the cha=
ir.
There was a moment of silence. The measured footsteps of two men pacing ath=
wart
the quarter-deck of the dead ship Emma commanded by the derelict shade of J=
orgenson
could be heard outside.
Jorgenson, on tak=
ing
up his dead command, had a house of thin boards built on the after deck for=
his
own accommodation and that of Lingard during his flying visits to the Shore=
of
Refuge. A narrow passage divided it in two and Lingard's side was furnished
with a camp bedstead, a rough desk, and a rattan armchair. On one of his vi=
sits
Lingard had brought with him a black seaman's chest and left it there. Apart
from these objects and a small looking-glass worth about half a crown and n=
ailed
to the wall there was nothing else in there whatever. What was on Jorgenson=
's
side of the deckhouse no one had seen, but from external evidence one could
infer the existence of a set of razors.
The erection of t=
hat
primitive deckhouse was a matter of propriety rather than of necessity. It =
was
proper that the white men should have a place to themselves on board, but
Lingard was perfectly accurate when he told Mrs. Travers that he had never
slept there once. His practice was to sleep on deck. As to Jorgenson, if he=
did
sleep at all he slept very little. It might have been said that he haunted
rather than commanded the Emma. His white form flitted here and there in the
night or stood for hours, silent, contemplating the sombre glimmer of the
lagoon. Mr. Travers' eyes accustomed gradually to the dusk of the place cou=
ld now
distinguish more of his wife's person than the great mass of honey-coloured
hair. He saw her face, the dark eyebrows and her eyes that seemed profoundly
black in the half light. He said:
"You couldn't
have done so here. There is neither lock nor bolt."
"Isn't there=
? I
didn't notice. I would know how to protect myself without locks and
bolts."
"I am glad to
hear it," said Mr. Travers in a sullen tone and fell silent again
surveying the woman in the chair. "Indulging your taste for fancy
dress," he went on with faint irony.
Mrs. Travers clas=
ped
her hands behind her head. The wide sleeves slipping back bared her arms to=
her
shoulders. She was wearing a Malay thin cotton jacket, cut low in the neck
without a collar and fastened with wrought silver clasps from the throat
downward. She had replaced her yachting skirt by a blue check sarong
embroidered with threads of gold. Mr. Travers' eyes travelling slowly down
attached themselves to the gleaming instep of an agitated foot from which h=
ung
a light leather sandal.
"I had no cl=
othes
with me but what I stood in," said Mrs. Travers. "I found my yach=
ting
costume too heavy. It was intolerable. I was soaked in dew when I arrived. =
So
when these things were produced for my inspection. . . ."
"By
enchantment," muttered Mr. Travers in a tone too heavy for sarcasm.
"No. Out of =
that
chest. There are very fine stuffs there."
"No doubt,&q=
uot;
said Mr. Travers. "The man wouldn't be above plundering the natives. .=
.
." He sat down heavily on the chest. "A most appropriate costume =
for
this farce," he continued. "But do you mean to wear it in open
daylight about the decks?"
"Indeed I
do," said Mrs. Travers. "D'Alcacer has seen me already and he did=
n't
seem shocked."
"You
should," said Mr. Travers, "try to get yourself presented with so=
me bangles
for your ankles so that you may jingle as you walk."
"Bangles are=
not
necessities," said Mrs. Travers in a weary tone and with the fixed upw=
ard
look of a person unwilling to relinquish her dream. Mr. Travers dropped the
subject to ask:
"And how lon=
g is
this farce going to last?"
Mrs. Travers
unclasped her hands, lowered her glance, and changed her whole pose in a
moment.
"What do you
mean by farce? What farce?"
"The one whi=
ch
is being played at my expense."
"You believe
that?"
"Not only
believe. I feel deeply that it is so. At my expense. It's a most sinister
thing," Mr. Travers pursued, still with downcast eyes and in an
unforgiving tone. "I must tell you that when I saw you in that courtya=
rd
in a crowd of natives and leaning on that man's arm, it gave me quite a
shock."
"Did I, too,
look sinister?" said Mrs. Travers, turning her head slightly toward her
husband. "And yet I assure you that I was glad, profoundly glad, to see
you safe from danger for a time at least. To gain time is everything. . .
."
"I ask
myself," Mr. Travers meditated aloud, "was I ever in danger? Am I
safe now? I don't know. I can't tell. No! All this seems an abominable farc=
e."
There was that in=
his
tone which made his wife continue to look at him with awakened interest. It=
was
obvious that he suffered from a distress which was not the effect of fear; =
and
Mrs. Travers' face expressed real concern till he added in a freezing manne=
r:
"The question, however, is as to your discretion."
She leaned back a=
gain
in the chair and let her hands rest quietly in her lap. "Would you have
preferred me to remain outside, in the yacht, in the near neighbourhood of
these wild men who captured you? Or do you think that they, too, were got u=
p to
carry on a farce?"
"Most
decidedly." Mr. Travers raised his head, though of course not his voic=
e.
"You ought to have remained in the yacht amongst white men, your serva=
nts,
the sailing-master, the crew whose duty it was to. . . . Who would have been
ready to die for you."
"I wonder why
they should have--and why I should have asked them for that sacrifice. Howe=
ver,
I have no doubt they would have died. Or would you have preferred me to tak=
e up
my quarters on board that man's brig? We were all fairly safe there. The re=
al
reason why I insisted on coming in here was to be nearer to you--to see for
myself what could be or was being done. . . . But really if you want me to
explain my motives then I may just as well say nothing. I couldn't remain
outside for days without news, in a state of horrible doubt. We couldn't ev=
en
tell whether you and d'Alcacer were still alive till we arrived here. You m=
ight
have been actually murdered on the sandbank, after Rajah Hassim and that gi=
rl
had gone away; or killed while going up the river. And I wanted to know at =
once,
as soon as possible. It was a matter of impulse. I went off in what I stood=
in
without delaying a moment."
"Yes," =
said
Mr. Travers. "And without even thinking of having a few things put up =
for
me in a bag. No doubt you were in a state of excitement. Unless you took su=
ch a
tragic view that it seemed to you hardly worth while to bother about my
clothes."
"It was
absolutely the impulse of the moment. I could have done nothing else. Won't=
you
give me credit for it?"
Mr. Travers raised
his eyes again to his wife's face. He saw it calm, her attitude reposeful. =
Till
then his tone had been resentful, dull, without sarcasm. But now he became
slightly pompous.
"No. As a ma=
tter
of fact, as a matter of experience, I can't credit you with the possession =
of
feelings appropriate to your origin, social position, and the ideas of the
class to which you belong. It was the heaviest disappointment of my life. I=
had
made up my mind not to mention it as long as I lived. This, however, seems =
an
occasion which you have provoked yourself. It isn't at all a solemn occasio=
n. I
don't look upon it as solemn at all. It's very disagreeable and humiliating.
But it has presented itself. You have never taken a serious interest in the=
activities
of my life which of course are its distinction and its value. And why you
should be carried away suddenly by a feeling toward the mere man I don't
understand."
"Therefore y=
ou
don't approve," Mrs. Travers commented in an even tone. "But I as=
sure
you, you may safely. My feeling was of the most conventional nature, exactl=
y as
if the whole world were looking on. After all, we are husband and wife. It's
eminently fitting that I should be concerned about your fate. Even the man =
you
distrust and dislike so much (the warmest feeling, let me tell you, that I =
ever
saw you display) even that man found my conduct perfectly proper. His own w=
ord.
Proper. So eminently proper that it altogether silenced his objections.&quo=
t;
Mr. Travers shift=
ed
uneasily on his seat.
"It's my bel=
ief,
Edith, that if you had been a man you would have led a most irregular life.=
You
would have been a frank adventurer. I mean morally. It has been a great gri=
ef
to me. You have a scorn in you for the serious side of life, for the ideas =
and
the ambitions of the social sphere to which you belong."
He stopped because
his wife had clasped again her hands behind her head and was no longer look=
ing
at him.
"It's perfec=
tly
obvious," he began again. "We have been living amongst most
distinguished men and women and your attitude to them has been always so--so
negative! You would never recognize the importance of achievements, of acqu=
ired
positions. I don't remember you ever admiring frankly any political or soci=
al
success. I ask myself what after all you could possibly have expected from
life."
"I could nev=
er
have expected to hear such a speech from you. As to what I did expect! . . =
. I
must have been very stupid."
"No, you are
anything but that," declared Mr. Travers, conscientiously. "It is=
n't
stupidity." He hesitated for a moment. "It's a kind of wilfulness=
, I
think. I preferred not to think about this grievous difference in our point=
s of
view, which, you will admit, I could not have possibly foreseen before we. =
. .
."
A sort of solemn
embarrassment had come over Mr. Travers. Mrs. Travers, leaning her chin on =
the
palm of her hand, stared at the bare matchboard side of the hut.
"Do you char=
ge
me with profound girlish duplicity?" she asked, very softly.
The inside of the
deckhouse was full of stagnant heat perfumed by a slight scent which seemed=
to
emanate from the loose mass of Mrs. Travers' hair. Mr. Travers evaded the
direct question which struck him as lacking fineness even to the point of
impropriety.
"I must supp=
ose
that I was not in the calm possession of my insight and judgment in those
days," he said. "I--I was not in a critical state of mind at the
time," he admitted further; but even after going so far he did not loo=
k up
at his wife and therefore missed something like the ghost of a smile on Mrs.
Travers' lips. That smile was tinged with scepticism which was too deep-sea=
ted
for anything but the faintest expression. Therefore she said nothing, and M=
r.
Travers went on as if thinking aloud:
"Your conduct
was, of course, above reproach; but you made for yourself a detestable
reputation of mental superiority, expressed ironically. You inspired mistru=
st
in the best people. You were never popular."
"I was
bored," murmured Mrs. Travers in a reminiscent tone and with her chin
resting in the hollow of her hand.
Mr. Travers got up
from the seaman's chest as unexpectedly as if he had been stung by a wasp, =
but,
of course, with a much slower and more solemn motion.
"The matter =
with
you, Edith, is that at heart you are perfectly primitive." Mrs. Travers
stood up, too, with a supple, leisurely movement, and raising her hands to =
her
hair turned half away with a pensive remark:
"Imperfectly
civilized."
"Imperfectly
disciplined," corrected Mr. Travers after a moment of dreary meditatio=
n.
She let her arms =
fall
and turned her head.
"No, don't s=
ay
that," she protested with strange earnestness. "I am the most
severely disciplined person in the world. I am tempted to say that my
discipline has stopped at nothing short of killing myself. I suppose you can
hardly understand what I mean."
Mr. Travers made a
slight grimace at the floor.
"I shall not
try," he said. "It sounds like something that a barbarian, hating=
the
delicate complexities and the restraints of a nobler life, might have said.
From you it strikes me as wilful bad taste. . . . I have often wondered at =
your
tastes. You have always liked extreme opinions, exotic costumes, lawless
characters, romantic personalities--like d'Alcacer . . ."
"Poor Mr.
d'Alcacer," murmured Mrs. Travers.
"A man witho=
ut
any ideas of duty or usefulness," said Mr. Travers, acidly. "What=
are
you pitying him for?"
"Why! For
finding himself in this position out of mere good-nature. He had nothing to
expect from joining our voyage, no advantage for his political ambitions or
anything of the kind. I suppose you asked him on board to break our tete-a-=
tete
which must have grown wearisome to you."
"I am never
bored," declared Mr. Travers. "D'Alcacer seemed glad to come. And,
being a Spaniard, the horrible waste of time cannot matter to him in the
least."
"Waste of
time!" repeated Mrs. Travers, indignantly.
"He may yet =
have
to pay for his good nature with his life."
Mr. Travers could=
not
conceal a movement of anger.
"Ah! I forgot
those assumptions," he said between his clenched teeth. "He is a =
mere
Spaniard. He takes this farcical conspiracy with perfect nonchalance. Decay=
ed
races have their own philosophy."
"He takes it
with a dignity of his own."
"I don't know
what you call his dignity. I should call it lack of self-respect."
"Why? Becaus=
e he
is quiet and courteous, and reserves his judgment. And allow me to tell you,
Martin, that you are not taking our troubles very well."
"You can't
expect from me all those foreign affectations. I am not in the habit of
compromising with my feelings."
Mrs. Travers turn=
ed
completely round and faced her husband. "You sulk," she said. . .=
.
Mr. Travers jerked his head back a little as if to let the word go
past.--"I am outraged," he declared. Mrs. Travers recognized there
something like real suffering.--"I assure you," she said, serious=
ly
(for she was accessible to pity), "I assure you that this strange Ling=
ard
has no idea of your importance. He doesn't know anything of your social and
political position and still less of your great ambitions." Mr. Travers
listened with some attention.--"Couldn't you have enlightened him?&quo=
t;
he asked.--"It would have been no use; his mind is fixed upon his own
position and upon his own sense of power. He is a man of the lower classes.=
. .
."--"He is a brute," said Mr. Travers, obstinately, and for a
moment those two looked straight into each other's eyes.--"Oh," s=
aid
Mrs. Travers, slowly, "you are determined not to compromise with your
feelings!" An undertone of scorn crept into her voice. "But shall=
I
tell you what I think? I think," and she advanced her head slightly to=
ward
the pale, unshaven face that confronted her dark eyes, "I think that f=
or
all your blind scorn you judge the man well enough to feel that you can ind=
ulge
your indignation with perfect safety. Do you hear? With perfect safety!&quo=
t;
Directly she had spoken she regretted these words. Really it was unreasonab=
le
to take Mr. Travers' tricks of character more passionately on this spot of =
the
Eastern Archipelago full of obscure plots and warring motives than in the m=
ore artificial
atmosphere of the town. After all what she wanted was simply to save his li=
fe,
not to make him understand anything. Mr. Travers opened his mouth and witho=
ut
uttering a word shut it again. His wife turned toward the looking-glass nai=
led
to the wall. She heard his voice behind her.
"Edith, wher=
e's
the truth in all this?"
She detected the
anguish of a slow mind with an instinctive dread of obscure places wherein =
new
discoveries can be made. She looked over her shoulder to say:
"It's on the
surface, I assure you. Altogether on the surface."
She turned again =
to
the looking-glass where her own face met her with dark eyes and a fair mist=
of
hair above the smooth forehead; but her words had produced no soothing effe=
ct.
"But what do=
es
it mean?" cried Mr. Travers. "Why doesn't the fellow apologize? W=
hy
are we kept here? Are we being kept here? Why don't we get away? Why doesn'=
t he
take me back on board my yacht? What does he want from me? How did he procu=
re
our release from these people on shore who he says intended to cut our thro=
ats?
Why did they give us up to him instead?"
Mrs. Travers bega=
n to
twist her hair on her head.
"Matters of =
high
policy and of local politics. Conflict of personal interests, mistrust betw=
een
the parties, intrigues of individuals--you ought to know how that sort of t=
hing
works. His diplomacy made use of all that. The first thing to do was not to
liberate you but to get you into his keeping. He is a very great man here a=
nd
let me tell you that your safety depends on his dexterity in the use of his
prestige rather than on his power which he cannot use. If you would let him
talk to you I am sure he would tell you as much as it is possible for him t=
o disclose."
"I don't wan=
t to
be told about any of his rascalities. But haven't you been taken into his
confidence?"
"Completely,=
"
admitted Mrs. Travers, peering into the small looking-glass.
"What is the
influence you brought to bear upon this man? It looks to me as if our fate =
were
in your hands."
"Your fate is
not in my hands. It is not even in his hands. There is a moral situation he=
re
which must be solved."
"Ethics of
blackmail," commented Mr. Travers with unexpected sarcasm. It flashed
through his wife's mind that perhaps she didn't know him so well as she had
supposed. It was as if the polished and solemn crust of hard proprieties had
cracked slightly, here and there, under the strain, disclosing the mere
wrongheadedness of a common mortal. But it was only manner that had cracked=
a
little; the marvellous stupidity of his conceit remained the same. She thou=
ght
that this discussion was perfectly useless, and as she finished putting up =
her
hair she said: "I think we had better go on deck now."
"You propose=
to
go out on deck like this?" muttered Mr. Travers with downcast eyes.
"Like this?
Certainly. It's no longer a novelty. Who is going to be shocked?"
Mr. Travers made =
no
reply. What she had said of his attitude was very true. He sulked at the
enormous offensiveness of men, things, and events; of words and even of gla=
nces
which he seemed to feel physically resting on his skin like a pain, like a
degrading contact. He managed not to wince. But he sulked. His wife continu=
ed,
"And let me tell you that those clothes are fit for a princess--I mean
they are of the quality, material and style custom prescribes for the highe=
st
in the land, a far-distant land where I am informed women rule as much as t=
he men.
In fact they were meant to be presented to an actual princess in due course.
They were selected with the greatest care for that child Immada. Captain
Lingard. . . ."
Mr. Travers made =
an
inarticulate noise partaking of a groan and a grunt.
"Well, I must
call him by some name and this I thought would be the least offensive for y=
ou
to hear. After all, the man exists. But he is known also on a certain porti=
on
of the earth's surface as King Tom. D'Alcacer is greatly taken by that name=
. It
seems to him wonderfully well adapted to the man, in its familiarity and
deference. And if you prefer. . . ."
"I would pre=
fer
to hear nothing," said Mr. Travers, distinctly. "Not a single wor=
d.
Not even from you, till I am a free agent again. But words don't touch me.
Nothing can touch me; neither your sinister warnings nor the moods of levity
which you think proper to display before a man whose life, according to you,
hangs on a thread."
"I never for=
get
it for a moment," said Mrs. Travers. "And I not only know that it
does but I also know the strength of the thread. It is a wonderful thread. =
You
may say if you like it has been spun by the same fate which made you what y=
ou
are."
Mr. Travers felt
awfully offended. He had never heard anybody, let alone his own self, addre=
ssed
in such terms. The tone seemed to question his very quality. He reflected w=
ith
shocked amazement that he had lived with that woman for eight years! And he
said to her gloomily:
"You talk li=
ke a
pagan."
It was a very str=
ong
condemnation which apparently Mrs. Travers had failed to hear for she pursu=
ed
with animation:
"But really,=
you
can't expect me to meditate on it all the time or shut myself up here and m=
ourn
the circumstances from morning to night. It would be morbid. Let us go on
deck."
"And you look
simply heathenish in this costume," Mr. Travers went on as though he h=
ad
not been interrupted, and with an accent of deliberate disgust.
Her heart was hea=
vy
but everything he said seemed to force the tone of levity on to her lips.
"As long as I don't look like a guy," she remarked, negligently, =
and
then caught the direction of his lurid stare which as a matter of fact was
fastened on her bare feet. She checked herself, "Oh, yes, if you prefe=
r it
I will put on my stockings. But you know I must be very careful of them. It=
's
the only pair I have here. I have washed them this morning in that bathroom
which is built over the stern. They are now drying over the rail just outsi=
de.
Perhaps you will be good enough to pass them to me when you go on deck.&quo=
t;
Mr. Travers spun
round and went on deck without a word. As soon as she was alone Mrs. Travers
pressed her hands to her temples, a gesture of distress which relieved her =
by
its sincerity. The measured footsteps of two men came to her plainly from t=
he
deck, rhythmic and double with a suggestion of tranquil and friendly
intercourse. She distinguished particularly the footfalls of the man whose
life's orbit was most remote from her own. And yet the orbits had cut! A few
days ago she could not have even conceived of his existence, and now he was=
the
man whose footsteps, it seemed to her, her ears could single unerringly in =
the tramp
of a crowd. It was, indeed, a fabulous thing. In the half light of her over=
-heated
shelter she let an irresolute, frightened smile pass off her lips before sh=
e,
too, went on deck.
II
An ingeniously
constructed framework of light posts and thin laths occupied the greater pa=
rt
of the deck amidships of the Emma. The four walls of that airy structure we=
re
made of muslin. It was comparatively lofty. A door-like arrangement of light
battens filled with calico was further protected by a system of curtains
calculated to baffle the pursuit of mosquitoes that haunted the shores of t=
he
lagoon in great singing clouds from sunset till sunrise. A lot of fine mats
covered the deck space within the transparent shelter devised by Lingard an=
d Jorgenson
to make Mrs. Travers' existence possible during the time when the fate of t=
he
two men, and indeed probably of everybody else on board the Emma, had to ha=
ng
in the balance. Very soon Lingard's unbidden and fatal guests had learned t=
he
trick of stepping in and out of the place quickly. Mr. d'Alcacer performed =
the
feat without apparent haste, almost nonchalantly, yet as well as anybody. It
was generally conceded that he had never let a mosquito in together with
himself. Mr. Travers dodged in and out without grace and was obviously much
irritated at the necessity. Mrs. Travers did it in a manner all her own, wi=
th
marked cleverness and an unconscious air. There was an improvised table in
there and some wicker armchairs which Jorgenson had produced from somewhere=
in
the depths of the ship. It was hard to say what the inside of the Emma did =
not
contain. It was crammed with all sorts of goods like a general store. That =
old
hulk was the arsenal and the war-chest of Lingard's political action; she w=
as
stocked with muskets and gunpowder, with bales of longcloth, of cotton prin=
ts,
of silks; with bags of rice and currency brass guns. She contained everythi=
ng
necessary for dealing death and distributing bribes, to act on the cupidity=
and
upon the fears of men, to march and to organize, to feed the friends and to
combat the enemies of the cause. She held wealth and power in her flanks, t=
hat
grounded ship that would swim no more, without masts and with the best part=
of
her deck cumbered by the two structures of thin boards and of transparent
muslin.
Within the latter
lived the Europeans, visible in the daytime to the few Malays on board as if
through a white haze. In the evening the lighting of the hurricane lamps in=
side
turned them into dark phantoms surrounded by a shining mist, against which =
the
insect world rushing in its millions out of the forest on the bank was baff=
led
mysteriously in its assault. Rigidly enclosed by transparent walls, like
captives of an enchanted cobweb, they moved about, sat, gesticulated, conve=
rsed
publicly during the day; and at night when all the lanterns but one were ex=
tinguished,
their slumbering shapes covered all over by white cotton sheets on the camp
bedsteads, which were brought in every evening, conveyed the gruesome
suggestion of dead bodies reposing on stretchers. The food, such as it was,=
was
served within that glorified mosquito net which everybody called the
"Cage" without any humorous intention. At meal times the party fr=
om
the yacht had the company of Lingard who attached to this ordeal a sense of
duty performed at the altar of civility and conciliation. He could have no
conception how much his presence added to the exasperation of Mr. Travers
because Mr. Travers' manner was too intensely consistent to present any sha=
des.
It was determined by an ineradicable conviction that he was a victim held t=
o ransom
on some incomprehensible terms by an extraordinary and outrageous bandit. T=
his
conviction, strung to the highest pitch, never left him for a moment, being=
the
object of indignant meditation to his mind, and even clinging, as it were, =
to
his very body. It lurked in his eyes, in his gestures, in his ungracious
mutters, and in his sinister silences. The shock to his moral being had end=
ed
by affecting Mr. Travers' physical machine. He was aware of hepatic pains,
suffered from accesses of somnolence and suppressed gusts of fury which fri=
ghtened
him secretly. His complexion had acquired a yellow tinge, while his heavy e=
yes
had become bloodshot because of the smoke of the open wood fires during his
three days' detention inside Belarab's stockade. His eyes had been always v=
ery
sensitive to outward conditions. D'Alcacer's fine black eyes were more endu=
ring
and his appearance did not differ very much from his ordinary appearance on
board the yacht. He had accepted with smiling thanks the offer of a thin bl=
ue
flannel tunic from Jorgenson. Those two men were much of the same build, th=
ough
of course d'Alcacer, quietly alive and spiritually watchful, did not resemb=
le
Jorgenson, who, without being exactly macabre, behaved more like an indiffe=
rent
but restless corpse. Those two could not be said to have ever conversed
together. Conversation with Jorgenson was an impossible thing. Even Lingard
never attempted the feat. He propounded questions to Jorgenson much as a ma=
gician
would interrogate an evoked shade, or gave him curt directions as one would=
make
use of some marvellous automaton. And that was apparently the way in which
Jorgenson preferred to be treated. Lingard's real company on board the Emma=
was
d'Alcacer. D'Alcacer had met Lingard on the easy terms of a man accustomed =
all
his life to good society in which the very affectations must be carried on
without effort. Whether affectation, or nature, or inspired discretion,
d'Alcacer never let the slightest curiosity pierce the smoothness of his le=
vel,
grave courtesy lightened frequently by slight smiles which often had not mu=
ch connection
with the words he uttered, except that somehow they made them sound kindly =
and
as it were tactful. In their character, however, those words were strictly
neutral.
The only time when
Lingard had detected something of a deeper comprehension in d'Alcacer was t=
he
day after the long negotiations inside Belarab's stockade for the temporary
surrender of the prisoners. That move had been suggested to him, exactly as
Mrs. Travers had told her husband, by the rivalries of the parties and the
state of public opinion in the Settlement deprived of the presence of the m=
an
who, theoretically at least, was the greatest power and the visible ruler of
the Shore of Refuge. Belarab still lingered at his father's tomb. Whether t=
hat
man of the embittered and pacific heart had withdrawn there to meditate upon
the unruliness of mankind and the thankless nature of his task; or whether =
he
had gone there simply to bathe in a particularly clear pool which was a fea=
ture
of the place, give himself up to the enjoyment of a certain fruit which gre=
w in
profusion there and indulge for a time in a scrupulous performance of relig=
ious
exercises, his absence from the Settlement was a fact of the utmost gravity=
. It
is true that the prestige of a long-unquestioned rulership and the long-set=
tled
mental habits of the people had caused the captives to be taken straight to
Belarab's stockade as a matter of course. Belarab, at a distance, could sti=
ll
outweigh the power on the spot of Tengga, whose secret purposes were no bet=
ter
known, who was jovial, talkative, outspoken and pugnacious; but who was not=
a
professed servant of God famed for many charities and a scrupulous performa=
nce
of pious practices, and who also had no father who had achieved a local
saintship. But Belarab, with his glamour of asceticism and melancholy toget=
her
with a reputation for severity (for a man so pious would be naturally
ruthless), was not on the spot. The only favourable point in his absence was
the fact that he had taken with him his latest wife, the same lady whom
Jorgenson had mentioned in his letter to Lingard as anxious to bring about
battle, murder, and the looting of the yacht, not because of inborn wickedn=
ess of
heart but from a simple desire for silks, jewels and other objects of perso=
nal
adornment, quite natural in a girl so young and elevated to such a high
position. Belarab had selected her to be the companion of his retirement and
Lingard was glad of it. He was not afraid of her influence over Belarab. He
knew his man. No words, no blandishments, no sulks, scoldings, or whisperin=
gs
of a favourite could affect either the resolves or the irresolutions of that
Arab whose action ever seemed to hang in mystic suspense between the
contradictory speculations and judgments disputing the possession of his wi=
ll.
It was not what Belarab would either suddenly do or leisurely determine upon
that Lingard was afraid of. The danger was that in his taciturn hesitation,
which had something hopelessly godlike in its remote calmness, the man woul=
d do
nothing and leave his white friend face to face with unruly impulses against
which Lingard had no means of action but force which he dared not use since=
it
would mean the destruction of his plans and the downfall of his hopes; and
worse still would wear an aspect of treachery to Hassim and Immada, those
fugitives whom he had snatched away from the jaws of death on a night of st=
orm
and had promised to lead back in triumph to their own country he had seen b=
ut
once, sleeping unmoved under the wrath and fire of heaven.
On the afternoon =
of
the very day he had arrived with her on board the Emma--to the infinite dis=
gust
of Jorgenson--Lingard held with Mrs. Travers (after she had had a couple of
hours' rest) a long, fiery, and perplexed conversation. From the nature of =
the
problem it could not be exhaustive; but toward the end of it they were both
feeling thoroughly exhausted. Mrs. Travers had no longer to be instructed a=
s to
facts and possibilities. She was aware of them only too well and it was not=
her
part to advise or argue. She was not called upon to decide or to plead. The
situation was far beyond that. But she was worn out with watching the
passionate conflict within the man who was both so desperately reckless and=
so
rigidly restrained in the very ardour of his heart and the greatness of his
soul. It was a spectacle that made her forget the actual questions at issue.
This was no stage play; and yet she had caught herself looking at him with
bated breath as at a great actor on a darkened stage in some simple and
tremendous drama. He extorted from her a response to the forces that seemed=
to
tear at his single-minded brain, at his guileless breast. He shook her with=
his
own struggles, he possessed her with his emotions and imposed his personali=
ty
as if its tragedy were the only thing worth considering in this matter. And=
yet
what had she to do with all those obscure and barbarous things? Obviously
nothing. Unluckily she had been taken into the confidence of that man's
passionate perplexity, a confidence provoked apparently by nothing but the
power of her personality. She was flattered, and even more, she was touched=
by
it; she was aware of something that resembled gratitude and provoked a sort=
of
emotional return as between equals who had secretly recognized each other's
value. Yet at the same time she regretted not having been left in the dark;=
as
much in the dark as Mr. Travers himself or d'Alcacer, though as to the latt=
er
it was impossible to say how much precise, unaccountable, intuitive knowled=
ge
was buried under his unruffled manner.
D'Alcacer was the
sort of man whom it would be much easier to suspect of anything in the world
than ignorance--or stupidity. Naturally he couldn't know anything definite =
or
even guess at the bare outline of the facts but somehow he must have scented
the situation in those few days of contact with Lingard. He was an acute and
sympathetic observer in all his secret aloofness from the life of men which=
was
so very different from Jorgenson's secret divorce from the passions of this=
earth.
Mrs. Travers would have liked to share with d'Alcacer the burden (for it wa=
s a
burden) of Lingard's story. After all, she had not provoked those confidenc=
es,
neither had that unexpected adventurer from the sea laid on her an obligati=
on
of secrecy. No, not even by implication. He had never said to her that she =
was
the only person whom he wished to know that story.
No. What he had s=
aid
was that she was the only person to whom he could tell the tale himself, as=
if
no one else on earth had the power to draw it from him. That was the sense =
and
nothing more. Yes, it would have been a relief to tell d'Alcacer. It would =
have
been a relief to her feeling of being shut off from the world alone with
Lingard as if within the four walls of a romantic palace and in an exotic
atmosphere. Yes, that relief and also another: that of sharing the
responsibility with somebody fit to understand. Yet she shrank from it, with
unaccountable reserve, as if by talking of Lingard with d'Alcacer she was b=
ound
to give him an insight into herself. It was a vague uneasiness and yet so p=
ersistent
that she felt it, too, when she had to approach and talk to Lingard under
d'Alcacer's eyes. Not that Mr. d'Alcacer would ever dream of staring or even
casting glances. But was he averting his eyes on purpose? That would be even
more offensive.
"I am
stupid," whispered Mrs. Travers to herself, with a complete and reassu=
ring
conviction. Yet she waited motionless till the footsteps of the two men sto=
pped
outside the deckhouse, then separated and died away, before she went out on
deck. She came out on deck some time after her husband. As if in intended
contrast to the conflicts of men a great aspect of serenity lay upon all
visible things. Mr. Travers had gone inside the Cage in which he really loo=
ked
like a captive and thoroughly out of place. D'Alcacer had gone in there, to=
o,
but he preserved--or was it an illusion?--an air of independence. It was not
that he put it on. Like Mr. Travers he sat in a wicker armchair in very much
the same attitude as the other gentleman and also silent; but there was
somewhere a subtle difference which did away with the notion of captivity. =
Moreover,
d'Alcacer had that peculiar gift of never looking out of place in any
surroundings. Mrs. Travers, in order to save her European boots for active
service, had been persuaded to use a pair of leather sandals also extracted
from that seaman's chest in the deckhouse. An additional fastening had been=
put
on them but she could not avoid making a delicate clatter as she walked on =
the
deck. No part of her costume made her feel so exotic. It also forced her to
alter her usual gait and move with quick, short steps very much like Immada=
.
"I am robbing
the girl of her clothes," she had thought to herself, "besides ot=
her
things." She knew by this time that a girl of such high rank would nev=
er
dream of wearing anything that had been worn by somebody else.
At the slight noi=
se
of Mrs. Travers' sandals d'Alcacer looked over the back of his chair. But he
turned his head away at once and Mrs. Travers, leaning her elbow on the rail
and resting her head on the palm of her hand, looked across the calm surfac=
e of
the lagoon, idly.
She was turning h=
er
back on the Cage, the fore-part of the deck and the edge of the nearest for=
est.
That great erection of enormous solid trunks, dark, rugged columns festooned
with writhing creepers and steeped in gloom, was so close to the bank that =
by
looking over the side of the ship she could see inverted in the glassy belt=
of
water its massive and black reflection on the reflected sky that gave the i=
mpression
of a clear blue abyss seen through a transparent film. And when she raised =
her
eyes the same abysmal immobility seemed to reign over the whole sun-bathed
enlargement of that lagoon which was one of the secret places of the earth.=
She
felt strongly her isolation. She was so much the only being of her kind mov=
ing
within this mystery that even to herself she looked like an apparition with=
out
rights and without defence and that must end by surrendering to those forces
which seemed to her but the expression of the unconscious genius of the pla=
ce.
Hers was the most complete loneliness, charged with a catastrophic tension.=
It
lay about her as though she had been set apart within a magic circle. It cut
off--but it did not protect. The footsteps that she knew how to distinguish
above all others on that deck were heard suddenly behind her. She did not t=
urn
her head.
Since that aftern=
oon
when the gentlemen, as Lingard called them, had been brought on board, Mrs.
Travers and Lingard had not exchanged one significant word.
When Lingard had
decided to proceed by way of negotiation she had asked him on what he based=
his
hope of success; and he had answered her: "On my luck." What he
really depended on was his prestige; but even if he had been aware of such a
word he would not have used it, since it would have sounded like a boast. A=
nd,
besides, he did really believe in his luck. Nobody, either white or brown, =
had
ever doubted his word and that, of course, gave him great assurance in ente=
ring
upon the negotiation. But the ultimate issue of it would be always a matter=
of
luck. He said so distinctly to Mrs. Travers at the moment of taking leave of
her, with Jorgenson already waiting for him in the boat that was to take th=
em across
the lagoon to Belarab's stockade.
Startled by his
decision (for it had come suddenly clinched by the words "I believe I =
can
do it"), Mrs. Travers had dropped her hand into his strong open palm on
which an expert in palmistry could have distinguished other lines than the =
line
of luck. Lingard's hand closed on hers with a gentle pressure. She looked at
him, speechless. He waited for a moment, then in an unconsciously tender vo=
ice
he said: "Well, wish me luck then."
She remained sile=
nt.
And he still holding her hand looked surprised at her hesitation. It seemed=
to
her that she could not let him go, and she didn't know what to say till it
occurred to her to make use of the power she knew she had over him. She wou=
ld
try it again. "I am coming with you," she declared with decision.
"You don't suppose I could remain here in suspense for hours,
perhaps."
He dropped her ha=
nd
suddenly as if it had burnt him--"Oh, yes, of course," he mumbled
with an air of confusion. One of the men over there was her husband! And no=
thing
less could be expected from such a woman. He had really nothing to say but =
she
thought he hesitated.--"Do you think my presence would spoil everythin=
g? I
assure you I am a lucky person, too, in a way. . . . As lucky as you, at
least," she had added in a murmur and with a smile which provoked his
responsive mutter--"Oh, yes, we are a lucky pair of people."--&qu=
ot;I
count myself lucky in having found a man like you to fight my--our
battles," she said, warmly. "Suppose you had not existed? . . . .=
You
must let me come with you!" For the second time before her expressed w=
ish
to stand by his side he bowed his head. After all, if things came to the wo=
rst,
she would be as safe between him and Jorgenson as left alone on board the E=
mma
with a few Malay spearmen for all defence. For a moment Lingard thought of
picking up the pistols he had taken out of his belt preparatory to joining
Jorgenson in the boat, thinking it would be better to go to a big talk
completely unarmed. They were lying on the rail but he didn't pick them up.
Four shots didn't matter. They could not matter if the world of his creation
were to go to pieces. He said nothing of that to Mrs. Travers but busied
himself in giving her the means to alter her personal appearance. It was th=
en
that the sea-chest in the deckhouse was opened for the first time before the
interested Mrs. Travers who had followed him inside. Lingard handed to her a
Malay woman's light cotton coat with jewelled clasps to put over her Europe=
an
dress. It covered half of her yachting skirt. Mrs. Travers obeyed him witho=
ut
comment. He pulled out a long and wide scarf of white silk embroidered heav=
ily
on the edges and ends, and begged her to put it over her head and arrange t=
he
ends so as to muffle her face, leaving little more than her eyes exposed to
view.--"We are going amongst a lot of Mohammedans," he explained.=
--"I
see. You want me to look respectable," she jested.--"I assure you,
Mrs. Travers," he protested, earnestly, "that most of the people
there and certainly all the great men have never seen a white woman in their
lives. But perhaps you would like better one of those other scarves? There =
are
three in there."--"No, I like this one well enough. They are all =
very
gorgeous. I see that the Princess is to be sent back to her land with all
possible splendour. What a thoughtful man you are, Captain Lingard. That ch=
ild
will be touched by your generosity. . . . Will I do like this?"
"Yes," =
said
Lingard, averting his eyes. Mrs. Travers followed him into the boat where t=
he
Malays stared in silence while Jorgenson, stiff and angular, gave no sign of
life, not even so much as a movement of the eyes. Lingard settled her in the
stern sheets and sat down by her side. The ardent sunshine devoured all
colours. The boat swam forward on the glare heading for the strip of coral
beach dazzling like a crescent of metal raised to a white heat. They landed.
Gravely, Jorgenson opened above Mrs. Travers' head a big white cotton paras=
ol
and she advanced between the two men, dazed, as if in a dream and having no=
other
contact with the earth but through the soles of her feet. Everything was st=
ill,
empty, incandescent, and fantastic. Then when the gate of the stockade was
thrown open she perceived an expectant and still multitude of bronze figures
draped in coloured stuffs. They crowded the patches of shade under the three
lofty forest trees left within the enclosure between the sun-smitten empty
spaces of hard-baked ground. The broad blades of the spears decorated with
crimson tufts of horsehair had a cool gleam under the outspread boughs. To =
the
left a group of buildings on piles with long verandahs and immense roofs
towered high in the air above the heads of the crowd, and seemed to float in
the glare, looking much less substantial than their heavy shadows. Lingard,
pointing to one of the smallest, said in an undertone, "I lived there =
for
a fortnight when I first came to see Belarab"; and Mrs. Travers felt m=
ore
than ever as if walking in a dream when she perceived beyond the rails of i=
ts
verandah and visible from head to foot two figures in an armour of chain ma=
il with
pointed steel helmets crested with white and black feathers and guarding the
closed door. A high bench draped in turkey cloth stood in an open space of =
the
great audience shed. Lingard led her up to it, Jorgenson on her other side
closed the parasol calmly, and when she sat down between them the whole thr=
ong
before her eyes sank to the ground with one accord disclosing in the distan=
ce
of the courtyard a lonely figure leaning against the smooth trunk of a tree=
. A
white cloth was fastened round his head by a yellow cord. Its pointed ends =
fell
on his shoulders, framing a thin dark face with large eyes, a silk cloak st=
riped
black and white fell to his feet, and in the distance he looked aloof and
mysterious in his erect and careless attitude suggesting assurance and powe=
r.
Lingard, bending
slightly, whispered into Mrs. Travers' ear that that man, apart and dominat=
ing
the scene, was Daman, the supreme leader of the Illanuns, the one who had
ordered the capture of those gentlemen in order perhaps to force his hand. =
The
two barbarous, half-naked figures covered with ornaments and charms, squatt=
ing
at his feet with their heads enfolded in crimson and gold handkerchiefs and
with straight swords lying across their knees, were the Pangerans who carri=
ed
out the order, and had brought the captives into the lagoon. But the two me=
n in
chain armour on watch outside the door of the small house were Belarab's two
particular body-guards, who got themselves up in that way only on very great
occasions. They were the outward and visible sign that the prisoners were in
Belarab's keeping, and this was good, so far. The pity was that the Great C=
hief
himself was not there. Then Lingard assumed a formal pose and Mrs. Travers
stared into the great courtyard and with rows and rows of faces ranged on t=
he
ground at her feet felt a little giddy for a moment.
Every movement had
died in the crowd. Even the eyes were still under the variegated mass of
coloured headkerchiefs: while beyond the open gate a noble palm tree looked
intensely black against the glitter of the lagoon and the pale incandescenc=
e of
the sky. Mrs. Travers gazing that way wondered at the absence of Hassim and
Immada. But the girl might have been somewhere within one of the houses with
the ladies of Belarab's stockade. Then suddenly Mrs. Travers became aware t=
hat
another bench had been brought out and was already occupied by five men dre=
ssed
in gorgeous silks, and embroidered velvets, round-faced and grave. Their ha=
nds
reposed on their knees; but one amongst them clad in a white robe and with a
large nearly black turban on his head leaned forward a little with his chin=
in
his hand. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes remained fixed on the ground =
as
if to avoid looking at the infidel woman.
She became aware
suddenly of a soft murmur, and glancing at Lingard she saw him in an attitu=
de
of impassive attention. The momentous negotiations had begun, and it went on
like this in low undertones with long pauses and in the immobility of all t=
he
attendants squatting on the ground, with the distant figure of Daman far of=
f in
the shade towering over all the assembly. But in him, too, Mrs. Travers cou=
ld
not detect the slightest movement while the slightly modulated murmurs went=
on enveloping
her in a feeling of peace.
The fact that she
couldn't understand anything of what was said soothed her apprehensions.
Sometimes a silence fell and Lingard bending toward her would whisper, &quo=
t;It
isn't so easy," and the stillness would be so perfect that she would h=
ear
the flutter of a pigeon's wing somewhere high up in the great overshadowing
trees. And suddenly one of the men before her without moving a limb would b=
egin
another speech rendered more mysterious still by the total absence of actio=
n or
play of feature. Only the watchfulness of the eyes which showed that the
speaker was not communing with himself made it clear that this was not a sp=
oken
meditation but a flow of argument directed to Lingard who now and then utte=
red
a few words either with a grave or a smiling expression. They were always
followed by murmurs which seemed mostly to her to convey assent; and then a
reflective silence would reign again and the immobility of the crowd would
appear more perfect than before.
When Lingard
whispered to her that it was now his turn to make a speech Mrs. Travers
expected him to get up and assert himself by some commanding gesture. But he
did not. He remained seated, only his voice had a vibrating quality though =
he
obviously tried to restrain it, and it travelled masterfully far into the
silence. He spoke for a long time while the sun climbing the unstained sky
shifted the diminished shadows of the trees, pouring on the heads of men its
heat through the thick and motionless foliage. Whenever murmurs arose he wo=
uld
stop and glancing fearlessly at the assembly, wait till they subsided. Once=
or
twice, they rose to a loud hum and Mrs. Travers could hear on the other sid=
e of
her Jorgenson muttering something in his moustache. Beyond the rows of head=
s Daman
under the tree had folded his arms on his breast. The edge of the white clo=
th
concealed his forehead and at his feet the two Illanun chiefs, half naked a=
nd
bedecked with charms and ornaments of bright feathers, of shells, with
necklaces of teeth, claws, and shining beads, remained cross-legged with th=
eir
swords across their knees like two bronze idols. Even the plumes of their
head-dresses stirred not.
"Sudah! It is
finished!" A movement passed along all the heads, the seated bodies sw=
ayed
to and fro. Lingard had ceased speaking. He remained seated for a moment
looking his audience all over and when he stood up together with Mrs. Trave=
rs
and Jorgenson the whole assembly rose from the ground together and lost its
ordered formation. Some of Belarab's retainers, young broad-faced fellows,
wearing a sort of uniform of check-patterned sarongs, black silk jackets and
crimson skull-caps set at a rakish angle, swaggered through the broken grou=
ps and
ranged themselves in two rows before the motionless Daman and his Illanun c=
hiefs
in martial array. The members of the council who had left their bench
approached the white people with gentle smiles and deferential movements of=
the
hands. Their bearing was faintly propitiatory; only the man in the big turb=
an
remained fanatically aloof, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
"I have done
it," murmured Lingard to Mrs. Travers.--"Was it very difficult?&q=
uot;
she asked.--"No," he said, conscious in his heart that he had
strained to the fullest extent the prestige of his good name and that habit=
of
deference to his slightest wish established by the glamour of his wealth and
the fear of his personality in this great talk which after all had done not=
hing
except put off the decisive hour. He offered Mrs. Travers his arm ready to =
lead
her away, but at the last moment did not move.
With an authorita=
tive
gesture Daman had parted the ranks of Belarab's young followers with the red
skullcaps and was seen advancing toward the whites striking into an astonis=
hed
silence all the scattered groups in the courtyard. But the broken ranks had
closed behind him. The Illanun chiefs, for all their truculent aspect, were
much too prudent to attempt to move. They had not needed for that the faint
warning murmur from Daman. He advanced alone. The plain hilt of a sword
protruded from the open edges of his cloak. The parted edges disclosed also=
the
butts of two flintlock pistols. The Koran in a velvet case hung on his brea=
st
by a red cord of silk. He was pious, magnificent, and warlike, with calm mo=
vements
and a straight glance from under the hem of the simple piece of linen cover=
ing
his head. He carried himself rigidly and his bearing had a sort of solemn
modesty. Lingard said hurriedly to Mrs. Travers that the man had met white
people before and that, should he attempt to shake hands with her, she ough=
t to
offer her own covered with the end of her scarf.--"Why?" she aske=
d.
"Propriety?"--"Yes, it will be better," said Lingard and
the next moment Mrs. Travers felt her enveloped hand pressed gently by slen=
der
dark fingers and felt extremely Oriental herself when, with her face muffle=
d to
the eyes, she encountered the lustrous black stare of the sea-robbers' lead=
er.
It was only for an instant, because Daman turned away at once to shake hands
with Lingard. In the straight, ample folds of his robes he looked very slen=
der
facing the robust white man.
"Great is yo=
ur
power," he said, in a pleasant voice. "The white men are going to=
be
delivered to you."
"Yes, they p=
ass
into my keeping," said Lingard, returning the other's bright smile but
otherwise looking grim enough with the frown which had settled on his foreh=
ead
at Daman's approach. He glanced over his shoulder at a group of spearmen
escorting the two captives who had come down the steps from the hut. At the
sight of Daman barring as it were Lingard's way they had stopped at some
distance and had closed round the two white men. Daman also glanced
dispassionately that way.
"They were my
guests," he murmured. "Please God I shall come soon to ask you for
them . . . as a friend," he added after a slight pause.
"And please =
God
you will not go away empty handed," said Lingard, smoothing his brow.
"After all you and I were not meant to meet only to quarrel. Would you
have preferred to see them pass into Tengga's keeping?"
"Tengga is f=
at
and full of wiles," said Daman, disdainfully, "a mere shopkeeper
smitten by a desire to be a chief. He is nothing. But you and I are men that
have real power. Yet there is a truth that you and I can confess to each ot=
her.
Men's hearts grow quickly discontented. Listen. The leaders of men are carr=
ied
forward in the hands of their followers; and common men's minds are unstead=
y,
their desires changeable, and their thoughts not to be trusted. You are a g=
reat
chief they say. Do not forget that I am a chief, too, and a leader of armed
men."
"I have hear=
d of
you, too," said Lingard in a composed voice.
Daman had cast his
eyes down. Suddenly he opened them very wide with an effect that startled M=
rs.
Travers.--"Yes. But do you see?" Mrs. Travers, her hand resting
lightly on Lingard's arm, had the sensation of acting in a gorgeously got up
play on the brilliantly lighted stage of an exotic opera whose accompaniment
was not music but the varied strains of the all-pervading silence.--"Y=
es,
I see," Lingard replied with a surprisingly confidential intonation.
"But power, too, is in the hands of a great leader."
Mrs. Travers watc=
hed
the faint movements of Daman's nostrils as though the man were suffering fr=
om
some powerful emotion, while under her fingers Lingard's forearm in its whi=
te
sleeve was as steady as a limb of marble. Without looking at him she seemed=
to
feel that with one movement he could crush that nervous figure in which liv=
ed
the breath of the great desert haunted by his nomad, camel-riding ancestors=
.--"Power
is in the hand of God," he said, all animation dying out of his face, =
and paused
to wait for Lingard's "Very true," then continued with a fine smi=
le,
"but He apportions it according to His will for His own purposes, even=
to
those that are not of the Faith."
"Such being =
the
will of God you should harbour no bitterness against them in your heart.&qu=
ot;
The low exclamati=
on,
"Against those!" and a slight dismissing gesture of a meagre dark
hand out of the folds of the cloak were almost understandable to Mrs. Trave=
rs
in the perfection of their melancholy contempt, and gave Lingard a further
insight into the character of the ally secured to him by the diplomacy of
Belarab. He was only half reassured by this assumption of superior detachme=
nt.
He trusted to the man's self-interest more; for Daman no doubt looked to the
reconquered kingdom for the reward of dignity and ease. His father and
grandfather (the men of whom Jorgenson had written as having been hanged fo=
r an
example twelve years before) had been friends of Sultans, advisers of Ruler=
s,
wealthy financiers of the great raiding expeditions of the past. It was hat=
red
that had turned Daman into a self-made outcast, till Belarab's diplomacy had
drawn him out from some obscure and uneasy retreat.
In a few words
Lingard assured Daman of the complete safety of his followers as long as th=
ey
themselves made no attempt to get possession of the stranded yacht. Lingard
understood very well that the capture of Travers and d'Alcacer was the resu=
lt
of a sudden fear, a move directed by Daman to secure his own safety. The si=
ght
of the stranded yacht shook his confidence completely. It was as if the sec=
rets
of the place had been betrayed. After all, it was perhaps a great folly to
trust any white man, no matter how much he seemed estranged from his own
people. Daman felt he might have been the victim of a plot. Lingard's brig =
appeared
to him a formidable engine of war. He did not know what to think and the mo=
tive
for getting hold of the two white men was really the wish to secure hostage=
s.
Distrusting the fierce impulses of his followers he had hastened to put them
into Belarab's keeping. But everything in the Settlement seemed to him
suspicious: Belarab's absence, Jorgenson's refusal to make over at once the
promised supply of arms and ammunition. And now that white man had by the p=
ower
of his speech got them away from Belarab's people. So much influence filled=
Daman
with wonder and awe. A recluse for many years in the most obscure corner of=
the
Archipelago he felt himself surrounded by intrigues. But the alliance was a
great thing, too. He did not want to quarrel. He was quite willing for the =
time
being to accept Lingard's assurance that no harm should befall his people
encamped on the sandbanks. Attentive and slight, he seemed to let Lingard's
deliberate words sink into him. The force of that unarmed big man seemed
overwhelming. He bowed his head slowly.
"Allah is our
refuge," he murmured, accepting the inevitable.
He delighted Mrs.
Travers not as a living being but like a clever sketch in colours, a vivid
rendering of an artist's vision of some soul, delicate and fierce. His brig=
ht
half-smile was extraordinary, sharp like clear steel, painfully penetrating.
Glancing right and left Mrs. Travers saw the whole courtyard smitten by the
desolating fury of sunshine and peopled with shadows, their forms and colou=
rs
fading in the violence of the light. The very brown tones of roof and wall
dazzled the eye. Then Daman stepped aside. He was no longer smiling and Mrs.
Travers advanced with her hand on Lingard's arm through a heat so potent th=
at
it seemed to have a taste, a feel, a smell of its own. She moved on as if
floating in it with Lingard's support.
"Where are
they?" she asked.
"They are
following us all right," he answered. Lingard was so certain that the
prisoners would be delivered to him on the beach that he never glanced back
till, after reaching the boat, he and Mrs. Travers turned about.
The group of spea=
rmen
parted right and left, and Mr. Travers and d'Alcacer walked forward alone
looking unreal and odd like their own day-ghosts. Mr. Travers gave no sign =
of
being aware of his wife's presence. It was certainly a shock to him. But
d'Alcacer advanced smiling, as if the beach were a drawing room.
With a very few
paddlers the heavy old European-built boat moved slowly over the water that
seemed as pale and blazing as the sky above. Jorgenson had perched himself =
in
the bow. The other four white people sat in the stern sheets, the ex-prison=
ers
side by side in the middle. Lingard spoke suddenly.
"I want you =
both
to understand that the trouble is not over yet. Nothing is finished. You are
out on my bare word."
While Lingard was
speaking Mr. Travers turned his face away but d'Alcacer listened courteousl=
y.
Not another word was spoken for the rest of the way. The two gentlemen went=
up
the ship's side first. Lingard remained to help Mrs. Travers at the foot of=
the
ladder. She pressed his hand strongly and looking down at his upturned face=
:
"This was a
wonderful success," she said.
For a time the
character of his fascinated gaze did not change. It was as if she had said
nothing. Then he whispered, admiringly, "You understand everything.&qu=
ot;
She moved her eyes
away and had to disengage her hand to which he clung for a moment, giddy, l=
ike
a man falling out of the world.
III
Mrs. Travers, acu=
tely
aware of Lingard behind her, remained gazing over the lagoon. After a time =
he
stepped forward and placed himself beside her close to the rail. She went on
staring at the sheet of water turned to deep purple under the sunset sky.
"Why have you
been avoiding me since we came back from the stockade?" she asked in a
deadened voice.
"There is
nothing to tell you till Rajah Hassim and his sister Immada return with some
news," Lingard answered in the same tone. "Has my friend succeede=
d?
Will Belarab listen to any arguments? Will he consent to come out of his sh=
ell?
Is he on his way back? I wish I knew! . . . Not a whisper comes from there!=
He
may have started two days ago and he may be now near the outskirts of the
Settlement. Or he may have gone into camp half way down, from some whim or
other; or he may be already arrived for all I know. We should not have seen
him. The road from the hills does not lead along the beach."
He snatched nervo=
usly
at the long glass and directed it at the dark stockade. The sun had sunk be=
hind
the forests leaving the contour of the tree-tops outlined by a thread of go=
ld
under a band of delicate green lying across the lower sky. Higher up a faint
crimson glow faded into the darkened blue overhead. The shades of the eveni=
ng
deepened over the lagoon, clung to the sides of the Emma and to the forms of
the further shore. Lingard laid the glass down.
"Mr. d'Alcac=
er,
too, seems to have been avoiding me," said Mrs. Travers. "You are=
on
very good terms with him, Captain Lingard."
"He is a very
pleasant man," murmured Lingard, absently. "But he says funny thi=
ngs
sometimes. He inquired the other day if there were any playing cards on boa=
rd,
and when I asked him if he liked card-playing, just for something to say, he
told me with that queer smile of his that he had read a story of some people
condemned to death who passed the time before execution playing card games =
with
their guards."
"And what did
you say?"
"I told him =
that
there were probably cards on board somewhere--Jorgenson would know. Then I
asked him whether he looked on me as a gaoler. He was quite startled and so=
rry
for what he said."
"It wasn't v=
ery
kind of you, Captain Lingard."
"It slipped =
out
awkwardly and we made it up with a laugh."
Mrs. Travers lean=
ed
her elbows on the rail and put her head into her hands. Every attitude of t=
hat
woman surprised Lingard by its enchanting effect upon himself. He sighed, a=
nd
the silence lasted for a long while.
"I wish I had
understood every word that was said that morning."
"That
morning," repeated Lingard. "What morning do you mean?"
"I mean the
morning when I walked out of Belarab's stockade on your arm, Captain Lingar=
d,
at the head of the procession. It seemed to me that I was walking on a sple=
ndid
stage in a scene from an opera, in a gorgeous show fit to make an audience =
hold
its breath. You can't possibly guess how unreal all this seemed, and how
artificial I felt myself. An opera, you know. . . ."
"I know. I w=
as a
gold digger at one time. Some of us used to come down to Melbourne with our
pockets full of money. I daresay it was poor enough to what you must have s=
een,
but once I went to a show like that. It was a story acted to music. All the
people went singing through it right to the very end."
"How it must
have jarred on your sense of reality," said Mrs. Travers, still not
looking at him. "You don't remember the name of the opera?"
"No. I never
troubled my head about it. We--our lot never did."
"I won't ask=
you
what the story was like. It must have appeared to you like the very defianc=
e of
all truth. Would real people go singing through their life anywhere except =
in a
fairy tale?"
"These people
didn't always sing for joy," said Lingard, simply. "I don't know =
much
about fairy tales."
"They are mo=
stly
about princesses," murmured Mrs. Travers.
Lingard didn't qu=
ite
hear. He bent his ear for a moment but she wasn't looking at him and he did=
n't
ask her to repeat her remark. "Fairy tales are for children, I
believe," he said. "But that story with music I am telling you of,
Mrs. Travers, was not a tale for children. I assure you that of the few sho=
ws I
have seen that one was the most real to me. More real than anything in
life."
Mrs. Travers,
remembering the fatal inanity of most opera librettos, was touched by these
words as if there had been something pathetic in this readiness of response=
; as
if she had heard a starved man talking of the delight of a crust of dry bre=
ad.
"I suppose you forgot yourself in that story, whatever it was," s=
he
remarked in a detached tone.
"Yes, it car=
ried
me away. But I suppose you know the feeling."
"No. I never
knew anything of the kind, not even when I was a chit of a girl." Ling=
ard
seemed to accept this statement as an assertion of superiority. He inclined=
his
head slightly. Moreover, she might have said what she liked. What pleased h=
im
most was her not looking at him; for it enabled him to contemplate with per=
fect
freedom the curve of her cheek, her small ear half hidden by the clear mesh=
of
fine hair, the fascination of her uncovered neck. And her whole person was =
an impossible,
an amazing and solid marvel which somehow was not so much convincing to the=
eye
as to something within him that was apparently independent of his senses. N=
ot
even for a moment did he think of her as remote. Untouchable--possibly! But
remote--no. Whether consciously or unconsciously he took her spiritually for
granted. It was materially that she was a wonder of the sort that is at the
same time familiar and sacred.
"No," M=
rs.
Travers began again, abruptly. "I never forgot myself in a story. It w=
as
not in me. I have not even been able to forget myself on that morning on sh=
ore
which was part of my own story."
"You carried
yourself first rate," said Lingard, smiling at the nape of her neck, h=
er
ear, the film of escaped hair, the modelling of the corner of her eye. He c=
ould
see the flutter of the dark eyelashes: and the delicate flush on her cheek =
had
rather the effect of scent than of colour.
"You approve=
d of
my behaviour."
"Just right,=
I
tell you. My word, weren't they all struck of a heap when they made out what
you were."
"I ought to =
feel
flattered. I will confess to you that I felt only half disguised and was ha=
lf
angry and wholly uncomfortable. What helped me, I suppose, was that I wante=
d to
please. . . ."
"I don't mea=
n to
say that they were exactly pleased," broke in Lingard, conscientiously.
"They were startled more."
"I wanted to
please you," dropped Mrs. Travers, negligently. A faint, hoarse, and
impatient call of a bird was heard from the woods as if calling to the onco=
ming
night. Lingard's face grew hot in the deepening dusk. The delicate lemon ye=
llow
and ethereal green tints had vanished from the sky and the red glow darkened
menacingly. The sun had set behind the black pall of the forest, no longer
edged with a line of gold. "Yes, I was absurdly self-conscious,"
continued Mrs. Travers in a conversational tone. "And it was the effec=
t of
these clothes that you made me put on over some of my European--I almost sa=
id
disguise; because you know in the present more perfect costume I feel curio=
usly
at home; and yet I can't say that these things really fit me. The sleeves of
this silk under-jacket are rather tight. My shoulders feel bound, too, and =
as to
the sarong it is scandalously short. According to rule it should have been =
long
enough to fall over my feet. But I like freedom of movement. I have had very
little of what I liked in life."
"I can hardly
believe that," said Lingard. "If it wasn't for your saying so. . .
."
"I wouldn't =
say
so to everybody," she said, turning her head for a moment to Lingard a=
nd
turning it away again to the dusk which seemed to come floating over the bl=
ack
lagoon. Far away in its depth a couple of feeble lights twinkled; it was
impossible to say whether on the shore or on the edge of the more distant
forest. Overhead the stars were beginning to come out, but faint yet, as if=
too
remote to be reflected in the lagoon. Only to the west a setting planet sho=
ne
through the red fog of the sunset glow. "It was supposed not to be good
for me to have much freedom of action. So at least I was told. But I have a
suspicion that it was only unpleasing to other people."
"I should ha=
ve
thought," began Lingard, then hesitated and stopped. It seemed to him
inconceivable that everybody should not have loved to make that woman happy.
And he was impressed by the bitterness of her tone. Mrs. Travers did not se=
em
curious to know what he wanted to say and after a time she added, "I d=
on't
mean only when I was a child. I don't remember that very well. I daresay I =
was
very objectionable as a child."
Lingard tried to
imagine her as a child. The idea was novel to him. Her perfection seemed to
have come into the world complete, mature, and without any hesitation or
weakness. He had nothing in his experience that could help him to imagine a
child of that class. The children he knew played about the village street a=
nd
ran on the beach. He had been one of them. He had seen other children, of
course, since, but he had not been in touch with them except visually and t=
hey
had not been English children. Her childhood, like his own, had been passed=
in England,
and that very fact made it almost impossible for him to imagine it. He could
not even tell whether it was in town or in the country, or whether as a chi=
ld
she had even seen the sea. And how could a child of that kind be objectiona=
ble?
But he remembered that a child disapproved of could be very unhappy, and he
said:
"I am
sorry."
Mrs. Travers laug=
hed
a little. Within the muslin cage forms had turned to blurred shadows. Among=
st
them the form of d'Alcacer arose and moved. The systematic or else the morb=
id
dumbness of Mr. Travers bored and exasperated him, though, as a matter of f=
act,
that gentleman's speeches had never had the power either to entertain or to
soothe his mind.
"It's very n=
ice
of you. You have a great capacity for sympathy, but after all I am not cert=
ain
on which side your sympathies lie. With me, or those much-tried people,&quo=
t;
said Mrs. Travers.
"With the
child," said Lingard, disregarding the bantering tone. "A child c=
an
have a very bad time of it all to itself."
"What can you
know of it?" she asked.
"I have my o=
wn
feelings," he answered in some surprise.
Mrs. Travers, with
her back to him, was covered with confusion. Neither could she depict to
herself his childhood as if he, too, had come into the world in the fullnes=
s of
his strength and his purpose. She discovered a certain naiveness in herself=
and
laughed a little. He made no sound.
"Don't be
angry," she said. "I wouldn't dream of laughing at your feelings.
Indeed your feelings are the most serious thing that ever came in my way. I
couldn't help laughing at myself--at a funny discovery I made."
"In the days= of your childhood?" she heard Lingard's deep voice asking after a pause.<= o:p>
"Oh, no. Ages
afterward. No child could have made that discovery. Do you know the greatest
difference there is between us? It is this: That I have been living since my
childhood in front of a show and that I never have been taken in for a mome=
nt
by its tinsel and its noise or by anything that went on on the stage. Do you
understand what I mean, Captain Lingard?"
There was a momen=
t of
silence. "What does it matter? We are no children now." There was=
an
infinite gentleness in Lingard's deep tones. "But if you have been unh=
appy
then don't tell me that it has not been made up to you since. Surely you ha=
ve
only to make a sign. A woman like you."
"You think I
could frighten the whole world on to its knees?"
"No, not
frighten." The suggestion of a laugh in the deadened voice passed off =
in a
catch of the breath. Then he was heard beginning soberly: "Your husban=
d. .
. ." He hesitated a little and she took the opportunity to say coldly:=
"His name is=
Mr.
Travers."
Lingard didn't kn=
ow
how to take it. He imagined himself to have been guilty of some sort of
presumption. But how on earth was he to call the man? After all he was her
husband. That idea was disagreeable to him because the man was also inimica=
l in
a particularly unreasonable and galling manner. At the same time he was awa=
re
that he didn't care a bit for his enmity and had an idea that he would not =
have
cared for his friendship either. And suddenly he felt very much annoyed.
"Yes. That's=
the
man I mean," he said in a contemptuous tone. "I don't particularly
like the name and I am sure I don't want to talk about him more than I can
help. If he hadn't been your husband I wouldn't have put up with his manners
for an hour. Do you know what would have happened to him if he hadn't been =
your
husband?"
"No," s=
aid
Mrs. Travers. "Do you, Captain Lingard?"
"Not
exactly," he admitted. "Something he wouldn't have liked, you may=
be
sure."
"While of co= urse he likes this very much," she observed. Lingard gave an abrupt laugh.<= o:p>
"I don't thi=
nk
it's in my power to do anything that he would like," he said in a seri=
ous
tone. "Forgive me my frankness, Mrs. Travers, but he makes it very
difficult sometimes for me to keep civil. Whatever I have had to put up wit=
h in
life I have never had to put up with contempt."
"I quite bel=
ieve
that," said Mrs. Travers. "Don't your friends call you King
Tom?"
"Nobody that=
I
care for. I have no friends. Oh, yes, they call me that . . ."
"You have no
friends?"
"Not I,"=
; he
said with decision. "A man like me has no chums."
"It's quite
possible," murmured Mrs. Travers to herself.
"No, not even
Jorgenson. Old crazy Jorgenson. He calls me King Tom, too. You see what tha=
t's
worth."
"Yes, I see.=
Or
rather I have heard. That poor man has no tone, and so much depends on that.
Now suppose I were to call you King Tom now and then between ourselves,&quo=
t;
Mrs. Travers' voice proposed, distantly tentative in the night that invested
her person with a colourless vagueness of form.
She waited in the
stillness, her elbows on the rail and her face in her hands as if she had
already forgotten what she had said. She heard at her elbow the deep murmur=
of:
"Let's hear =
you
say it."
She never moved t=
he
least bit. The sombre lagoon sparkled faintly with the reflection of the st=
ars.
"Oh, yes, I =
will
let you hear it," she said into the starlit space in a voice of unacce=
nted
gentleness which changed subtly as she went on. "I hope you will never
regret that you came out of your friendless mystery to speak to me, King To=
m.
How many days ago it was! And here is another day gone. Tell me how many mo=
re
of them there must be? Of these blinding days and nights without a sound.&q=
uot;
"Be
patient," he murmured. "Don't ask me for the impossible."
"How do you =
or I
know what is possible?" she whispered with a strange scorn. "You
wouldn't dare guess. But I tell you that every day that passes is more
impossible to me than the day before."
The passion of th=
at
whisper went like a stab into his breast. "What am I to tell you?"=
; he
murmured, as if with despair. "Remember that every sunset makes it a d=
ay
less. Do you think I want you here?"
A bitter little l=
augh
floated out into the starlight. Mrs. Travers heard Lingard move suddenly aw=
ay
from her side. She didn't change her pose by a hair's breadth. Presently she
heard d'Alcacer coming out of the Cage. His cultivated voice asked half
playfully:
"Have you ha=
d a
satisfactory conversation? May I be told something of it?"
"Mr. d'Alcac=
er,
you are curious."
"Well, in our
position, I confess. . . . You are our only refuge, remember."
"You want to
know what we were talking about," said Mrs. Travers, altering slowly h=
er
position so as to confront d'Alcacer whose face was almost undistinguishabl=
e.
"Oh, well, then, we talked about opera, the realities and illusions of=
the
stage, of dresses, of people's names, and things of that sort."
"Nothing of
importance," he said courteously. Mrs. Travers moved forward and he
stepped to one side. Inside the Cage two Malay hands were hanging round
lanterns, the light of which fell on Mr. Travers' bowed head as he sat in h=
is
chair.
When they were all
assembled for the evening meal Jorgenson strolled up from nowhere in partic=
ular
as his habit was, and speaking through the muslin announced that Captain
Lingard begged to be excused from joining the company that evening. Then he
strolled away. From that moment till they got up from the table and the camp
bedsteads were brought in not twenty words passed between the members of the
party within the net. The strangeness of their situation made all attempts =
to
exchange ideas very arduous; and apart from that each had thoughts which it=
was
distinctly useless to communicate to the others. Mr. Travers had abandoned
himself to his sense of injury. He did not so much brood as rage inwardly i=
n a
dull, dispirited way. The impossibility of asserting himself in any manner
galled his very soul. D'Alcacer was extremely puzzled. Detached in a sense =
from
the life of men perhaps as much even as Jorgenson himself, he took yet a
reasonable interest in the course of events and had not lost all his sense =
of
self-preservation. Without being able to appreciate the exact values of the
situation he was not one of those men who are ever completely in the dark in
any given set of circumstances. Without being humorous he was a good-humour=
ed
man. His habitual, gentle smile was a true expression. More of a European t=
han
of a Spaniard he had that truly aristocratic nature which is inclined to cr=
edit
every honest man with something of its own nobility and in its judgment is =
altogether
independent of class feeling. He believed Lingard to be an honest man and he
never troubled his head to classify him, except in the sense that he found =
him
an interesting character. He had a sort of esteem for the outward personali=
ty
and the bearing of that seaman. He found in him also the distinction of bei=
ng
nothing of a type. He was a specimen to be judged only by its own worth. Wi=
th
his natural gift of insight d'Alcacer told himself that many overseas
adventurers of history were probably less worthy because obviously they must
have been less simple. He didn't, however, impart those thoughts formally to
Mrs. Travers. In fact he avoided discussing Lingard with Mrs. Travers who, =
he thought,
was quite intelligent enough to appreciate the exact shade of his attitude.=
If
that shade was fine, Mrs. Travers was fine, too; and there was no need to
discuss the colours of this adventure. Moreover, she herself seemed to avoid
all direct discussion of the Lingard element in their fate. D'Alcacer was f=
ine
enough to be aware that those two seemed to understand each other in a way =
that
was not obvious even to themselves. Whenever he saw them together he was al=
ways
much tempted to observe them. And he yielded to the temptation. The fact of
one's life depending on the phases of an obscure action authorizes a certai=
n latitude
of behaviour. He had seen them together repeatedly, communing openly or apa=
rt,
and there was in their way of joining each other, in their poses and their =
ways
of separating, something special and characteristic and pertaining to
themselves only, as if they had been made for each other.
What he couldn't
understand was why Mrs. Travers should have put off his natural curiosity a=
s to
her latest conference with the Man of Fate by an incredible statement as to=
the
nature of the conversation. Talk about dresses, opera, people's names. He
couldn't take this seriously. She might have invented, he thought, something
more plausible; or simply have told him that this was not for him to know. =
She
ought to have known that he would not have been offended. Couldn't she have
seen already that he accepted the complexion of mystery in her relation to =
that
man completely, unquestionably; as though it had been something preordained=
from
the very beginning of things? But he was not annoyed with Mrs. Travers. Aft=
er
all it might have been true. She would talk exactly as she liked, and even
incredibly, if it so pleased her, and make the man hang on her lips. And
likewise she was capable of making the man talk about anything by a power o=
f inspiration
for reasons simple or perverse. Opera! Dresses! Yes--about Shakespeare and =
the
musical glasses! For a mere whim or for the deepest purpose. Women worthy of
the name were like that. They were very wonderful. They rose to the occasion
and sometimes above the occasion when things were bound to occur that would=
be
comic or tragic (as it happened) but generally charged with trouble even to=
innocent
beholders. D'Alcacer thought these thoughts without bitterness and even wit=
hout
irony. With his half-secret social reputation as a man of one great passion=
in
a world of mere intrigues he liked all women. He liked them in their sentim=
ent
and in their hardness, in the tragic character of their foolish or clever
impulses, at which he looked with a sort of tender seriousness.
He didn't take a
favourable view of the position but he considered Mrs. Travers' statement a=
bout
operas and dresses as a warning to keep off the subject. For this reason he
remained silent through the meal.
When the bustle of
clearing away the table was over he strolled toward Mrs. Travers and remark=
ed
very quietly:
"I think tha=
t in
keeping away from us this evening the Man of Fate was well inspired. We din=
ed
like a lot of Carthusian monks."
"You allude =
to
our silence?"
"It was most=
scrupulous.
If we had taken an eternal vow we couldn't have kept it better."
"Did you feel
bored?"
"Pas du
tout," d'Alcacer assured her with whimsical gravity. "I felt noth=
ing.
I sat in a state of blessed vacuity. I believe I was the happiest of us thr=
ee. Unless
you, too, Mrs. Travers. . . ."
"It's absolu=
tely
no use your fishing for my thoughts, Mr. d'Alcacer. If I were to let you see
them you would be appalled."
"Thoughts re=
ally
are but a shape of feelings. Let me congratulate you on the impassive mask =
you
can put on those horrors you say you nurse in your breast. It was impossibl=
e to
tell anything by your face."
"You will al=
ways
say flattering things."
"Madame, my
flatteries come from the very bottom of my heart. I have given up long ago =
all
desire to please. And I was not trying to get at your thoughts. Whatever el=
se
you may expect from me you may count on my absolute respect for your privac=
y.
But I suppose with a mask such as you can make for yourself you really don't
care. The Man of Fate, I noticed, is not nearly as good at it as you are.&q=
uot;
"What a
pretentious name. Do you call him by it to his face, Mr. d'Alcacer?"
"No, I haven=
't
the cheek," confessed d'Alcacer, equably. "And, besides, it's too
momentous for daily use. And he is so simple that he might mistake it for a
joke and nothing could be further from my thoughts. Mrs. Travers, I will
confess to you that I don't feel jocular in the least. But what can he know
about people of our sort? And when I reflect how little people of our sort =
can
know of such a man I am quite content to address him as Captain Lingard. It=
's
common and soothing and most respectable and satisfactory; for Captain is t=
he
most empty of all titles. What is a Captain? Anybody can be a Captain; and =
for
Lingard it's a name like any other. Whereas what he deserves is something s=
pecial,
significant, and expressive, that would match his person, his simple and
romantic person."
He perceived that
Mrs. Travers was looking at him intently. They hastened to turn their eyes =
away
from each other.
"He would li=
ke
your appreciation," Mrs. Travers let drop negligently.
"I am afraid=
he
would despise it."
"Despise it!
Why, that sort of thing is the very breath of his nostrils."
"You seem to
understand him, Mrs. Travers. Women have a singular capacity for understand=
ing.
I mean subjects that interest them; because when their imagination is
stimulated they are not afraid of letting it go. A man is more mistrustful =
of
himself, but women are born much more reckless. They push on and on under t=
he
protection of secrecy and silence, and the greater the obscurity of what th=
ey
wish to explore the greater their courage."
"Do you mean
seriously to tell me that you consider me a creature of darkness?"
"I spoke in
general," remonstrated d'Alcacer. "Anything else would have been =
an
impertinence. Yes, obscurity is women's best friend. Their daring loves it;=
but
a sudden flash of light disconcerts them. Generally speaking, if they don't=
get
exactly at the truth they always manage to come pretty near to it."
Mrs. Travers had
listened with silent attention and she allowed the silence to continue for =
some
time after d'Alcacer had ceased. When she spoke it was to say in an unconce=
rned
tone that as to this subject she had had special opportunities. Her
self-possessed interlocutor managed to repress a movement of real curiosity
under an assumption of conventional interest. "Indeed," he exclai=
med,
politely. "A special opportunity. How did you manage to create it?&quo=
t;
This was too much=
for
Mrs. Travers. "I! Create it!" she exclaimed, indignantly, but und=
er
her breath. "How on earth do you think I could have done it?"
Mr. d'Alcacer, as=
if
communing with himself, was heard to murmur unrepentantly that indeed women
seldom knew how they had "done it," to which Mrs. Travers in a we=
ary
tone returned the remark that no two men were dense in the same way. To this
Mr. d'Alcacer assented without difficulty. "Yes, our brand presents mo=
re
varieties. This, from a certain point of view, is obviously to our advantag=
e.
We interest. . . . Not that I imagine myself interesting to you, Mrs. Trave=
rs.
But what about the Man of Fate?"
"Oh, yes,&qu=
ot;
breathed out Mrs. Travers.
"I see!
Immensely!" said d'Alcacer in a tone of mysterious understanding.
"Was his stupidity so colossal?"
"It was indi=
stinguishable
from great visions that were in no sense mean and made up for him a world of
his own."
"I guessed t=
hat
much," muttered d'Alcacer to himself. "But that, you know, Mrs.
Travers, that isn't good news at all to me. World of dreams, eh? That's ver=
y bad,
very dangerous. It's almost fatal, Mrs. Travers."
"Why all this
dismay? Why do you object to a world of dreams?"
"Because I
dislike the prospect of being made a sacrifice of by those Moors. I am not =
an
optimist like our friend there," he continued in a low tone nodding to=
ward
the dismal figure of Mr. Travers huddled up in the chair. "I don't reg=
ard
all this as a farce and I have discovered in myself a strong objection to
having my throat cut by those gorgeous barbarians after a lot of fatuous ta=
lk.
Don't ask me why, Mrs. Travers. Put it down to an absurd weakness."
Mrs. Travers made=
a
slight movement in her chair, raising her hands to her head, and in the dim
light of the lanterns d'Alcacer saw the mass of her clear gleaming hair fall
down and spread itself over her shoulders. She seized half of it in her han=
ds
which looked very white, and with her head inclined a little on one side she
began to make a plait.
"You are
terrifying," he said after watching the movement of her fingers for a
while.
"Yes . . .
?" she accentuated interrogatively.
"You have the
awfulness of the predestined. You, too, are the prey of dreams."
"Not of the
Moors, then," she uttered, calmly, beginning the other plait. D'Alcacer
followed the operation to the end. Close against her, her diaphanous shadow=
on
the muslin reproduced her slightest movements. D'Alcacer turned his eyes aw=
ay.
"No! No
barbarian shall touch you. Because if it comes to that I believe he would be
capable of killing you himself."
A minute elapsed
before he stole a glance in her direction. She was leaning back again, her
hands had fallen on her lap and her head with a plait of hair on each side =
of
her face, her head incredibly changed in character and suggesting something
medieval, ascetic, drooped dreamily on her breast.
D'Alcacer waited,
holding his breath. She didn't move. In the dim gleam of jewelled clasps, t=
he
faint sheen of gold embroideries and the shimmer of silks, she was like a
figure in a faded painting. Only her neck appeared dazzlingly white in the
smoky redness of the light. D'Alcacer's wonder approached a feeling of awe.=
He
was on the point of moving away quietly when Mrs. Travers, without stirring=
in
the least, let him hear the words:
"I have told=
him
that every day seemed more difficult to live. Don't you see how impossible =
this
is?"
D'Alcacer glanced
rapidly across the Cage where Mr. Travers seemed to be asleep all in a heap=
and
presenting a ruffled appearance like a sick bird. Nothing was distinct of h=
im
but the bald patch on the top of his head.
"Yes," =
he
murmured, "it is most unfortunate. . . . I understand your anxiety, Mr=
s.
Travers, but . . ."
"I am
frightened," she said.
He reflected a
moment. "What answer did you get?" he asked, softly.
"The answer =
was:
'Patience.'"
D'Alcacer laughed=
a
little.--"You may well laugh," murmured Mrs. Travers in a tone of
anguish.--"That's why I did," he whispered. "Patience! Didn'=
t he
see the horror of it?"--"I don't know. He walked away," said=
Mrs.
Travers. She looked immovably at her hands clasped in her lap, and then wit=
h a
burst of distress, "Mr. d'Alcacer, what is going to happen?"--&qu=
ot;Ah,
you are asking yourself the question at last. That will happen which cannot=
be
avoided; and perhaps you know best what it is."--"No. I am still
asking myself what he will do."--"Ah, that is not for me to
know," declared d'Alcacer. "I can't tell you what he will do, but=
I
know what will happen to him."--"To him, you say! To him!" s=
he cried.--"He
will break his heart," said d'Alcacer, distinctly, bending a little ov=
er
the chair with a slight gasp at his own audacity--and waited.
"Croyez-vous=
?"
came at last from Mrs. Travers in an accent so coldly languid that d'Alcacer
felt a shudder run down his spine.
Was it possible t=
hat
she was that kind of woman, he asked himself. Did she see nothing in the wo=
rld
outside herself? Was she above the commonest kind of compassion? He couldn't
suspect Mrs. Travers of stupidity; but she might have been heartless and, l=
ike
some women of her class, quite unable to recognize any emotion in the world
except her own. D'Alcacer was shocked and at the same time he was relieved
because he confessed to himself that he had ventured very far. However, in =
her humanity
she was not vulgar enough to be offended. She was not the slave of small
meannesses. This thought pleased d'Alcacer who had schooled himself not to
expect too much from people. But he didn't know what to do next. After what=
he
had ventured to say and after the manner in which she had met his audacity =
the
only thing to do was to change the conversation. Mrs. Travers remained
perfectly still. "I will pretend that I think she is asleep," he
thought to himself, meditating a retreat on tip-toe.
He didn't know th=
at
Mrs. Travers was simply trying to recover the full command of her faculties.
His words had given her a terrible shock. After managing to utter this
defensive "croyez-vous" which came out of her lips cold and faint=
as
if in a last effort of dying strength, she felt herself turn rigid and
speechless. She was thinking, stiff all over with emotion: "D'Alcacer =
has
seen it! How much more has he been able to see?" She didn't ask herself
that question in fear or shame but with a reckless resignation. Out of that
shock came a sensation of peace. A glowing warmth passed through all her li=
mbs.
If d'Alcacer had peered by that smoky light into her face he might have see=
n on
her lips a fatalistic smile come and go. But d'Alcacer would not have dream=
ed
of doing such a thing, and, besides, his attention just then was drawn in a=
nother
direction. He had heard subdued exclamations, had noticed a stir on the dec=
ks
of the Emma, and even some sort of noise outside the ship.
"These are
strange sounds," he said.
"Yes, I
hear," Mrs. Travers murmured, uneasily.
Vague shapes glid=
ed
outside the Cage, barefooted, almost noiseless, whispering Malay words
secretly.
"It seems as
though a boat had come alongside," observed d'Alcacer, lending an
attentive ear. "I wonder what it means. In our position. . . ."
"It may mean
anything," interrupted Mrs. Travers.
"Jaffir is
here," said a voice in the darkness of the after end of the ship. Then
there were some more words in which d'Alcacer's attentive ear caught the wo=
rd
"surat."
"A message of
some sort has come," he said. "They will be calling Captain Linga=
rd.
I wonder what thoughts or what dreams this call will interrupt." He sp=
oke
lightly, looking now at Mrs. Travers who had altered her position in the ch=
air;
and by their tones and attitudes these two might have been on board the yac=
ht
sailing the sea in perfect safety. "You, of course, are the one who wi=
ll
be told. Don't you feel a sort of excitement, Mrs. Travers?"
"I have been
lately exhorted to patience," she said in the same easy tone. "I =
can
wait and I imagine I shall have to wait till the morning."
"It can't be
very late yet," he said. "Time with us has been standing still for
ever so long. And yet this may be the hour of fate."
"Is this the
feeling you have at this particular moment?"
"I have had =
that
feeling for a considerable number of moments already. At first it was excit=
ing.
Now I am only moderately anxious. I have employed my time in going over all=
my
past life."
"Can one rea=
lly
do that?"
"Yes. I can't
say I have been bored to extinction. I am still alive, as you see; but I ha=
ve
done with that and I feel extremely idle. There is only one thing I would l=
ike
to do. I want to find a few words that could convey to you my gratitude for=
all
your friendliness in the past, at the time when you let me see so much of y=
ou
in London. I felt always that you took me on my own terms and that so kindly
that often I felt inclined to think better of myself. But I am afraid I am
wearying you, Mrs. Travers."
"I assure you
you have never done that--in the past. And as to the present moment I beg y=
ou
not to go away. Stay by me please. We are not going to pretend that we are
sleepy at this early hour."
D'Alcacer brought=
a
stool close to the long chair and sat down on it. "Oh, yes, the possib=
le
hour of fate," he said. "I have a request to make, Mrs. Travers. I
don't ask you to betray anything. What would be the good? The issue when it
comes will be plain enough. But I should like to get a warning, just someth=
ing
that would give me time to pull myself together, to compose myself as it we=
re.
I want you to promise me that if the balance tips against us you will give =
me a
sign. You could, for instance, seize the opportunity when I am looking at y=
ou
to put your left hand to your forehead like this. It is a gesture that I ha=
ve
never seen you make, and so. . . ."
"Jorgenson!&=
quot;
Lingard's voice was heard forward where the light of a lantern appeared
suddenly. Then, after a pause, Lingard was heard again: "Here!"
Then the silent
minutes began to go by. Mrs. Travers reclining in her chair and d'Alcacer
sitting on the stool waited motionless without a word. Presently through the
subdued murmurs and agitation pervading the dark deck of the Emma Mrs. Trav=
ers
heard a firm footstep, and, lantern in hand, Lingard appeared outside the
muslin cage.
"Will you co=
me
out and speak to me?" he said, loudly. "Not you. The lady," =
he
added in an authoritative tone as d'Alcacer rose hastily from the stool.
"I want Mrs. Travers."
"Of
course," muttered d'Alcacer to himself and as he opened the door of the
Cage to let Mrs. Travers slip through he whispered to her, "This is the
hour of fate."
She brushed past =
him
swiftly without the slightest sign that she had heard the words. On the aft=
er
deck between the Cage and the deckhouse Lingard waited, lantern in hand. No=
body
else was visible about; but d'Alcacer felt in the air the presence of silent
and excited beings hovering outside the circle of light. Lingard raised the
lantern as Mrs. Travers approached and d'Alcacer heard him say:
"I have had =
news
which you ought to know. Let us go into the deckhouse."
D'Alcacer saw the=
ir
heads lighted up by the raised lantern surrounded by the depths of shadow w=
ith
an effect of a marvellous and symbolic vision. He heard Mrs. Travers say
"I would rather not hear your news," in a tone that made that
sensitive observer purse up his lips in wonder. He thought that she was
over-wrought, that the situation had grown too much for her nerves. But this
was not the tone of a frightened person. It flashed through his mind that s=
he
had become self-conscious, and there he stopped in his speculation. That fr=
iend
of women remained discreet even in his thoughts. He stepped backward further
into the Cage and without surprise saw Mrs. Travers follow Lingard into the
deckhouse.
IV
Lingard stood the
lantern on the table. Its light was very poor. He dropped on to the sea-che=
st
heavily. He, too, was over-wrought. His flannel shirt was open at the neck.=
He
had a broad belt round his waist and was without his jacket. Before him, Mr=
s.
Travers, straight and tall in the gay silks, cottons, and muslins of her
outlandish dress, with the ends of the scarf thrown over her head, hanging =
down
in front of her, looked dimly splendid and with a black glance out of her w=
hite
face. He said:
"Do you, too,
want to throw me over? I tell you you can't do that now."
"I wasn't
thinking of throwing you over, but I don't even know what you mean. There s=
eem
to be no end of things I can't do. Hadn't you better tell me of something t=
hat
I could do? Have you any idea yourself what you want from me?"
"You can let=
me
look at you. You can listen to me. You can speak to me."
"Frankly, I =
have
never shirked doing all those things, whenever you wanted me to. You have l=
ed
me . . ."
"I led
you!" cried Lingard.
"Oh! It was =
my
fault," she said, without anger. "I must have dreamed then that it
was you who came to me in the dark with the tale of your impossible life. C=
ould
I have sent you away?"
"I wish you =
had.
Why didn't you?"
"Do you want=
me
to tell you that you were irresistible? How could I have sent you away? But
you! What made you come back to me with your very heart on your lips?"=
When Lingard spoke
after a time it was in jerky sentences.
"I didn't st=
op
to think. I had been hurt. I didn't think of you people as ladies and
gentlemen. I thought of you as people whose lives I held in my hand. How wa=
s it
possible to forget you in my trouble? It is your face that I brought back w=
ith
me on board my brig. I don't know why. I didn't look at you more than at
anybody else. It took me all my time to keep my temper down lest it should =
burn
you all up. I didn't want to be rude to you people, but I found it wasn't v=
ery
easy because threats were the only argument I had. Was I very offensive, Mr=
s.
Travers?"
She had listened
tense and very attentive, almost stern. And it was without the slightest ch=
ange
of expression that she said:
"I think that
you bore yourself appropriately to the state of life to which it has pleased
God to call you."
"What
state?" muttered Lingard to himself. "I am what I am. They call m=
e Rajah
Laut, King Tom, and such like. I think it amused you to hear it, but I can =
tell
you it is no joke to have such names fastened on one, even in fun. And those
very names have in them something which makes all this affair here no small
matter to anybody."
She stood before =
him
with a set, severe face.--"Did you call me out in this alarming manner
only to quarrel with me?"--"No, but why do you choose this time to
tell me that my coming for help to you was nothing but impudence in your si=
ght?
Well, I beg your pardon for intruding on your dignity."--"You
misunderstood me," said Mrs. Travers, without relaxing for a moment her
contemplative severity. "Such a flattering thing had never happened to=
me
before and it will never happen to me again. But believe me, King Tom, you =
did
me too much honour. Jorgenson is perfectly right in being angry with you for
having taken a woman in tow."--"He didn't mean to be rude,"
protested Lingard, earnestly. Mrs. Travers didn't even smile at this intrus=
ion
of a point of manners into the atmosphere of anguish and suspense that seem=
ed
always to arise between her and this man who, sitting on the sea-chest, had
raised his eyes to her with an air of extreme candour and seemed unable to =
take
them off again. She continued to look at him sternly by a tremendous effort=
of
will.
"How changed=
you
are," he murmured.
He was lost in the
depths of the simplest wonder. She appeared to him vengeful and as if turned
forever into stone before his bewildered remorse. Forever. Suddenly Mrs.
Travers looked round and sat down in the chair. Her strength failed her but=
she
remained austere with her hands resting on the arms of her seat. Lingard si=
ghed
deeply and dropped his eyes. She did not dare relax her muscles for fear of
breaking down altogether and betraying a reckless impulse which lurked at t=
he
bottom of her dismay, to seize the head of d'Alcacer's Man of Fate, press i=
t to
her breast once, fling it far away, and vanish herself, vanish out of life =
like
a wraith. The Man of Fate sat silent and bowed, yet with a suggestion of st=
rength
in his dejection. "If I don't speak," Mrs. Travers said to hersel=
f,
with great inward calmness, "I shall burst into tears." She said
aloud, "What could have happened? What have you dragged me in here for?
Why don't you tell me your news?"
"I thought y=
ou
didn't want to hear. I believe you really don't want to. What is all this to
you? I believe that you don't care anything about what I feel, about what I=
do
and how I end. I verily believe that you don't care how you end yourself. I
believe you never cared for your own or anybody's feelings. I don't think i=
t is
because you are hard, I think it is because you don't know, and don't want =
to
know, and are angry with life."
He flourished an =
arm
recklessly, and Mrs. Travers noticed for the first time that he held a shee=
t of
paper in his hand.
"Is that your
news there?" she asked, significantly. "It's difficult to imagine
that in this wilderness writing can have any significance. And who on earth
here could send you news on paper? Will you let me see it? Could I understa=
nd
it? Is it in English? Come, King Tom, don't look at me in this awful way.&q=
uot;
She got up sudden=
ly,
not in indignation, but as if at the end of her endurance. The jewelled cla=
sps,
the gold embroideries, gleamed elusively amongst the folds of her draperies
which emitted a mysterious rustle.
"I can't sta=
nd
this," she cried. "I can't stand being looked at like this. No wo=
man
could stand it. No woman has ever been looked at like this. What can you se=
e?
Hatred I could understand. What is it you think me capable of?"
"You are very
extraordinary," murmured Lingard, who had regained his self-possession
before that outburst.
"Very well, =
and
you are extraordinary, too. That's understood--here we are both under that
curse and having to face together whatever may turn up. But who on earth co=
uld
have sent you this writing?"
"Who?"
repeated Lingard. "Why, that young fellow that blundered on my brig in=
the
dark, bringing a boatload of trouble alongside on that quiet night in Carim=
ata
Straits. The darkest night I have ever known. An accursed night."
Mrs. Travers bit =
her
lip, waited a little, then asked quietly:
"What diffic=
ulty
has he got into now?"
"Difficulty!= " cried Lingard. "He is immensely pleased with himself, the young fool. = You know, when you sent him to talk to me that evening you left the yacht, he c= ame with a loaded pistol in his pocket. And now he has gone and done it."<= o:p>
"Done it?&qu=
ot;
repeated Mrs. Travers blankly. "Done what?"
She snatched from
Lingard's unresisting palm the sheet of paper. While she was smoothing it
Lingard moved round and stood close at her elbow. She ran quickly over the
first lines, then her eyes steadied. At the end she drew a quick breath and
looked up at Lingard. Their faces had never been so close together before a=
nd
Mrs. Travers had a surprising second of a perfectly new sensation. She look=
ed
away.--"Do you understand what this news means?" he murmured. Mrs.
Travers let her hand fall by her side. "Yes," she said in a low t=
one.
"The compact is broken."
Carter had begun =
his letter
without any preliminaries:
You cleared out in
the middle of the night and took the lady away with you. You left me no pro=
per
orders. But as a sailorman I looked upon myself as left in charge of two sh=
ips
while within half a mile on that sandbank there were more than a hundred
piratical cut-throats watching me as closely as so many tigers about to lea=
p.
Days went by without a word of you or the lady. To leave the ships outside =
and
go inland to look for you was not to be thought of with all those pirates
within springing distance. Put yourself in my place. Can't you imagine my a=
nxiety,
my sleepless nights? Each night worse than the night before. And still no w=
ord
from you. I couldn't sit still and worry my head off about things I couldn't
understand. I am a sailorman. My first duty was to the ships. I had to put =
an
end to this impossible situation and I hope you will agree that I have done=
it
in a seamanlike way. One misty morning I moved the brig nearer the sandbank=
and
directly the mist cleared I opened fire on the praus of those savages which
were anchored in the channel. We aimed wide at first to give those vagabonds
that were on board a chance to clear out and join their friends camped on t=
he sands.
I didn't want to kill people. Then we got the long gun to bear and in about=
an
hour we had the bottom knocked out of the two praus. The savages on the bank
howled and screamed at every shot. They are mighty angry but I don't care f=
or
their anger now, for by sinking their praus I have made them as harmless as=
a
flock of lambs. They needn't starve on their sandbank because they have two=
or
three dugouts hauled up on the sand and they may ferry themselves and their
women to the mainland whenever they like.
I fancy I have ac=
ted
as a seaman and as a seaman I intend to go on acting. Now I have made the s=
hips
safe I shall set about without loss of time trying to get the yacht off the
mud. When that's done I shall arm the boats and proceed inshore to look for=
you
and the yacht's gentry, and shan't rest till I know whether any or all of y=
ou
are above the earth yet.
I hope these words
will reach you. Just as we had done the business of those praus the man you
sent off that night in Carimata to stop our chief officer came sailing in f=
rom
the west with our first gig in tow and the boat's crew all well. Your serang
tells me he is a most trustworthy messenger and that his name is Jaffir. He
seems only too anxious to try to get to you as soon as possible. I repeat,
ships and men have been made safe and I don't mean to give you up dead or
alive.
"You are qui=
ck
in taking the point," said Lingard in a dull voice, while Mrs. Travers,
with the sheet of paper gripped in her hand, looked into his face with anxi=
ous
eyes. "He has been smart and no mistake."
"He didn't
know," murmured Mrs. Travers.
"No, he didn=
't
know. But could I take everybody into my confidence?" protested Lingar=
d in
the same low tone. "And yet who else could I trust? It seemed to me th=
at
he must have understood without being told. But he is too young. He may wel=
l be
proud according to his lights. He has done that job outside very smartly--d=
amn
his smartness! And here we are with all our lives depending on my word--whi=
ch
is broken now, Mrs. Travers. It is broken."
Mrs. Travers nodd=
ed
at him slightly.
"They would
sooner have expected to see the sun and the moon fall out of the sky,"
Lingard continued with repressed fire. Next moment it seemed to have gone o=
ut
of him and Mrs. Travers heard him mutter a disconnected phrase. . . . "=
;The
world down about my ears."
"What will y=
ou
do?" she whispered.
"What will I
do?" repeated Lingard, gently. "Oh, yes--do. Mrs. Travers, do you=
see
that I am nothing now? Just nothing."
He had lost himse=
lf
in the contemplation of her face turned to him with an expression of awed c=
uriosity.
The shock of the world coming down about his ears in consequence of Carter's
smartness was so terrific that it had dulled his sensibilities in the manne=
r of
a great pain or of a great catastrophe. What was there to look at but that
woman's face, in a world which had lost its consistency, its shape, and its
promises in a moment?
Mrs. Travers look=
ed
away. She understood that she had put to Lingard an impossible question. Wh=
at
was presenting itself to her as a problem was to that man a crisis of feeli=
ng.
Obviously Carter's action had broken the compact entered into with Daman, a=
nd
she was intelligent enough to understand that it was the sort of thing that
could not be explained away. It wasn't horror that she felt, but a sort of
consternation, something like the discomfiture of people who have just miss=
ed
their train. It was only more intense. The real dismay had yet to make its =
way into
her comprehension. To Lingard it was a blow struck straight at his heart.
He was not angry =
with
Carter. The fellow had acted like a seaman. Carter's concern was for the sh=
ips.
In this fatality Carter was a mere incident. The real cause of the disaster=
was
somewhere else, was other, and more remote. And at the same time Lingard co=
uld
not defend himself from a feeling that it was in himself, too, somewhere in=
the
unexplored depths of his nature, something fatal and unavoidable. He mutter=
ed
to himself:
"No. I am no=
t a
lucky man."
This was but a fe=
eble
expression of the discovery of the truth that suddenly had come home to him=
as
if driven into his breast by a revealing power which had decided that this =
was
to be the end of his fling. But he was not the man to give himself up to the
examination of his own sensations. His natural impulse was to grapple with =
the circumstances
and that was what he was trying to do; but he missed now that sense of mast=
ery
which is half the battle. Conflict of some sort was the very essence of his
life. But this was something he had never known before. This was a conflict
within himself. He had to face unsuspected powers, foes that he could not go
out to meet at the gate. They were within, as though he had been betrayed by
somebody, by some secret enemy. He was ready to look round for that subtle
traitor. A sort of blankness fell on his mind and he suddenly thought:
"Why! It's myself."
Immediately after=
ward
he had a clear, merciless recollection of Hassim and Immada. He saw them far
off beyond the forests. Oh, yes, they existed--within his breast!
"That was a
night!" he muttered, looking straight at Mrs. Travers. He had been loo=
king
at her all the time. His glance had held her under a spell, but for a whole
interminable minute he had not been aware of her at all. At the murmur of h=
is
words she made a slight movement and he saw her again.--"What night?&q=
uot;
she whispered, timidly, like an intruder. She was astonished to see him
smile.--"Not like this one," he said. "You made me notice how
quiet and still it was. Yes. Listen how still it is."
Both moved their
heads slightly and seemed to lend an ear. There was not a murmur, sigh, rus=
tle,
splash, or footfall. No whispers, no tremors, not a sound of any kind. They
might have been alone on board the Emma, abandoned even by the ghost of Cap=
tain
Jorgenson departed to rejoin the Barque Wild Rose on the shore of the Cimme=
rian
sea.--"It's like the stillness of the end," said Mrs. Travers in a
low, equable voice.--"Yes, but that, too, is false," said Lingard=
in
the same tone.--"I don't understand," Mrs. Travers began, hurried=
ly,
after a short silence. "But don't use that word. Don't use it, King To=
m!
It frightens me by its mere sound."
Lingard made no s=
ign.
His thoughts were back with Hassim and Immada. The young chief and his sist=
er
had gone up country on a voluntary mission to persuade Belarab to return to=
his
stockade and to take up again the direction of affairs. They carried urgent
messages from Lingard, who for Belarab was the very embodiment of truth and
force, that unquestioned force which had permitted Belarab to indulge in all
his melancholy hesitations. But those two young people had also some person=
al
prestige. They were Lingard's heart's friends. They were like his children.=
But
beside that, their high birth, their warlike story, their wanderings, adven=
tures,
and prospects had given them a glamour of their own.
V
The very day that
Travers and d'Alcacer had come on board the Emma Hassim and Immada had depa=
rted
on their mission; for Lingard, of course, could not think of leaving the wh=
ite
people alone with Jorgenson. Jorgenson was all right, but his ineradicable
habit of muttering in his moustache about "throwing a lighted match
amongst the powder barrels" had inspired Lingard with a certain amount=
of
mistrust. And, moreover, he did not want to go away from Mrs. Travers.
It was the only
correct inspiration on Carter's part to send Jaffir with his report to Ling=
ard.
That stout-hearted fighter, swimmer, and devoted follower of the princely
misfortunes of Hassim and Immada, had looked upon his mission to catch the
chief officer of the yacht (which he had received from Lingard in Carimata)=
as
a trifling job. It took him a little longer than he expected but he had got
back to the brig just in time to be sent on to Lingard with Carter's letter
after a couple of hours' rest. He had the story of all the happenings from
Wasub before he left and though his face preserved its grave impassivity, in
his heart he did not like it at all.
Fearless and wily,
Jaffir was the man for difficult missions and a born messenger--as he expre=
ssed
it himself--"to bear weighty words between great men." With his
unfailing memory he was able to reproduce them exactly, whether soft or har=
d,
in council or in private; for he knew no fear. With him there was no need f=
or
writing which might fall into the hands of the enemy. If he died on the way=
the
message would die with him. He had also the gift of getting at the sense of=
any
situation and an observant eye. He was distinctly one of those men from who=
m trustworthy
information can be obtained by the leaders of great enterprises. Lingard did
put several questions to him, but in this instance, of course, Jaffir could
have only very little to say. Of Carter, whom he called the "young
one," he said that he looked as white men look when they are pleased w=
ith
themselves; then added without waiting for a definite question--"The s=
hips
out there are now safe enough, O, Rajah Laut!" There was no elation in=
his
tone.
Lingard looked at=
him
blankly. When the Greatest of White Men remarked that there was yet a price=
to
be paid for that safety, Jaffir assented by a "Yes, by Allah!"
without losing for a moment his grim composure. When told that he would be
required to go and find his master and the lady Immada who were somewhere in
the back country, in Belarab's travelling camp, he declared himself ready to
proceed at once. He had eaten his fill and had slept three hours on board t=
he
brig and he was not tired. When he was young he used to get tired sometimes;
but for many years now he had known no such weakness. He did not require th=
e boat
with paddlers in which he had come up into the lagoon. He would go alone in=
a
small canoe. This was no time, he remarked, for publicity and ostentation. =
His
pent-up anxiety burst through his lips. "It is in my mind, Tuan, that
death has not been so near them since that night when you came sailing in a
black cloud and took us all out of the stockade."
Lingard said noth=
ing
but there was in Jaffir a faith in that white man which was not easily shak=
en.
"How are you
going to save them this time, O Rajah Laut?" he asked, simply.
"Belarab is =
my
friend," murmured Lingard.
In his anxiety Ja=
ffir
was very outspoken. "A man of peace!" he exclaimed in a low tone.
"Who could be safe with a man like that?" he asked, contemptuousl=
y.
"There is no
war," said Lingard
"There is
suspicion, dread, and revenge, and the anger of armed men," retorted
Jaffir. "You have taken the white prisoners out of their hands by the
force of your words alone. Is that so, Tuan?"
"Yes," =
said
Lingard.
"And you have
them on board here?" asked Jaffir, with a glance over his shoulder at =
the
white and misty structure within which by the light of a small oil flame
d'Alcacer and Mrs. Travers were just then conversing.
"Yes, I have
them here."
"Then, Rajah
Laut," whispered Jaffir, "you can make all safe by giving them ba=
ck."
"Can I do
that?" were the words breathed out through Lingard's lips to the faith=
ful
follower of Hassim and Immada.
"Can you do
anything else?" was the whispered retort of Jaffir the messenger
accustomed to speak frankly to the great of the earth. "You are a white
man and you can have only one word. And now I go."
A small, rough
dug-out belonging to the Emma had been brought round to the ladder. A shado=
wy
calash hovering respectfully in the darkness of the deck had already cleared
his throat twice in a warning manner.
"Yes, Jaffir,
go," said Lingard, "and be my friend."
"I am the fr=
iend
of a great prince," said the other, sturdily. "But you, Rajah Lau=
t,
were even greater. And great you will remain while you are with us, people =
of
this sea and of this land. But what becomes of the strength of your arms be=
fore
your own white people? Where does it go to, I say? Well, then, we must trus=
t in
the strength of your heart."
"I hope that
will never fail," said Lingard, and Jaffir emitted a grunt of satisfac=
tion.
"But God alone sees into men's hearts."
"Yes. Our re=
fuge
is with Allah," assented Jaffir, who had acquired the habit of pious t=
urns
of speech in the frequentation of professedly religious men, of whom there =
were
many in Belarab's stockade. As a matter of fact, he reposed all his trust in
Lingard who had with him the prestige of a providential man sent at the hou=
r of
need by heaven itself. He waited a while, then: "What is the message I=
am
to take?" he asked.
"Tell the wh=
ole
tale to the Rajah Hassim," said Lingard. "And tell him to make his
way here with the lady his sister secretly and with speed. The time of great
trouble has come. Let us, at least, be together."
"Right!
Right!" Jaffir approved, heartily. "To die alone under the weight=
of
one's enemies is a dreadful fate."
He stepped back o=
ut
of the sheen of the lamp by which they had been talking and making his way =
down
into the small canoe he took up a paddle and without a splash vanished on t=
he
dark lagoon.
It was then that =
Mrs.
Travers and d'Alcacer heard Lingard call aloud for Jorgenson. Instantly the
familiar shadow stood at Lingard's elbow and listened in detached silence. =
Only
at the end of the tale it marvelled audibly: "Here's a mess for you if=
you
like." But really nothing in the world could astonish or startle old
Jorgenson. He turned away muttering in his moustache. Lingard remained with=
his
chin in his hand and Jaffir's last words took gradual possession of his min=
d.
Then brusquely he picked up the lamp and went to seek Mrs. Travers. He went=
to
seek her because he actually needed her bodily presence, the sound of her
voice, the dark, clear glance of her eyes. She could do nothing for him. On=
his
way he became aware that Jorgenson had turned out the few Malays on board t=
he
Emma and was disposing them about the decks to watch the lagoon in all
directions. On calling Mrs. Travers out of the Cage Lingard was, in the mid=
st
of his mental struggle, conscious of a certain satisfaction in taking her a=
way
from d'Alcacer. He couldn't spare any of her attention to any other man, not
the least crumb of her time, not the least particle of her thought! He need=
ed
it all. To see it withdrawn from him for the merest instant was
irritating--seemed a disaster.
D'Alcacer, left
alone, wondered at the imperious tone of Lingard's call. To this observer of
shades the fact seemed considerable. "Sheer nerves," he concluded=
, to
himself. "The man is overstrung. He must have had some sort of
shock." But what could it be--he wondered to himself. In the tense
stagnation of those days of waiting the slightest tremor had an enormous
importance. D'Alcacer did not seek his camp bedstead. He didn't even sit do=
wn.
With the palms of his hands against the edge of the table he leaned back
against it. In that negligent attitude he preserved an alert mind which for=
a
moment wondered whether Mrs. Travers had not spoiled Lingard a little. Yet =
in
the suddenness of the forced association, where, too, d'Alcacer was sure th=
ere
was some moral problem in the background, he recognized the extreme difficu=
lty
of weighing accurately the imperious demands against the necessary
reservations, the exact proportions of boldness and caution. And d'Alcacer
admired upon the whole Mrs. Travers' cleverness.
There could be no
doubt that she had the situation in her hands. That, of course, did not mean
safety. She had it in her hands as one may hold some highly explosive and
uncertain compound. D'Alcacer thought of her with profound sympathy and wit=
h a
quite unselfish interest. Sometimes in a street we cross the path of
personalities compelling sympathy and wonder but for all that we don't foll=
ow
them home. D'Alcacer refrained from following Mrs. Travers any further. He =
had
become suddenly aware that Mr. Travers was sitting up on his camp bedstead.=
He
must have done it very suddenly. Only a moment before he had appeared plung=
ed
in the deepest slumber, and the stillness for a long time now had been perf=
ectly
unbroken. D'Alcacer was startled enough for an exclamation and Mr. Travers
turned his head slowly in his direction. D'Alcacer approached the bedstead =
with
a certain reluctance.
"Awake?"=
; he
said.
"A sudden
chill," said Mr. Travers. "But I don't feel cold now. Strange! I =
had
the impression of an icy blast."
"Ah!" s=
aid
d'Alcacer.
"Impossible,=
of
course!" went on Mr. Travers. "This stagnating air never moves. It
clings odiously to one. What time is it?"
"Really, I d=
on't
know."
"The glass o=
f my
watch was smashed on that night when we were so treacherously assailed by t=
he
savages on the sandbank," grumbled Mr. Travers.
"I must say I
was never so surprised in my life," confessed d'Alcacer. "We had
stopped and I was lighting a cigar, you may remember."
"No," s=
aid
Mr. Travers. "I had just then pulled out my watch. Of course it flew o=
ut
of my hand but it hung by the chain. Somebody trampled on it. The hands are
broken off short. It keeps on ticking but I can't tell the time. It's absur=
d.
Most provoking."
"Do you mean=
to
say," asked d'Alcacer, "that you have been winding it up every
evening?"
Mr. Travers looke=
d up
from his bedstead and he also seemed surprised. "Why! I suppose I
have." He kept silent for a while. "It isn't so much blind habit =
as
you may think. My habits are the outcome of strict method. I had to order my
life methodically. You know very well, my dear d'Alcacer, that without stri=
ct
method I would not have been able to get through my work and would have had=
no
time at all for social duties, which, of course, are of very great importan=
ce.
I may say that, materially, method has been the foundation of my success in
public life. There were never any empty moments in my day. And now this! . .
." He looked all round the Cage. . . . "Where's my wife?" he
asked.
"I was talki=
ng
to her only a moment ago," answered d'Alcacer. "I don't know the
time. My watch is on board the yacht; but it isn't late, you know."
Mr. Travers flung=
off
with unwonted briskness the light cotton sheet which covered him. He button=
ed
hastily the tunic which he had unfastened before lying down, and just as
d'Alcacer was expecting him to swing his feet to the deck impetuously, he l=
ay
down again on the pillow and remained perfectly still.
D'Alcacer waited
awhile and then began to pace the Cage. After a couple of turns he stopped =
and
said, gently:
"I am afraid,
Travers, you are not very well."
"I don't know
what illness is," answered the voice from the pillow to the great reli=
ef
of d'Alcacer who really had not expected an answer. "Good health is a
great asset in public life. Illness may make you miss a unique opportunity.=
I
was never ill."
All this came out
deadened in tone, as if the speaker's face had been buried in the pillow.
D'Alcacer resumed his pacing.
"I think I a=
sked
you where my wife was," said the muffled voice.
With great presen=
ce
of mind d'Alcacer kept on pacing the Cage as if he had not heard.--"You
know, I think she is mad," went on the muffled voice. "Unless I
am."
Again d'Alcacer
managed not to interrupt his regular pacing. "Do you know what I
think?" he said, abruptly. "I think, Travers, that you don't want=
to
talk about her. I think that you don't want to talk about anything. And to =
tell
you the truth I don't want to, either."
D'Alcacer caught a
faint sigh from the pillow and at the same time saw a small, dim flame appe=
ar
outside the Cage. And still he kept on his pacing. Mrs. Travers and Lingard
coming out of the deckhouse stopped just outside the door and Lingard stood=
the
deck-lamp on its roof. They were too far from d'Alcacer to be heard, but he
could make them out: Mrs. Travers, as straight as an arrow, and the heavy b=
ulk
of the man who faced her with a lowered head. He saw it in profile against =
the
light and as if deferential in its slight droop. They were looking straight=
at each
other. Neither of them made the slightest gesture.
"There is th=
at
in me," Lingard murmured, deeply, "which would set my heart harder
than a stone. I am King Tom, Rajah Laut, and fit to look any man hereabouts=
in
the face. I have my name to take care of. Everything rests on that."
"Mr. d'Alcac=
er
would express this by saying that everything rested on honour," commen=
ted
Mrs. Travers with lips that did not tremble, though from time to time she c=
ould
feel the accelerated beating of her heart.
"Call it what
you like. It's something that a man needs to draw a free breath. And look!-=
-as
you see me standing before you here I care for it no longer."
"But I do ca=
re
for it," retorted Mrs. Travers. "As you see me standing here--I do
care. This is something that is your very own. You have a right to it. And I
repeat I do care for it."
"Care for so=
mething
of my own," murmured Lingard, very close to her face. "Why should=
you
care for my rights?"
"Because,&qu=
ot;
she said, holding her ground though their foreheads were nearly touching,
"because if I ever get back to my life I don't want to make it more ab=
surd
by real remorse."
Her tone was soft=
and
Lingard received the breath of those words like a caress on his face.
D'Alcacer, in the Cage, made still another effort to keep up his pacing. He
didn't want to give Mr. Travers the slightest excuse for sitting up again a=
nd
looking round.
"That I shou=
ld
live to hear anybody say they cared anything for what was mine!" whisp=
ered
Lingard. "And that it should be you--you, who have taken all hardness =
out
of me."
"I don't want
your heart to be made hard. I want it to be made firm."
"You couldn't
have said anything better than what you have said just now to make it
steady," flowed the murmur of Lingard's voice with something tender in=
its
depth. "Has anybody ever had a friend like this?" he exclaimed,
raising his head as if taking the starry night to witness.
"And I ask
myself is it possible that there should be another man on earth that I could
trust as I trust you. I say to you: Yes! Go and save what you have a right =
to
and don't forget to be merciful. I will not remind you of our perfect
innocence. The earth must be small indeed that we should have blundered like
this into your life. It's enough to make one believe in fatality. But I can=
't
find it in me to behave like a fatalist, to sit down with folded hands. Had=
you
been another kind of man I might have been too hopeless or too disdainful. =
Do
you know what Mr. d'Alcacer calls you?"
Inside the Cage
d'Alcacer, casting curious glances in their direction, saw Lingard shake his
head and thought with slight uneasiness: "He is refusing her
something."
"Mr. d'Alcac=
er's
name for you is the 'Man of Fate'," said Mrs. Travers, a little
breathlessly.
"A mouthful.
Never mind, he is a gentleman. It's what you. . . ."
"I call you =
all
but by your Christian name," said Mrs. Travers, hastily. "Believe=
me,
Mr. d'Alcacer understands you."
"He is all
right," interjected Lingard.
"And he is
innocent. I remember what you have said--that the innocent must take their
chance. Well, then, do what is right."
"You think it
would be right? You believe it? You feel it?"
"At this tim=
e,
in this place, from a man like you--Yes, it is right."
Lingard thought t=
hat
woman wonderfully true to him and wonderfully fearless with herself. The
necessity to take back the two captives to the stockade was so clear and
unavoidable now, that he believed nothing on earth could have stopped him f=
rom
doing so, but where was there another woman in the world who would have tak=
en
it like this? And he reflected that in truth and courage there is found wis=
dom.
It seemed to him that till Mrs. Travers came to stand by his side he had ne=
ver
known what truth and courage and wisdom were. With his eyes on her face and=
having
been told that in her eyes he appeared worthy of being both commanded and
entreated, he felt an instant of complete content, a moment of, as it were,
perfect emotional repose.
During the silence
Mrs. Travers with a quick side-glance noticed d'Alcacer as one sees a man i=
n a
mist, his mere dark shape arrested close to the muslin screen. She had no d=
oubt
that he was looking in their direction and that he could see them much more
plainly than she could see him. Mrs. Travers thought suddenly how anxious he
must be; and she remembered that he had begged her for some sign, for some
warning, beforehand, at the moment of crisis. She had understood very well =
his hinted
request for time to get prepared. If he was to get more than a few minutes,
this was the moment to make him a sign--the sign he had suggested himself. =
Mrs.
Travers moved back the least bit so as to let the light fall in front of her
and with a slow, distinct movement she put her left hand to her forehead.
"Well,
then," she heard Lingard's forcible murmur, "well, then, Mrs. Tra=
vers,
it must be done to-night."
One may be true,
fearless, and wise, and yet catch one's breath before the simple finality of
action. Mrs. Travers caught her breath: "To-night! To-night!" she
whispered. D'Alcacer's dark and misty silhouette became more blurred. He had
seen her sign and had retreated deeper within the Cage.
"Yes, to-nig=
ht,"
affirmed Lingard. "Now, at once, within the hour, this moment," he
murmured, fiercely, following Mrs. Travers in her recoiling movement. She f=
elt
her arm being seized swiftly. "Don't you see that if it is to do any g=
ood,
that if they are not to be delivered to mere slaughter, it must be done whi=
le
all is dark ashore, before an armed mob in boats comes clamouring alongside?
Yes. Before the night is an hour older, so that I may be hammering at Belar=
ab's
gate while all the Settlement is still asleep."
Mrs. Travers didn=
't
dream of protesting. For the moment she was unable to speak. This man was v=
ery
fierce and just as suddenly as it had been gripped (making her think
incongruously in the midst of her agitation that there would be certainly a
bruise there in the morning) she felt her arm released and a penitential to=
ne
come into Lingard's murmuring voice.
"And even now
it's nearly too late! The road was plain, but I saw you on it and my heart
failed me. I was there like an empty man and I dared not face you. You must
forgive me. No, I had no right to doubt you for a moment. I feel as if I ou=
ght
to go on my knees and beg your pardon for forgetting what you are, for dari=
ng
to forget."
"Why, King T=
om,
what is it?"
"It seems as=
if
I had sinned," she heard him say. He seized her by the shoulders, turn=
ed
her about, moved her forward a step or two. His hands were heavy, his force
irresistible, though he himself imagined he was handling her gently. "=
Look
straight before you," he growled into her ear. "Do you see
anything?" Mrs. Travers, passive between the rigid arms, could see not=
hing
but, far off, the massed, featureless shadows of the shore.
"No, I see
nothing," she said.
"You can't be
looking the right way," she heard him behind her. And now she felt her
head between Lingard's hands. He moved it the least bit to the right.
"There! See it?"
"No. What am=
I
to look for?"
"A gleam of
light," said Lingard, taking away his hands suddenly. "A gleam th=
at
will grow into a blaze before our boat can get half way across the
lagoon."
Even as Lingard s=
poke
Mrs. Travers caught sight of a red spark far away. She had looked often eno=
ugh
at the Settlement, as on the face of a painting on a curtain, to have its
configuration fixed in her mind, to know that it was on the beach at its end
furthest from Belarab's stockade.
"The brushwo=
od
is catching," murmured Lingard in her ear. "If they had some dry
grass the whole pile would be blazing by now."
"And this me=
ans.
. . ."
"It means th=
at
the news has spread. And it is before Tengga's enclosure on his end of the
beach. That's where all the brains of the Settlement are. It means talk and
excitement and plenty of crafty words. Tengga's fire! I tell you, Mrs. Trav=
ers,
that before half an hour has passed Daman will be there to make friends with
the fat Tengga, who is ready to say to him, 'I told you so'."
"I see,"
murmured Mrs. Travers. Lingard drew her gently to the rail.
"And now look
over there at the other end of the beach where the shadows are heaviest. Th=
at
is Belarab's fort, his houses, his treasure, his dependents. That's where t=
he
strength of the Settlement is. I kept it up. I made it last. But what is it
now? It's like a weapon in the hand of a dead man. And yet it's all we have=
to
look to, if indeed there is still time. I swear to you I wouldn't dare land
them in daylight for fear they should be slaughtered on the beach."
"There is no
time to lose," whispered Mrs. Travers, and Lingard, too, spoke very lo=
w.
"No, not if =
I,
too, am to keep what is my right. It's you who have said it."
"Yes, I have
said it," she whispered, without lifting her head. Lingard made a brus=
que
movement at her elbow and bent his head close to her shoulder.
"And I who
mistrusted you! Like Arabs do to their great men, I ought to kiss the hem o=
f your
robe in repentance for having doubted the greatness of your heart."
"Oh! my
heart!" said Mrs. Travers, lightly, still gazing at the fire, which had
suddenly shot up to a tall blaze. "I can assure you it has been of very
little account in the world." She paused for a moment to steady her vo=
ice,
then said, firmly, "Let's get this over."
"To tell you=
the
truth the boat has been ready for some time."
"Well, then.=
. .
."
"Mrs.
Travers," said Lingard with an effort, "they are people of your o=
wn
kind." And suddenly he burst out: "I cannot take them ashore boun=
d hand
and foot."
"Mr. d'Alcac=
er
knows. You will find him ready. Ever since the beginning he has been prepar=
ed
for whatever might happen."
"He is a
man," said Lingard with conviction. "But it's of the other that I=
am
thinking."
"Ah, the
other," she repeated. "Then, what about my thoughts? Luckily we h=
ave
Mr. d'Alcacer. I shall speak to him first."
She turned away f=
rom
the rail and moved toward the Cage.
"Jorgenson,&=
quot;
the voice of Lingard resounded all along the deck, "get a light on the
gangway." Then he followed Mrs. Travers slowly.
VI
D'Alcacer, after
receiving his warning, stepped back and leaned against the edge of the tabl=
e.
He could not ignore in himself a certain emotion. And indeed, when he had a=
sked
Mrs. Travers for a sign he expected to be moved--but he had not expected the
sign to come so soon. He expected this night to pass like other nights, in
broken slumbers, bodily discomfort, and the unrest of disconnected thinking=
. At
the same time he was surprised at his own emotion. He had flattered himself=
on
the possession of more philosophy. He thought that this famous sense of sel=
f-preservation
was a queer thing, a purely animal thing. "For, as a thinking man,&quo=
t;
he reflected, "I really ought not to care." It was probably the
unusual that affected him. Clearly. If he had been lying seriously ill in a
room in a hotel and had overheard some ominous whispers he would not have c=
ared
in the least. Ah, but then he would have been ill--and in illness one grows=
so
indifferent. Illness is a great help to unemotional behaviour, which of cou=
rse
is the correct behaviour for a man of the world. He almost regretted he was=
not
very ill. But, then, Mr. Travers was obviously ill and it did not seem to h=
elp
him much. D'Alcacer glanced at the bedstead where Mr. Travers preserved an
immobility which struck d'Alcacer as obviously affected. He mistrusted it.
Generally he mistrusted Mr. Travers. One couldn't tell what he would do nex=
t.
Not that he could do much one way or another, but that somehow he threatene=
d to
rob the situation of whatever dignity it may have had as a stroke of fate, =
as a
call on courage. Mr. d'Alcacer, acutely observant and alert for the slighte=
st
hints, preferred to look upon himself as the victim not of a swindle but of=
a
rough man naively engaged in a contest with heaven's injustice. D'Alcacer d=
id
not examine his heart, but some lines of a French poet came into his mind, =
to
the effect that in all times those who fought with an unjust heaven had pos=
sessed
the secret admiration and love of men. He didn't go so far as love but he c=
ould
not deny to himself that his feeling toward Lingard was secretly friendly
and--well, appreciative. Mr. Travers sat up suddenly. What a horrible nuisa=
nce,
thought d'Alcacer, fixing his eyes on the tips of his shoes with the hope t=
hat
perhaps the other would lie down again. Mr. Travers spoke.
"Still up,
d'Alcacer?"
"I assure yo=
u it
isn't late. It's dark at six, we dined before seven, that makes the night l=
ong
and I am not a very good sleeper; that is, I cannot go to sleep till late in
the night."
"I envy
you," said Mr. Travers, speaking with a sort of drowsy apathy. "I=
am
always dropping off and the awakenings are horrible."
D'Alcacer, raising
his eyes, noticed that Mrs. Travers and Lingard had vanished from the light.
They had gone to the rail where d'Alcacer could not see them. Some pity min=
gled
with his vexation at Mr. Travers' snatchy wakefulness. There was something
weird about the man, he reflected. "Jorgenson," he began aloud.
"What's
that?" snapped Mr. Travers.
"It's the na=
me
of that lanky old store-keeper who is always about the decks."
"I haven't s=
een
him. I don't see anybody. I don't know anybody. I prefer not to notice.&quo=
t;
"I was only
going to say that he gave me a pack of cards; would you like a game of
piquet?"
"I don't thi=
nk I
could keep my eyes open," said Mr. Travers in an unexpectedly confiden=
tial
tone. "Isn't it funny, d'Alcacer? And then I wake up. It's too
awful."
D'Alcacer made no
remark and Mr. Travers seemed not to have expected any.
"When I said=
my
wife was mad," he began, suddenly, causing d'Alcacer to start, "I
didn't mean it literally, of course." His tone sounded slightly dogmat=
ic
and he didn't seem to be aware of any interval during which he had appeared=
to
sleep. D'Alcacer was convinced more than ever that he had been shamming, and
resigned himself wearily to listen, folding his arms across his chest.
"What I meant, really," continued Mr. Travers, "was that she=
is
the victim of a craze. Society is subject to crazes, as you know very well.
They are not reprehensible in themselves, but the worst of my wife is that =
her
crazes are never like those of the people with whom she naturally associate=
s.
They generally run counter to them. This peculiarity has given me some anxi=
ety,
you understand, in the position we occupy. People will begin to say that sh=
e is
eccentric. Do you see her anywhere, d'Alcacer?"
D'Alcacer was
thankful to be able to say that he didn't see Mrs. Travers. He didn't even =
hear
any murmurs, though he had no doubt that everybody on board the Emma was wi=
de
awake by now. But Mr. Travers inspired him with invincible mistrust and he
thought it prudent to add:
"You forget =
that
your wife has a room in the deckhouse."
This was as far a=
s he
would go, for he knew very well that she was not in the deckhouse. Mr. Trav=
ers,
completely convinced by the statement, made no sound. But neither did he lie
down again. D'Alcacer gave himself up to meditation. The night seemed extre=
mely
oppressive. At Lingard's shout for Jorgenson, that in the profound silence
struck his ears ominously, he raised his eyes and saw Mrs. Travers outside =
the
door of the Cage. He started forward but she was already within. He saw she=
was
moved. She seemed out of breath and as if unable to speak at first.
"Hadn't we
better shut the door?" suggested d'Alcacer.
"Captain
Lingard's coming in," she whispered to him. "He has made up his m=
ind."
"That's an
excellent thing," commented d'Alcacer, quietly. "I conclude from =
this
that we shall hear something."
"You shall h=
ear
it all from me," breathed out Mrs. Travers.
"Ah!"
exclaimed d'Alcacer very low.
By that time Ling=
ard
had entered, too, and the decks of the Emma were all astir with moving figu=
res.
Jorgenson's voice was also heard giving directions. For nearly a minute the
four persons within the Cage remained motionless. A shadowy Malay in the
gangway said suddenly: "Sudah, Tuan," and Lingard murmured,
"Ready, Mrs. Travers."
She seized
d'Alcacer's arm and led him to the side of the Cage furthest from the corne=
r in
which Mr. Travers' bed was placed, while Lingard busied himself in pricking=
up
the wick of the Cage lantern as if it had suddenly occurred to him that thi=
s,
whatever happened, should not be a deed of darkness. Mr. Travers did nothing
but turn his head to look over his shoulder.
"One
moment," said d'Alcacer, in a low tone and smiling at Mrs. Travers' ag=
itation.
"Before you tell me anything let me ask you: 'Have you made up your
mind?'" He saw with much surprise a widening of her eyes. Was it indig=
nation?
A pause as of suspicion fell between those two people. Then d'Alcacer said
apologetically: "Perhaps I ought not to have asked that question,"
and Lingard caught Mrs. Travers' words, "Oh, I am not afraid to answer
that question."
Then their voices
sank. Lingard hung the lamp up again and stood idle in the revived light; b=
ut
almost immediately he heard d'Alcacer calling him discreetly.
"Captain
Lingard!"
He moved toward t=
hem
at once. At the same instant Mr. Travers' head pivoted away from the group =
to
its frontal position.
D'Alcacer, very
serious, spoke in a familiar undertone.
"Mrs. Travers
tells me that we must be delivered up to those Moors on shore."
"Yes, there =
is
nothing else for it," said Lingard.
"I confess I=
am
a bit startled," said d'Alcacer; but except for a slightly hurried
utterance nobody could have guessed at anything resembling emotion.
"I have a ri=
ght
to my good name," said Lingard, also very calm, while Mrs. Travers near
him, with half-veiled eyes, listened impassive like a presiding genius.
"I wouldn't
question that for a moment," conceded d'Alcacer. "A point of hono=
ur
is not to be discussed. But there is such a thing as humanity, too. To be
delivered up helplessly. . . ."
"Perhaps!&qu=
ot;
interrupted Lingard. "But you needn't feel hopeless. I am not at liber=
ty
to give up my life for your own. Mrs. Travers knows why. That, too, is
engaged."
"Always on y=
our
honour?"
"I don't kno=
w. A
promise is a promise."
"Nobody can =
be
held to the impossible," remarked d'Alcacer.
"Impossible!
What is impossible? I don't know it. I am not a man to talk of the impossib=
le
or dodge behind it. I did not bring you here."
D'Alcacer lowered=
his
head for a moment. "I have finished," he said, gravely. "That
much I had to say. I hope you don't think I have appeared unduly anxious.&q=
uot;
"It's the be=
st
policy, too." Mrs. Travers made herself heard suddenly. Nothing of her
moved but her lips, she did not even raise her eyes. "It's the only
possible policy. You believe me, Mr. d'Alcacer? . . ." He made an almo=
st
imperceptible movement of the head. . . . "Well, then, I put all my ho=
pe
in you, Mr. d'Alcacer, to get this over as easily as possible and save us a=
ll
from some odious scene. You think perhaps that it is I who ought to. . .
."
"No, no! I d= on't think so," interrupted d'Alcacer. "It would be impossible."<= o:p>
"I am afraid=
it
would," she admitted, nervously.
D'Alcacer made a
gesture as if to beg her to say no more and at once crossed over to Mr.
Travers' side of the Cage. He did not want to give himself time to think ab=
out
his task. Mr. Travers was sitting up on the camp bedstead with a light cott=
on
sheet over his legs. He stared at nothing, and on approaching him d'Alcacer
disregarded the slight sinking of his own heart at this aspect which seemed=
to
be that of extreme terror. "This is awful," he thought. The man k=
ept
as still as a hare in its form.
The impressed
d'Alcacer had to make an effort to bring himself to tap him lightly on the
shoulder.
"The moment =
has
come, Travers, to show some fortitude," he said with easy intimacy. Mr.
Travers looked up swiftly. "I have just been talking to your wife. She=
had
a communication from Captain Lingard for us both. It remains for us now to
preserve as much as possible our dignity. I hope that if necessary we will =
both
know how to die."
In a moment of
profound stillness, d'Alcacer had time to wonder whether his face was as st=
ony
in expression as the one upturned to him. But suddenly a smile appeared on =
it,
which was certainly the last thing d'Alcacer expected to see. An indubitable
smile. A slightly contemptuous smile.
"My wife has
been stuffing your head with some more of her nonsense." Mr. Travers s=
poke
in a voice which astonished d'Alcacer as much as the smile, a voice that was
not irritable nor peevish, but had a distinct note of indulgence. "My =
dear
d'Alcacer, that craze has got such a hold of her that she would tell you any
sort of tale. Social impostors, mediums, fortune-tellers, charlatans of all
sorts do obtain a strange influence over women. You have seen that sort of
thing yourself. I had a talk with her before dinner. The influence that ban=
dit
has got over her is incredible. I really believe the fellow is half crazy
himself. They often are, you know. I gave up arguing with her. Now, what is=
it
you have got to tell me? But I warn you that I am not going to take it seri=
ously."
He rejected brisk=
ly
the cotton sheet, put his feet to the ground and buttoned his jacket.
D'Alcacer, as he talked, became aware by the slight noise behind him that M=
rs.
Travers and Lingard were leaving the Cage, but he went on to the end and th=
en
waited anxiously for the answer.
"See! She has
followed him out on deck," were Mr. Travers' first words. "I hope=
you
understand that it is a mere craze. You can't help seeing that. Look at her
costume. She simply has lost her head. Luckily the world needn't know. But
suppose that something similar had happened at home. It would have been
extremely awkward. Oh! yes, I will come. I will go anywhere. I can't stand =
this
hulk, those people, this infernal Cage. I believe I should fall ill if I we=
re
to remain here."
The inward detach=
ed
voice of Jorgenson made itself heard near the gangway saying: "The boat
has been waiting for this hour past, King Tom."
"Let us make=
a
virtue of necessity and go with a good grace," said d'Alcacer, ready to
take Mr. Travers under the arm persuasively, for he did not know what to ma=
ke
of that gentleman.
But Mr. Travers
seemed another man. "I am afraid, d'Alcacer, that you, too, are not ve=
ry
strong-minded. I am going to take a blanket off this bedstead. . . ." =
He
flung it hastily over his arm and followed d'Alcacer closely. "What I
suffer mostly from, strange to say, is cold."
Mrs. Travers and
Lingard were waiting near the gangway. To everybody's extreme surprise Mr.
Travers addressed his wife first.
"You were al=
ways
laughing at people's crazes," was what he said, "and now you have=
a
craze of your own. But we won't discuss that."
D'Alcacer passed =
on,
raising his cap to Mrs. Travers, and went down the ship's side into the boa=
t.
Jorgenson had vanished in his own manner like an exorcised ghost, and Linga=
rd,
stepping back, left husband and wife face to face.
"Did you thi=
nk I
was going to make a fuss?" asked Mr. Travers in a very low voice. &quo=
t;I
assure you I would rather go than stay here. You didn't think that? You have
lost all sense of reality, of probability. I was just thinking this evening
that I would rather be anywhere than here looking on at you. At your folly.=
. .
."
Mrs. Travers' lou=
d,
"Martin!" made Lingard wince, caused d'Alcacer to lift his head d=
own
there in the boat, and even Jorgenson, forward somewhere out of sight, ceas=
ed
mumbling in his moustache. The only person who seemed not to have heard that
exclamation was Mr. Travers himself, who continued smoothly:
". . . at the
aberration of your mind, you who seemed so superior to common credulities. =
You
are not yourself, not at all, and some day you will admit to me that . . . =
No,
the best thing will be to forget it, as you will soon see yourself. We shall
never mention that subject in the future. I am certain you will be only too
glad to agree with me on that point."
"How far ahe=
ad
are you looking?" asked Mrs. Travers, finding her voice and even the v=
ery
tone in which she would have addressed him had they been about to part in t=
he
hall of their town house. She might have been asking him at what time he
expected to be home, while a footman held the door open and the brougham wa=
ited
in the street.
"Not very fa=
r.
This can't last much longer." Mr. Travers made a movement as if to lea=
ve
her exactly as though he were rather pressed to keep an appointment. "=
By
the by," he said, checking himself, "I suppose the fellow underst=
ands
thoroughly that we are wealthy. He could hardly doubt that."
"It's the la=
st
thought that would enter his head," said Mrs. Travers.
"Oh, yes, ju=
st
so," Mr. Travers allowed a little impatience to pierce under his casual
manner. "But I don't mind telling you that I have had enough of this. =
I am
prepared to make--ah!--to make concessions. A large pecuniary sacrifice. On=
ly
the whole position is so absurd! He might conceivably doubt my good faith.
Wouldn't it be just as well if you, with your particular influence, would h=
int
to him that with me he would have nothing to fear? I am a man of my word.&q=
uot;
"That is the
first thing he would naturally think of any man," said Mrs. Travers.
"Will your e=
yes
never be opened?" Mr. Travers began, irritably, then gave it up.
"Well, so much the better then. I give you a free hand."
"What made y=
ou
change your attitude like this?" asked Mrs. Travers, suspiciously.
"My regard f=
or
you," he answered without hesitation.
"I intended = to join you in your captivity. I was just trying to persuade him. . . ."<= o:p>
"I forbid you
absolutely," whispered Mr. Travers, forcibly. "I am glad to get a=
way.
I don't want to see you again till your craze is over."
She was confounde=
d by
his secret vehemence. But instantly succeeding his fierce whisper came a sh=
ort,
inane society laugh and a much louder, "Not that I attach any importan=
ce .
. ."
He sprang away, a=
s it
were, from his wife, and as he went over the gangway waved his hand to her
amiably.
Lighted dimly by =
the
lantern on the roof of the deckhouse Mrs. Travers remained very still with
lowered head and an aspect of profound meditation. It lasted but an instant
before she moved off and brushing against Lingard passed on with downcast e=
yes
to her deck cabin. Lingard heard the door shut. He waited awhile, made a
movement toward the gangway but checked himself and followed Mrs. Travers i=
nto
her cabin.
It was pitch dark=
in
there. He could see absolutely nothing and was oppressed by the profound
stillness unstirred even by the sound of breathing.
"I am going =
on
shore," he began, breaking the black and deathlike silence enclosing h=
im
and the invisible woman. "I wanted to say good-bye."
"You are goi=
ng
on shore," repeated Mrs. Travers. Her voice was emotionless, blank,
unringing.
"Yes, for a =
few
hours, or for life," Lingard said in measured tones. "I may have =
to
die with them or to die maybe for others. For you, if I only knew how to ma=
nage
it, I would want to live. I am telling you this because it is dark. If there
had been a light in here I wouldn't have come in."
"I wish you =
had
not," uttered the same unringing woman's voice. "You are always
coming to me with those lives and those deaths in your hand."
"Yes, it's t=
oo
much for you," was Lingard's undertoned comment. "You could be no
other than true. And you are innocent! Don't wish me life, but wish me luck,
for you are innocent--and you will have to take your chance."
"All luck to
you, King Tom," he heard her say in the darkness in which he seemed no=
w to
perceive the gleam of her hair. "I will take my chance. And try not to
come near me again for I am weary of you."
"I can well
believe it," murmured Lingard, and stepped out of the cabin, shutting =
the
door after him gently. For half a minute, perhaps, the stillness continued,=
and
then suddenly the chair fell over in the darkness. Next moment Mrs. Travers'
head appeared in the light of the lamp left on the roof of the deckhouse. H=
er
bare arms grasped the door posts.
"Wait a
moment," she said, loudly, into the shadows of the deck. She heard no
footsteps, saw nothing moving except the vanishing white shape of the late
Captain H. C. Jorgenson, who was indifferent to the life of men. "Wait,
King Tom!" she insisted, raising her voice; then, "I didn't mean =
it.
Don't believe me!" she cried, recklessly.
For the second ti=
me
that night a woman's voice startled the hearts of men on board the Emma. All
except the heart of old Jorgenson. The Malays in the boat looked up from th=
eir
thwarts. D'Alcacer, sitting in the stern sheets beside Lingard, felt a sink=
ing
of his heart.
"What's
this?" he exclaimed. "I heard your name on deck. You are wanted, I
think."
"Shove
off," ordered Lingard, inflexibly, without even looking at d'Alcacer. =
Mr.
Travers was the only one who didn't seem to be aware of anything. A long ti=
me
after the boat left the Emma's side he leaned toward d'Alcacer.
"I have a mo=
st
extraordinary feeling," he said in a cautious undertone. "I seem =
to
be in the air--I don't know. Are we on the water, d'Alcacer? Are you quite
sure? But of course, we are on the water."
"Yes," =
said
d'Alcacer, in the same tone. "Crossing the Styx--perhaps." He hea=
rd
Mr. Travers utter an unmoved "Very likely," which he did not expe=
ct.
Lingard, his hand on the tiller, sat like a man of stone.
"Then your p=
oint
of view has changed," whispered d'Alcacer.
"I told my w=
ife
to make an offer," went on the earnest whisper of the other man. "=
;A
sum of money. But to tell you the truth I don't believe very much in its
success."
D'Alcacer made no
answer and only wondered whether he didn't like better Mr. Travers' other,
unreasonable mood. There was no denying the fact that Mr. Travers was a
troubling person. Now he suddenly gripped d'Alcacer's fore-arm and added un=
der
his breath: "I doubt everything. I doubt whether the offer will ever be
made."
All this was not =
very
impressive. There was something pitiful in it: whisper, grip, shudder, as o=
f a
child frightened in the dark. But the emotion was deep. Once more that even=
ing,
but this time aroused by the husband's distress, d'Alcacer's wonder approac=
hed
the borders of awe.
PART VI. THE CLAIM OF LIFE
AND THE TOLL OF DEATH
I
"Have you got
King Tom's watch in there?" said a voice that seemed not to attach the
slightest importance to the question. Jorgenson, outside the door of Mrs.
Travers' part of the deckhouse, waited for the answer. He heard a low cry v=
ery
much like a moan, the startled sound of pain that may be sometimes heard in
sick rooms. But it moved him not at all. He would never have dreamt of open=
ing
the door unless told to do so, in which case he would have beheld, with
complete indifference, Mrs. Travers extended on the floor with her head res=
ting
on the edge of the camp bedstead (on which Lingard had never slept), as tho=
ugh
she had subsided there from a kneeling posture which is the attitude of pra=
yer,
supplication, or defeat. The hours of the night had passed Mrs. Travers by.
After flinging herself on her knees, she didn't know why, since she could t=
hink
of nothing to pray for, had nothing to invoke, and was too far gone for suc=
h a
futile thing as despair, she had remained there till the sense of exhaustion
had grown on her to the point in which she lost her belief in her power to
rise. In a half-sitting attitude, her head resting against the edge of the
couch and her arms flung above her head, she sank into an indifference, the
mere resignation of a worn-out body and a worn-out mind which often is the =
only
sort of rest that comes to people who are desperately ill and is welcome en=
ough
in a way. The voice of Jorgenson roused her out of that state. She sat up,
aching in every limb and cold all over.
Jorgenson, behind=
the
door, repeated with lifeless obstinacy:
"Do you see =
King
Tom's watch in there?"
Mrs. Travers got =
up
from the floor. She tottered, snatching at the air, and found the back of t=
he
armchair under her hand.
"Who's
there?"
She was also read=
y to
ask: "Where am I?" but she remembered and at once became the prey=
of
that active dread which had been lying dormant for a few hours in her uneasy
and prostrate body. "What time is it?" she faltered out.
"Dawn,"
pronounced the imperturbable voice at the door. It seemed to her that it wa=
s a
word that could make any heart sink with apprehension. Dawn! She stood
appalled. And the toneless voice outside the door insisted:
"You must ha=
ve
Tom's watch there!"
"I haven't s=
een
it," she cried as if tormented by a dream.
"Look in that
desk thing. If you push open the shutter you will be able to see."
Mrs. Travers beca=
me
aware of the profound darkness of the cabin. Jorgenson heard her staggering=
in
there. After a moment a woman's voice, which struck even him as strange, sa=
id
in faint tones:
"I have it. =
It's
stopped."
"It doesn't
matter. I don't want to know the time. There should be a key about. See it
anywhere?"
"Yes, it's
fastened to the watch," the dazed voice answered from within. Jorgenson
waited before making his request. "Will you pass it out to me? There's
precious little time left now!"
The door flew ope=
n,
which was certainly something Jorgenson had not expected. He had expected b=
ut a
hand with the watch protruded through a narrow crack, But he didn't start b=
ack or
give any other sign of surprise at seeing Mrs. Travers fully dressed. Again=
st
the faint clearness in the frame of the open shutter she presented to him t=
he
dark silhouette of her shoulders surmounted by a sleek head, because her ha=
ir
was still in the two plaits. To Jorgenson Mrs. Travers in her un-European d=
ress
had always been displeasing, almost monstrous. Her stature, her gestures, h=
er
general carriage struck his eye as absurdly incongruous with a Malay costum=
e,
too ample, too free, too bold--offensive. To Mrs. Travers, Jorgenson, in the
dusk of the passage, had the aspect of a dim white ghost, and he chilled he=
r by
his ghost's aloofness.
He picked up the
watch from her outspread palm without a word of thanks, only mumbling in his
moustache, "H'm, yes, that's it. I haven't yet forgotten how to count
seconds correctly, but it's better to have a watch."
She had not the
slightest notion what he meant. And she did not care. Her mind remained
confused and the sense of bodily discomfort oppressed her. She whispered,
shamefacedly, "I believe I've slept."
"I
haven't," mumbled Jorgenson, growing more and more distinct to her eye=
s.
The brightness of the short dawn increased rapidly as if the sun were impat=
ient
to look upon the Settlement. "No fear of that," he added, boastfu=
lly.
It occurred to Mr=
s.
Travers that perhaps she had not slept either. Her state had been more like=
an
imperfect, half-conscious, quivering death. She shuddered at the recollecti=
on.
"What an awf=
ul
night," she murmured, drearily.
There was nothing=
to
hope for from Jorgenson. She expected him to vanish, indifferent, like a
phantom of the dead carrying off the appropriately dead watch in his hand f=
or
some unearthly purpose. Jorgenson didn't move. His was an insensible, almos=
t a
senseless presence! Nothing could be extorted from it. But a wave of anguis=
h as
confused as all her other sensations swept Mrs. Travers off her feet.
"Can't you t=
ell
me something?" she cried.
For half a minute
perhaps Jorgenson made no sound; then: "For years I have been telling
anybody who cared to ask," he mumbled in his moustache. "Telling =
Tom,
too. And Tom knew what he wanted to do. How's one to know what you are
after?"
She had never
expected to hear so many words from that rigid shadow. Its monotonous mumble
was fascinating, its sudden loquacity was shocking. And in the profound
stillness that reigned outside it was as if there had been no one left in t=
he
world with her but the phantom of that old adventurer. He was heard again:
"What I could tell you would be worse than poison."
Mrs. Travers was =
not
familiar with Jorgenson's consecrated phrases. The mechanical voice, the wo=
rds
themselves, his air of abstraction appalled her. And he hadn't done yet; she
caught some more of his unconcerned mumbling: "There is nothing I don't
know," and the absurdity of the statement was also appalling. Mrs. Tra=
vers
gasped and with a wild little laugh:
"Then you kn=
ow
why I called after King Tom last night."
He glanced away a=
long
his shoulder through the door of the deckhouse at the growing brightness of=
the
day. She did so, too. It was coming. It had come! Another day! And it seeme=
d to
Mrs. Travers a worse calamity than any discovery she had made in her life, =
than
anything she could have imagined to come to her. The very magnitude of horr=
or
steadied her, seemed to calm her agitation as some kinds of fatal drugs do
before they kill. She laid a steady hand on Jorgenson's sleeve and spoke
quietly, distinctly, urgently.
"You were on
deck. What I want to know is whether I was heard?"
"Yes," =
said
Jorgenson, absently, "I heard you." Then, as if roused a little, =
he
added less mechanically: "The whole ship heard you."
Mrs. Travers asked
herself whether perchance she had not simply screamed. It had never occurre=
d to
her before that perhaps she had. At the time it seemed to her she had no
strength for more than a whisper. Had she been really so loud? And the dead=
ly
chill, the night that had gone by her had left in her body, vanished from h=
er
limbs, passed out of her in a flush. Her face was turned away from the ligh=
t,
and that fact gave her courage to continue. Moreover, the man before her wa=
s so
detached from the shames and prides and schemes of life that he seemed not =
to
count at all, except that somehow or other he managed at times to catch the
mere literal sense of the words addressed to him--and answer them. And answ=
er
them! Answer unfailingly, impersonally, without any feeling.
"You saw
Tom--King Tom? Was he there? I mean just then, at the moment. There was a l=
ight
at the gangway. Was he on deck?"
"No. In the
boat."
"Already? Co=
uld
I have been heard in the boat down there? You say the whole ship heard me--=
and
I don't care. But could he hear me?"
"Was it Tom =
you
were after?" said Jorgenson in the tone of a negligent remark.
"Can't you a=
nswer
me?" she cried, angrily.
"Tom was bus=
y.
No child's play. The boat shoved off," said Jorgenson, as if he were
merely thinking aloud.
"You won't t=
ell
me, then?" Mrs. Travers apostrophized him, fearlessly. She was not afr=
aid
of Jorgenson. Just then she was afraid of nothing and nobody. And Jorgenson
went on thinking aloud.
"I guess he =
will
be kept busy from now on and so shall I."
Mrs. Travers seem=
ed
ready to take by the shoulders and shake that dead-voiced spectre till it
begged for mercy. But suddenly her strong white arms fell down by her side,=
the
arms of an exhausted woman.
"I shall nev=
er,
never find out," she whispered to herself.
She cast down her
eyes in intolerable humiliation, in intolerable desire, as though she had
veiled her face. Not a sound reached the loneliness of her thought. But when
she raised her eyes again Jorgenson was no longer standing before her.
For an instant she
saw him all black in the brilliant and narrow doorway, and the next moment =
he
had vanished outside, as if devoured by the hot blaze of light. The sun had
risen on the Shore of Refuge.
When Mrs. Travers
came out on deck herself it was as it were with a boldly unveiled face, with
wide-open and dry, sleepless eyes. Their gaze, undismayed by the sunshine,
sought the innermost heart of things each day offered to the passion of her
dread and of her impatience. The lagoon, the beach, the colours and the sha=
pes
struck her more than ever as a luminous painting on an immense cloth hiding=
the
movements of an inexplicable life. She shaded her eyes with her hand. There
were figures on the beach, moving dark dots on the white semicircle bounded=
by
the stockades, backed by roof ridges above the palm groves. Further back th=
e mass
of carved white coral on the roof of the mosque shone like a white day-star.
Religion and politics--always politics! To the left, before Tengga's enclos=
ure,
the loom of fire had changed into a pillar of smoke. But there were some big
trees over there and she couldn't tell whether the night council had prolon=
ged
its sitting. Some vague forms were still moving there and she could picture
them to herself: Daman, the supreme chief of sea-robbers, with a vengeful h=
eart
and the eyes of a gazelle; Sentot, the sour fanatic with the big turban, th=
at
other saint with a scanty loin cloth and ashes in his hair, and Tengga whom=
she
could imagine from hearsay, fat, good-tempered, crafty, but ready to spill =
blood
on his ambitious way and already bold enough to flaunt a yellow state umbre=
lla
at the very gate of Belarab's stockade--so they said.
She saw, she
imagined, she even admitted now the reality of those things no longer a mere
pageant marshalled for her vision with barbarous splendour and savage empha=
sis.
She questioned it no longer--but she did not feel it in her soul any more t=
han
one feels the depth of the sea under its peaceful glitter or the turmoil of=
its
grey fury. Her eyes ranged afar, unbelieving and fearful--and then all at o=
nce
she became aware of the empty Cage with its interior in disorder, the camp =
bedsteads
not taken away, a pillow lying on the deck, the dying flame like a shred of
dull yellow stuff inside the lamp left hanging over the table. The whole st=
ruck
her as squalid and as if already decayed, a flimsy and idle phantasy. But
Jorgenson, seated on the deck with his back to it, was not idle. His
occupation, too, seemed fantastic and so truly childish that her heart sank=
at
the man's utter absorption in it. Jorgenson had before him, stretched on the
deck, several bits of rather thin and dirty-looking rope of different lengt=
hs
from a couple of inches to about a foot. He had (an idiot might have amused
himself in that way) set fire to the ends of them. They smouldered with ama=
zing
energy, emitting now and then a splutter, and in the calm air within the bu=
lwarks
sent up very slender, exactly parallel threads of smoke, each with a vanish=
ing
curl at the end; and the absorption with which Jorgenson gave himself up to
that pastime was enough to shake all confidence in his sanity.
In one half-opened
hand he was holding the watch. He was also provided with a scrap of paper a=
nd
the stump of a pencil. Mrs. Travers was confident that he did not either he=
ar
or see her.
"Captain
Jorgenson, you no doubt think. . . ."
He tried to wave =
her
away with the stump of the pencil. He did not want to be interrupted in his
strange occupation. He was playing very gravely indeed with those bits of
string. "I lighted them all together," he murmured, keeping one e=
ye
on the dial of the watch. Just then the shortest piece of string went out,
utterly consumed. Jorgenson made a hasty note and remained still while Mrs.
Travers looked at him with stony eyes thinking that nothing in the world was
any use. The other threads of smoke went on vanishing in spirals before the
attentive Jorgenson.
"What are you
doing?" asked Mrs. Travers, drearily.
"Timing matc=
h .
. . precaution. . . ."
He had never in M=
rs.
Travers' experience been less spectral than then. He displayed a weakness of
the flesh. He was impatient at her intrusion. He divided his attention betw=
een
the threads of smoke and the face of the watch with such interest that the
sudden reports of several guns breaking for the first time for days the
stillness of the lagoon and the illusion of the painted scene failed to make
him raise his head. He only jerked it sideways a little. Mrs. Travers stare=
d at
the wisps of white vapour floating above Belarab's stockade. The series of
sharp detonations ceased and their combined echoes came back over the lagoo=
n like
a long-drawn and rushing sigh.
"What's
this?" cried Mrs. Travers.
"Belarab's c=
ome
home," said Jorgenson.
The last thread of smoke disappeared and Jorgenson got up. He had lost all interest in the wat= ch and thrust it carelessly into his pocket, together with the bit of paper and the stump of pencil. He had resumed his aloofness from the life of men, but approaching the bulwark he condescended to look toward Belarab's stockade.<= o:p>
"Yes, he is
home," he said very low.
"What's goin=
g to
happen?" cried Mrs. Travers. "What's to be done?" Jorgenson =
kept
up his appearance of communing with himself.
"I know what=
to
do," he mumbled.
"You are
lucky," said Mrs. Travers, with intense bitterness.
It seemed to her =
that
she was abandoned by all the world. The opposite shore of the lagoon had
resumed its aspect of a painted scene that would never roll up to disclose =
the
truth behind its blinding and soulless splendour. It seemed to her that she=
had
said her last words to all of them: to d'Alcacer, to her husband, to Lingard
himself--and that they had all gone behind the curtain forever out of her
sight. Of all the white men Jorgenson alone was left, that man who had done
with life so completely that his mere presence robbed it of all heat and
mystery, leaving nothing but its terrible, its revolting insignificance. And
Mrs. Travers was ready for revolt. She cried with suppressed passion:
"Are you awa=
re,
Captain Jorgenson, that I am alive?"
He turned his eye=
s on
her, and for a moment she was daunted by their cold glassiness. But before =
they
could drive her away, something like the gleam of a spark gave them an
instant's animation.
"I want to go
and join them. I want to go ashore," she said, firmly. "There!&qu=
ot;
Her bare and exte=
nded
arm pointed across the lagoon, and Jorgenson's resurrected eyes glided alon=
g the
white limb and wandered off into space.
"No boat,&qu=
ot;
he muttered.
"There must =
be a
canoe. I know there is a canoe. I want it."
She stepped forwa=
rd
compelling, commanding, trying to concentrate in her glance all her will po=
wer,
the sense of her own right to dispose of herself and her claim to be served=
to
the last moment of her life. It was as if she had done nothing. Jorgenson
didn't flinch.
"Which of th=
em
are you after?" asked his blank, unringing voice.
She continued to =
look
at him; her face had stiffened into a severe mask; she managed to say
distinctly:
"I suppose y=
ou
have been asking yourself that question for some time, Captain Jorgenson?&q=
uot;
"No. I am as=
king
you now."
His face disclosed
nothing to Mrs. Travers' bold and weary eyes. "What could you do over
there?" Jorgenson added as merciless, as irrepressible, and sincere as
though he were the embodiment of that inner voice that speaks in all of us =
at
times and, like Jorgenson, is offensive and difficult to answer.
"Remember th=
at I
am not a shadow but a living woman still, Captain Jorgenson. I can live and=
I
can die. Send me over to share their fate."
"Sure you wo=
uld
like?" asked the roused Jorgenson in a voice that had an unexpected li=
ving
quality, a faint vibration which no man had known in it for years. "Th=
ere
may be death in it," he mumbled, relapsing into indifference.
"Who
cares?" she said, recklessly. "All I want is to ask Tom a questio=
n and
hear his answer. That's what I would like. That's what I must have."
II
Along the hot and=
gloomy
forest path, neglected, overgrown and strangled in the fierce life of the
jungle, there came a faint rustle of leaves. Jaffir, the servant of princes,
the messenger of great men, walked, stooping, with a broad chopper in his h=
and.
He was naked from the waist upward, his shoulders and arms were scratched a=
nd
bleeding. A multitude of biting insects made a cloud about his head. He had
lost his costly and ancient head-kerchief, and when in a slightly wider spa=
ce
he stopped in a listening attitude anybody would have taken him for a fugit=
ive.
He waved his arms
about, slapping his shoulders, the sides of his head, his heaving flanks; t=
hen,
motionless, listened again for a while. A sound of firing, not so much made
faint by distance as muffled by the masses of foliage, reached his ears,
dropping shots which he could have counted if he had cared to. "There =
is
fighting in the forest already," he thought. Then putting his head low=
in
the tunnel of vegetation he dashed forward out of the horrible cloud of fli=
es,
which he actually managed for an instant to leave behind him. But it was not
from the cruelty of insects that he was flying, for no man could hope to dr=
op that
escort, and Jaffir in his life of a faithful messenger had been accustomed,=
if
such an extravagant phrase may be used, to be eaten alive. Bent nearly doub=
le
he glided and dodged between the trees, through the undergrowth, his brown =
body
streaming with sweat, his firm limbs gleaming like limbs of imperishable br=
onze
through the mass of green leaves that are forever born and forever dying. F=
or
all his desperate haste he was no longer a fugitive; he was simply a man in=
a tremendous
hurry. His flight, which had begun with a bound and a rush and a general
display of great presence of mind, was a simple issue from a critical
situation. Issues from critical situations are generally simple if one is q=
uick
enough to think of them in time. He became aware very soon that the attempt=
to
pursue him had been given up, but he had taken the forest path and had kept=
up
his pace because he had left his Rajah and the lady Immada beset by enemies=
on
the edge of the forest, as good as captives to a party of Tengga's men.
Belarab's hesitat=
ion
had proved too much even for Hassim's hereditary patience in such matters. =
It
is but becoming that weighty negotiations should be spread over many days, =
that
the same requests and arguments should be repeated in the same words, at ma=
ny
successive interviews, and receive the same evasive answers. Matters of sta=
te
demand the dignity of such a procedure as if time itself had to wait on the
power and wisdom of rulers. Such are the proceedings of embassies and the
dignified patience of envoys. But at this time of crisis Hassim's impatienc=
e obtained
the upper hand; and though he never departed from the tradition of soft spe=
ech
and restrained bearing while following with his sister in the train of the
pious Belarab, he had his moments of anger, of anxiety, of despondency. His
friendships, his future, his country's destinies were at stake, while Belar=
ab's
camp wandered deviously over the back country as if influenced by the
vacillation of the ruler's thought, the very image of uncertain fate.
Often no more than
the single word "Good" was all the answer vouchsafed to Hassim's
daily speeches. The lesser men, companions of the Chief, treated him with
deference; but Hassim could feel the opposition from the women's side of the
camp working against his cause in subservience to the mere caprice of the n=
ew
wife, a girl quite gentle and kind to her dependents, but whose imagination=
had
run away with her completely and had made her greedy for the loot of the ya=
cht
from mere simplicity and innocence. What could Hassim, that stranger, wande=
ring
and poor, offer for her acceptance? Nothing. The wealth of his far-off coun=
try
was but an idle tale, the talk of an exile looking for help.
At night Hassim h=
ad
to listen to the anguished doubts of Immada, the only companion of his life,
child of the same mother, brave as a man, but in her fears a very woman. She
whispered them to him far into the night while the camp of the great Belarab
was hushed in sleep and the fires had sunk down to mere glowing embers. Has=
sim
soothed her gravely. But he, too, was a native of Wajo where men are more
daring and quicker of mind than other Malays. More energetic, too, and ener=
gy
does not go without an inner fire. Hassim lost patience and one evening he
declared to his sister Immada: "To-morrow we leave this ruler without a
mind and go back to our white friend."
Therefore next
morning, letting the camp move on the direct road to the settlement, Hassim=
and
Immada took a course of their own. It was a lonely path between the jungle =
and
the clearings. They had two attendants with them, Hassim's own men, men of
Wajo; and so the lady Immada, when she had a mind to, could be carried, aft=
er
the manner of the great ladies of Wajo who need not put foot to the ground
unless they like. The lady Immada, accustomed to the hardships that are the=
lot
of exiles, preferred to walk, but from time to time she let herself be carr=
ied
for a short distance out of regard for the feelings of her attendants. The
party made good time during the early hours, and Hassim expected confidentl=
y to
reach before evening the shore of the lagoon at a spot very near the strand=
ed Emma.
At noon they rested in the shade near a dark pool within the edge of the
forest; and it was there that Jaffir met them, much to his and their surpri=
se.
It was the occasion of a long talk. Jaffir, squatting on his heels, discour=
sed
in measured tones. He had entranced listeners. The story of Carter's exploit
amongst the Shoals had not reached Belarab's camp. It was a great shock to =
Hassim,
but the sort of half smile with which he had been listening to Jaffir never
altered its character. It was the Princess Immada who cried out in distress=
and
wrung her hands. A deep silence fell.
Indeed, before the
fatal magnitude of the fact it seemed even to those Malays that there was
nothing to say and Jaffir, lowering his head, respected his Prince's
consternation. Then, before that feeling could pass away from that small gr=
oup
of people seated round a few smouldering sticks, the noisy approach of a la=
rge
party of men made them all leap to their feet. Before they could make anoth=
er
movement they perceived themselves discovered. The men were armed as if bou=
nd
on some warlike expedition. Amongst them Sentot, in his loin cloth and with
unbound wild locks, capered and swung his arms about like the lunatic he wa=
s.
The others' astonishment made them halt, but their attitude was obviously h=
ostile.
In the rear a portly figure flanked by two attendants carrying swords was
approaching prudently. Rajah Hassim resumed quietly his seat on the trunk o=
f a
fallen tree, Immada rested her hand lightly on her brother's shoulder, and =
Jaffir,
squatting down again, looked at the ground with all his faculties and every
muscle of his body tensely on the alert.
"Tengga's
fighters," he murmured, scornfully.
In the group some=
body
shouted, and was answered by shouts from afar. There could be no thought of
resistance. Hassim slipped the emerald ring from his finger stealthily and
Jaffir got hold of it by an almost imperceptible movement. The Rajah did not
even look at the trusty messenger.
"Fail not to
give it to the white man," he murmured. "Thy servant hears, O Raj=
ah.
It's a charm of great power."
The shadows were
growing to the westward. Everybody was silent, and the shifting group of ar=
med
men seemed to have drifted closer. Immada, drawing the end of a scarf across
her face, confronted the advance with only one eye exposed. On the flank of=
the
armed men Sentot was performing a slow dance but he, too, seemed to have go=
ne
dumb.
"Now go,&quo=
t;
breathed out Rajah Hassim, his gaze levelled into space immovably.
For a second or m=
ore
Jaffir did not stir, then with a sudden leap from his squatting posture he =
flew
through the air and struck the jungle in a great commotion of leaves, vanis=
hing
instantly like a swimmer diving from on high. A deep murmur of surprise aro=
se
in the armed party, a spear was thrown, a shot was fired, three or four men
dashed into the forest, but they soon returned crestfallen with apologetic
smiles; while Jaffir, striking an old path that seemed to lead in the right
direction, ran on in solitude, raising a rustle of leaves, with a naked par=
ang
in his hand and a cloud of flies about his head. The sun declining to the w=
estward
threw shafts of light across his dark path. He ran at a springy half-trot, =
his
eyes watchful, his broad chest heaving, and carrying the emerald ring on the
forefinger of a clenched hand as though he were afraid it should slip off, =
fly
off, be torn from him by an invisible force, or spirited away by some
enchantment. Who could tell what might happen? There were evil forces at wo=
rk
in the world, powerful incantations, horrible apparitions. The messenger of
princes and of great men, charged with the supreme appeal of his master, was
afraid in the deepening shade of the forest. Evil presences might have been=
lurking
in that gloom. Still the sun had not set yet. He could see its face through=
the
leaves as he skirted the shore of the lagoon. But what if Allah's call shou=
ld
come to him suddenly and he die as he ran!
He drew a long br=
eath
on the shore of the lagoon within about a hundred yards from the stranded b=
ows
of the Emma. The tide was out and he walked to the end of a submerged log a=
nd
sent out a hail for a boat. Jorgenson's voice answered. The sun had sunk be=
hind
the forest belt of the coast. All was still as far as the eye could reach o=
ver
the black water. A slight breeze came along it and Jaffir on the brink, wai=
ting
for a canoe, shivered a little.
At the same moment
Carter, exhausted by thirty hours of uninterrupted toil at the head of whit=
es
and Malays in getting the yacht afloat, dropped into Mrs. Travers' deck cha=
ir,
on board the Hermit, said to the devoted Wasub: "Let a good watch be k=
ept
to-night, old man," glanced contentedly at the setting sun and fell
asleep.
III
There was in the =
bows
of the Emma an elevated grating over the heel of her bowsprit whence the eye
could take in the whole range of her deck and see every movement of her cre=
w.
It was a spot safe from eaves-droppers, though, of course, exposed to view.=
The
sun had just set on the supreme content of Carter when Jorgenson and Jaffir=
sat
down side by side between the knightheads of the Emma and, public but unapp=
roachable,
impressive and secret, began to converse in low tones.
Every Wajo fugiti=
ve
who manned the hulk felt the approach of a decisive moment. Their minds were
made up and their hearts beat steadily. They were all desperate men determi=
ned
to fight and to die and troubling not about the manner of living or dying. =
This
was not the case with Mrs. Travers who, having shut herself up in the
deckhouse, was profoundly troubled about those very things, though she, too,
felt desperate enough to welcome almost any solution.
Of all the people=
on
board she alone did not know anything of that conference. In her deep and
aimless thinking she had only become aware of the absence of the slightest
sound on board the Emma. Not a rustle, not a footfall. The public view of
Jorgenson and Jaffir in deep consultation had the effect of taking all wish=
to
move from every man.
Twilight enveloped
the two figures forward while they talked, looking in the stillness of their
pose like carved figures of European and Asiatic contrasted in intimate
contact. The deepening dusk had nearly effaced them when at last they rose
without warning, as it were, and thrilling the heart of the beholders by the
sudden movement. But they did not separate at once. They lingered in their =
high
place as if awaiting the fall of complete darkness, a fit ending to their
mysterious communion. Jaffir had given Jorgenson the whole story of the rin=
g,
the symbol of a friendship matured and confirmed on the night of defeat, on=
the
night of flight from a far-distant land sleeping unmoved under the wrath and
fire of heaven.
"Yes,
Tuan," continued Jaffir, "it was first sent out to the white man,=
on
a night of mortal danger, a present to remember a friend by. I was the bear=
er
of it then even as I am now. Then, as now, it was given to me and I was tol=
d to
save myself and hand the ring over in confirmation of my message. I did so =
and
that white man seemed to still the very storm to save my Rajah. He was not =
one
to depart and forget him whom he had once called his friend. My message was=
but
a message of good-bye, but the charm of the ring was strong enough to draw =
all
the power of that white man to the help of my master. Now I have no words to
say. Rajah Hassim asks for nothing. But what of that? By the mercy of Allah=
all
things are the same, the compassion of the Most High, the power of the ring,
the heart of the white man. Nothing is changed, only the friendship is a li=
ttle
older and love has grown because of the shared dangers and long companionsh=
ip.
Therefore, Tuan, I have no fear. But how am I to get the ring to the Rajah
Laut? Just hand it to him. The last breath would be time enough if they wer=
e to
spear me at his feet. But alas! the bush is full of Tengga's men, the beach=
is
open and I could never even hope to reach the gate."
Jorgenson, with h=
is
hands deep in the pockets of his tunic, listened, looking down. Jaffir show=
ed
as much consternation as his nature was capable of.
"Our refuge =
is
with God," he murmured. "But what is to be done? Has your wisdom =
no
stratagem, O Tuan?"
Jorgenson did not
answer. It appeared as though he had no stratagem. But God is great and Jaf=
fir
waited on the other's immobility, anxious but patient, perplexed yet hopefu=
l in
his grim way, while the night flowing on from the dark forest near by hid t=
heir
two figures from the sight of observing men. Before the silence of Jorgenson
Jaffir began to talk practically. Now that Tengga had thrown off the mask
Jaffir did not think that he could land on the beach without being attacked,
captured, nay killed, since a man like he, though he could save himself by
taking flight at the order of his master, could not be expected to surrende=
r without
a fight. He mentioned that in the exercise of his important functions he kn=
ew
how to glide like a shadow, creep like a snake, and almost burrow his way
underground. He was Jaffir who had never been foiled. No bog, morass, great
river or jungle could stop him. He would have welcomed them. In many respec=
ts
they were the friends of a crafty messenger. But that was an open beach, and
there was no other way, and as things stood now every bush around, every tr=
ee
trunk, every deep shadow of house or fence would conceal Tengga's men or su=
ch
of Daman's infuriated partisans as had already made their way to the
Settlement. How could he hope to traverse the distance between the water's =
edge
and Belarab's gate which now would remain shut night and day? Not only hims=
elf
but anybody from the Emma would be sure to be rushed upon and speared in tw=
enty
places.
He reflected for a
moment in silence.
"Even you, T=
uan,
could not accomplish the feat."
"True,"
muttered Jorgenson.
When, after a per=
iod
of meditation, he looked round, Jaffir was no longer by his side. He had de=
scended
from the high place and was probably squatting on his heels in some dark no=
ok
on the fore deck. Jorgenson knew Jaffir too well to suppose that he would g=
o to
sleep. He would sit there thinking himself into a state of fury, then get a=
way from
the Emma in some way or other, go ashore and perish fighting. He would, in
fact, run amok; for it looked as if there could be no way out of the situat=
ion.
Then, of course, Lingard would know nothing of Hassim and Immada's captivity
for the ring would never reach him--the ring that could tell its own tale. =
No,
Lingard would know nothing. He would know nothing about anybody outside
Belarab's stockade till the end came, whatever the end might be, for all th=
ose
people that lived the life of men. Whether to know or not to know would be =
good
for Lingard Jorgenson could not tell. He admitted to himself that here there
was something that he, Jorgenson, could not tell. All the possibilities were
wrapped up in doubt, uncertain, like all things pertaining to the life of m=
en. It
was only when giving a short thought to himself that Jorgenson had no doubt.
He, of course, would know what to do.
On the thin face =
of
that old adventurer hidden in the night not a feature moved, not a muscle
twitched, as he descended in his turn and walked aft along the decks of the
Emma. His faded eyes, which had seen so much, did not attempt to explore the
night, they never gave a glance to the silent watchers against whom he brus=
hed.
Had a light been flashed on him suddenly he would have appeared like a man
walking in his sleep: the somnambulist of an eternal dream. Mrs. Travers he=
ard
his footsteps pass along the side of the deckhouse. She heard them--and let=
her
head fall again on her bare arms thrown over the little desk before which s=
he sat.
Jorgenson, standi=
ng
by the taffrail, noted the faint reddish glow in the massive blackness of t=
he
further shore. Jorgenson noted things quickly, cursorily, perfunctorily, as
phenomena unrelated to his own apparitional existence of a visiting ghost. =
They
were but passages in the game of men who were still playing at life. He knew
too well how much that game was worth to be concerned about its course. He =
had
given up the habit of thinking for so long that the sudden resumption of it
irked him exceedingly, especially as he had to think on toward a conclusion=
. In
that world of eternal oblivion, of which he had tasted before Lingard made =
him
step back into the life of men, all things were settled once for all. He was
irritated by his own perplexity which was like a reminder of that mortality
made up of questions and passions from which he had fancied he had freed
himself forever. By a natural association his contemptuous annoyance embrac=
ed
the existence of Mrs. Travers, too, for how could he think of Tom Lingard, =
of what
was good or bad for King Tom, without thinking also of that woman who had
managed to put the ghost of a spark even into his own extinguished eyes? She
was of no account; but Tom's integrity was. It was of Tom that he had to th=
ink,
of what was good or bad for Tom in that absurd and deadly game of his life.=
Finally
he reached the conclusion that to be given the ring would be good for Tom
Lingard. Just to be given the ring and no more. The ring and no more.
"It will help
him to make up his mind," muttered Jorgenson in his moustache, as if
compelled by an obscure conviction. It was only then that he stirred slight=
ly
and turned away from the loom of the fires on the distant shore. Mrs. Trave=
rs
heard his footsteps passing again along the side of the deckhouse--and this
time never raised her head. That man was sleepless, mad, childish, and
inflexible. He was impossible. He haunted the decks of that hulk aimlessly.=
. .
.
It was, however, =
in
pursuance of a very distinct aim that Jorgenson had gone forward again to s=
eek
Jaffir.
The first remark =
he
had to offer to Jaffir's consideration was that the only person in the world
who had the remotest chance of reaching Belarab's gate on that night was th=
at
tall white woman the Rajah Laut had brought on board, the wife of one of the
captive white chiefs. Surprise made Jaffir exclaim, but he wasn't prepared =
to
deny that. It was possible that for many reasons, some quite simple and oth=
ers
very subtle, those sons of the Evil One belonging to Tengga and Daman would=
refrain
from killing a white woman walking alone from the water's edge to Belarab's
gate. Yes, it was just possible that she might walk unharmed.
"Especially =
if
she carried a blazing torch," muttered Jorgenson in his moustache. He =
told
Jaffir that she was sitting now in the dark, mourning silently in the manne=
r of
white women. She had made a great outcry in the morning to be allowed to jo=
in
the white men on shore. He, Jorgenson, had refused her the canoe. Ever since
she had secluded herself in the deckhouse in great distress.
Jaffir listened t=
o it
all without particular sympathy. And when Jorgenson added, "It is in my
mind, O Jaffir, to let her have her will now," he answered by a "=
Yes,
by Allah! let her go. What does it matter?" of the greatest unconcern,
till Jorgenson added:
"Yes. And she
may carry the ring to the Rajah Laut."
Jorgenson saw Jaf=
fir,
the grim and impassive Jaffir, give a perceptible start. It seemed at first=
an
impossible task to persuade Jaffir to part with the ring. The notion was too
monstrous to enter his mind, to move his heart. But at last he surrendered =
in
an awed whisper, "God is great. Perhaps it is her destiny."
Being a Wajo man =
he
did not regard women as untrustworthy or unequal to a task requiring courage
and judgment. Once he got over the personal feeling he handed the ring to
Jorgenson with only one reservation, "You know, Tuan, that she must on=
no
account put it on her finger."
"Let her han=
g it
round her neck," suggested Jorgenson, readily.
As Jorgenson moved
toward the deckhouse it occurred to him that perhaps now that woman Tom Lin=
gard
had taken in tow might take it into her head to refuse to leave the Emma. T=
his
did not disturb him very much. All those people moved in the dark. He himse=
lf
at that particular moment was moving in the dark. Beyond the simple wish to
guide Lingard's thought in the direction of Hassim and Immada, to help him =
to
make up his mind at last to a ruthless fidelity to his purpose Jorgenson ha=
d no
other aim. The existence of those whites had no meaning on earth. They were=
the
sort of people that pass without leaving footprints. That woman would have =
to
act in ignorance. And if she refused to go then in ignorance she would have=
to
stay on board. He would tell her nothing.
As a matter of fa=
ct,
he discovered that Mrs. Travers would simply have nothing to do with him. S=
he
would not listen to what he had to say. She desired him, a mere weary voice
confined in the darkness of the deck cabin, to go away and trouble her no m=
ore.
But the ghost of Jorgenson was not easily exorcised. He, too, was a mere vo=
ice
in the outer darkness, inexorable, insisting that she should come out on de=
ck
and listen. At last he found the right words to say.
"It is somet=
hing
about Tom that I want to tell you. You wish him well, don't you?"
After this she co=
uld
not refuse to come out on deck, and once there she listened patiently to th=
at
white ghost muttering and mumbling above her drooping head.
"It seems to=
me,
Captain Jorgenson," she said after he had ceased, "that you are
simply trifling with me. After your behaviour to me this morning, I can have
nothing to say to you."
"I have a ca=
noe
for you now," mumbled Jorgenson.
"You have so=
me
new purpose in view now," retorted Mrs. Travers with spirit. "But=
you
won't make it clear to me. What is it that you have in your mind?"
"Tom's
interest."
"Are you rea=
lly
his friend?"
"He brought =
me
here. You know it. He has talked a lot to you."
"He did. But=
I
ask myself whether you are capable of being anybody's friend."
"You ask
yourself!" repeated Jorgenson, very quiet and morose. "If I am not
his friend I should like to know who is."
Mrs. Travers aske=
d,
quickly: "What's all this about a ring? What ring?"
"Tom's prope=
rty.
He has had it for years."
"And he gave=
it
to you? Doesn't he care for it?"
"Don't know.
It's just a thing."
"But it has a
meaning as between you and him. Is that so?"
"Yes. It has=
. He
will know what it means."
"What does it
mean?"
"I am too mu=
ch
his friend not to hold my tongue."
"What! To
me!"
"And who are
you?" was Jorgenson's unexpected remark. "He has told you too much
already."
"Perhaps he
has," whispered Mrs. Travers, as if to herself. "And you want that
ring to be taken to him?" she asked, in a louder tone.
"Yes. At onc=
e.
For his good."
"Are you cer=
tain
it is for his good? Why can't you. . . ."
She checked herse=
lf.
That man was hopeless. He would never tell anything and there was no means =
of
compelling him. He was invulnerable, unapproachable. . . . He was dead.
"Just give i=
t to
him," mumbled Jorgenson as though pursuing a mere fixed idea. "Ju=
st
slip it quietly into his hand. He will understand."
"What is it?
Advice, warning, signal for action?"
"It may be
anything," uttered Jorgenson, morosely, but as it were in a mollified
tone. "It's meant for his good."
"Oh, if I on=
ly
could trust that man!" mused Mrs. Travers, half aloud.
Jorgenson's slight
noise in the throat might have been taken for an expression of sympathy. Bu=
t he
remained silent.
"Really, thi=
s is
most extraordinary!" cried Mrs. Travers, suddenly aroused. "Why d=
id
you come to me? Why should it be my task? Why should you want me specially =
to
take it to him?"
"I will tell=
you
why," said Jorgenson's blank voice. "It's because there is no one=
on
board this hulk that can hope to get alive inside that stockade. This morni=
ng
you told me yourself that you were ready to die--for Tom--or with Tom. Well,
risk it then. You are the only one that has half a chance to get through--a=
nd
Tom, maybe, is waiting."
"The only
one," repeated Mrs. Travers with an abrupt movement forward and an
extended hand before which Jorgenson stepped back a pace. "Risk it!
Certainly! Where's that mysterious ring?"
"I have got =
it
in my pocket," said Jorgenson, readily; yet nearly half a minute elaps=
ed
before Mrs. Travers felt the characteristic shape being pressed into her
half-open palm. "Don't let anybody see it," Jorgenson admonished =
her
in a murmur. "Hide it somewhere about you. Why not hang it round your
neck?"
Mrs. Travers' hand
remained firmly closed on the ring. "Yes, that will do," she
murmured, hastily. "I'll be back in a moment. Get everything ready.&qu=
ot;
With those words she disappeared inside the deckhouse and presently threads=
of
light appeared in the interstices of the boards. Mrs. Travers had lighted a
candle in there. She was busy hanging that ring round her neck. She was goi=
ng.
Yes--taking the risk for Tom's sake.
"Nobody can
resist that man," Jorgenson muttered to himself with increasing
moroseness. "I couldn't."
IV
Jorgenson, after
seeing the canoe leave the ship's side, ceased to live intellectually. There
was no need for more thinking, for any display of mental ingenuity. He had =
done
with it all. All his notions were perfectly fixed and he could go over them=
in
the same ghostly way in which he haunted the deck of the Emma. At the sight=
of
the ring Lingard would return to Hassim and Immada, now captives, too, thou=
gh
Jorgenson certainly did not think them in any serious danger. What had happ=
ened
really was that Tengga was now holding hostages, and those Jorgenson looked=
upon
as Lingard's own people. They were his. He had gone in with them deep, very
deep. They had a hold and a claim on King Tom just as many years ago people=
of
that very race had had a hold and a claim on him, Jorgenson. Only Tom was a
much bigger man. A very big man. Nevertheless, Jorgenson didn't see why he
should escape his own fate--Jorgenson's fate--to be absorbed, captured, made
their own either in failure or in success. It was an unavoidable fatality a=
nd
Jorgenson felt certain that the ring would compel Lingard to face it withou=
t flinching.
What he really wanted Lingard to do was to cease to take the slightest inte=
rest
in those whites--who were the sort of people that left no footprints.
Perhaps at first
sight, sending that woman to Lingard was not the best way toward that end.
Jorgenson, however, had a distinct impression in which his morning talk with
Mrs. Travers had only confirmed him, that those two had quarrelled for good.
As, indeed, was unavoidable. What did Tom Lingard want with any woman? The =
only
woman in Jorgenson's life had come in by way of exchange for a lot of cotton
stuffs and several brass guns. This fact could not but affect Jorgenson's
judgment since obviously in this case such a transaction was impossible.
Therefore the case was not serious. It didn't exist. What did exist was
Lingard's relation to the Wajo exiles, a great and warlike adventure such a=
s no
rover in those seas had ever attempted.
That Tengga was m=
uch
more ready to negotiate than to fight, the old adventurer had not the sligh=
test
doubt. How Lingard would deal with him was not a concern of Jorgenson's. Th=
at
would be easy enough. Nothing prevented Lingard from going to see Tengga and
talking to him with authority. All that ambitious person really wanted was =
to
have a share in Lingard's wealth, in Lingard's power, in Lingard's friendsh=
ip.
A year before Tengga had once insinuated to Jorgenson, "In what way am=
I
less worthy of being a friend than Belarab?"
It was a distinct
overture, a disclosure of the man's innermost mind. Jorgenson, of course, h=
ad
met it with a profound silence. His task was not diplomacy but the care of
stores.
After the effort =
of
connected mental processes in order to bring about Mrs. Travers' departure =
he
was anxious to dismiss the whole matter from his mind. The last thought he =
gave
to it was severely practical. It occurred to him that it would be advisable=
to
attract in some way or other Lingard's attention to the lagoon. In the lang=
uage
of the sea a single rocket is properly a signal of distress, but, in the ci=
rcumstances,
a group of three sent up simultaneously would convey a warning. He gave his
orders and watched the rockets go up finely with a trail of red sparks, a
bursting of white stars high up in the air, and three loud reports in quick
succession. Then he resumed his pacing of the whole length of the hulk,
confident that after this Tom would guess that something was up and set a c=
lose
watch over the lagoon. No doubt these mysterious rockets would have a
disturbing effect on Tengga and his friends and cause a great excitement in=
the
Settlement; but for that Jorgenson did not care. The Settlement was already=
in
such a turmoil that a little more excitement did not matter. What Jorgenson=
did
not expect, however, was the sound of a musket-shot fired from the jungle f=
acing
the bows of the Emma. It caused him to stop dead short. He had heard distin=
ctly
the bullet strike the curve of the bow forward. "Some hot-headed ass f=
ired
that," he said to himself, contemptuously. It simply disclosed to him =
the
fact that he was already besieged on the shore side and set at rest his dou=
bts
as to the length Tengga was prepared to go. Any length! Of course there was
still time for Tom to put everything right with six words, unless . . .
Jorgenson smiled, grimly, in the dark and resumed his tireless pacing.
What amused him w=
as
to observe the fire which had been burning night and day before Tengga's
residence suddenly extinguished. He pictured to himself the wild rush with
bamboo buckets to the lagoon shore, the confusion, the hurry and jostling i=
n a
great hissing of water midst clouds of steam. The image of the fat Tengga's
consternation appealed to Jorgenson's sense of humour for about five second=
s.
Then he took up the binoculars from the roof of the deckhouse.
The bursting of t=
he
three white stars over the lagoon had given him a momentary glimpse of the
black speck of the canoe taking over Mrs. Travers. He couldn't find it again
with the glass, it was too dark; but the part of the shore for which it was
steered would be somewhere near the angle of Belarab's stockade nearest to =
the
beach. This Jorgenson could make out in the faint rosy glare of fires burni=
ng
inside. Jorgenson was certain that Lingard was looking toward the Emma thro=
ugh the
most convenient loophole he could find.
As obviously Mrs.
Travers could not have paddled herself across, two men were taking her over;
and for the steersman she had Jaffir. Though he had assented to Jorgenson's
plan Jaffir was anxious to accompany the ring as near as possible to its de=
stination.
Nothing but dire necessity had induced him to part with the talisman. Crouc=
hing
in the stern and flourishing his paddle from side to side he glared at the =
back
of the canvas deck-chair which had been placed in the middle for Mrs. Trave=
rs. Wrapped
up in the darkness she reclined in it with her eyes closed, faintly aware of
the ring hung low on her breast. As the canoe was rather large it was moving
very slowly. The two men dipped their paddles without a splash: and
surrendering herself passively, in a temporary relaxation of all her limbs,=
to
this adventure Mrs. Travers had no sense of motion at all. She, too, like
Jorgenson, was tired of thinking. She abandoned herself to the silence of t=
hat
night full of roused passions and deadly purposes. She abandoned herself to=
an
illusory feeling; to the impression that she was really resting. For the fi=
rst
time in many days she could taste the relief of being alone. The men with h=
er
were less than nothing. She could not speak to them; she could not understa=
nd them;
the canoe might have been moving by enchantment--if it did move at all. Lik=
e a
half-conscious sleeper she was on the verge of saying to herself, "Wha=
t a
strange dream I am having."
The low tones of
Jaffir's voice stole into it quietly telling the men to cease paddling, and=
the
long canoe came to a rest slowly, no more than ten yards from the beach. The
party had been provided with a torch which was to be lighted before the can=
oe
touched the shore, thus giving a character of openness to this desperate
expedition. "And if it draws fire on us," Jaffir had commented to
Jorgenson, "well, then, we shall see whose fate it is to die on this
night."
"Yes," =
had
muttered Jorgenson. "We shall see."
Jorgenson saw at =
last
the small light of the torch against the blackness of the stockade. He stra=
ined
his hearing for a possible volley of musketry fire but no sound came to him
over the broad surface of the lagoon. Over there the man with the torch, the
other paddler, and Jaffir himself impelling with a gentle motion of his pad=
dle
the canoe toward the shore, had the glistening eyeballs and the tense faces=
of
silent excitement. The ruddy glare smote Mrs. Travers' closed eyelids but s=
he didn't
open her eyes till she felt the canoe touch the strand. The two men leaped =
instantly
out of it. Mrs. Travers rose, abruptly. Nobody made a sound. She stumbled o=
ut
of the canoe on to the beach and almost before she had recovered her balance
the torch was thrust into her hand. The heat, the nearness of the blaze
confused and blinded her till, instinctively, she raised the torch high abo=
ve
her head. For a moment she stood still, holding aloft the fierce flame from
which a few sparks were falling slowly.
A naked bronze arm
lighted from above pointed out the direction and Mrs. Travers began to walk
toward the featureless black mass of the stockade. When after a few steps s=
he
looked back over her shoulder, the lagoon, the beach, the canoe, the men she
had just left had become already invisible. She was alone bearing up a blaz=
ing
torch on an earth that was a dumb shadow shifting under her feet. At last s=
he
reached firmer ground and the dark length of the palisade untouched as yet =
by
the light of the torch seemed to her immense, intimidating. She felt ready =
to
drop from sheer emotion. But she moved on.
"A little mo=
re
to the left," shouted a strong voice.
It vibrated throu=
gh
all her fibres, rousing like the call of a trumpet, went far beyond her, fi=
lled
all the space. Mrs. Travers stood still for a moment, then casting far away
from her the burning torch ran forward blindly with her hands extended towa=
rd
the great sound of Lingard's voice, leaving behind her the light flaring and
spluttering on the ground. She stumbled and was only saved from a fall by h=
er
hands coming in contact with the rough stakes. The stockade rose high above=
her
head and she clung to it with widely open arms, pressing her whole body aga=
inst
the rugged surface of that enormous and unscalable palisade. She heard thro=
ugh
it low voices inside, heavy thuds; and felt at every blow a slight vibratio=
n of
the ground under her feet. She glanced fearfully over her shoulder and saw
nothing in the darkness but the expiring glow of the torch she had thrown a=
way
and the sombre shimmer of the lagoon bordering the opaque darkness of the s=
hore.
Her strained eyeballs seemed to detect mysterious movements in the darkness=
and
she gave way to irresistible terror, to a shrinking agony of apprehension. =
Was
she to be transfixed by a broad blade, to the high, immovable wall of wood
against which she was flattening herself desperately, as though she could h=
ope to
penetrate it by the mere force of her fear? She had no idea where she was, =
but
as a matter of fact she was a little to the left of the principal gate and
almost exactly under one of the loopholes of the stockade. Her excessive
anguish passed into insensibility. She ceased to hear, to see, and even to =
feel
the contact of the surface to which she clung. Lingard's voice somewhere fr=
om
the sky above her head was directing her, distinct, very close, full of
concern.
"You must st=
oop
low. Lower yet."
The stagnant bloo=
d of
her body began to pulsate languidly. She stooped low--lower yet--so low that
she had to sink on her knees, and then became aware of a faint smell of wood
smoke mingled with the confused murmur of agitated voices. This came to her
through an opening no higher than her head in her kneeling posture, and no
wider than the breadth of two stakes. Lingard was saying in a tone of distr=
ess:
"I couldn't =
get
any of them to unbar the gate."
She was unable to
make a sound.--"Are you there?" Lingard asked, anxiously, so clos=
e to
her now that she seemed to feel the very breath of his words on her face. It
revived her completely; she understood what she had to do. She put her head=
and
shoulders through the opening, was at once seized under the arms by an eager
grip and felt herself pulled through with an irresistible force and with su=
ch
haste that her scarf was dragged off her head, its fringes having caught in=
the
rough timber. The same eager grip lifted her up, stood her on her feet with=
out
her having to make any exertion toward that end. She became aware that Ling=
ard
was trying to say something, but she heard only a confused stammering
expressive of wonder and delight in which she caught the words "You . =
. .
you . . ." deliriously repeated. He didn't release his hold of her; his
helpful and irresistible grip had changed into a close clasp, a crushing
embrace, the violent taking possession by an embodied force that had broken
loose and was not to be controlled any longer. As his great voice had done a
moment before, his great strength, too, seemed able to fill all space in its
enveloping and undeniable authority. Every time she tried instinctively to
stiffen herself against its might, it reacted, affirming its fierce will, i=
ts
uplifting power. Several times she lost the feeling of the ground and had a
sensation of helplessness without fear, of triumph without exultation. The
inevitable had come to pass. She had foreseen it--and all the time in that =
dark
place and against the red glow of camp fires within the stockade the man in
whose arms she struggled remained shadowy to her eyes--to her half-closed e=
yes.
She thought suddenly, "He will crush me to death without knowing it.&q=
uot;
He was like a bli=
nd
force. She closed her eyes altogether. Her head fell back a little. Not
instinctively but with wilful resignation and as it were from a sense of
justice she abandoned herself to his arms. The effect was as though she had
suddenly stabbed him to the heart. He let her go so suddenly and completely
that she would have fallen down in a heap if she had not managed to catch h=
old
of his forearm. He seemed prepared for it and for a moment all her weight h=
ung
on it without moving its rigidity by a hair's breadth. Behind her Mrs. Trav=
ers
heard the heavy thud of blows on wood, the confused murmurs and movements o=
f men.
A voice said
suddenly, "It's done," with such emphasis that though, of course,=
she
didn't understand the words it helped her to regain possession of herself; =
and
when Lingard asked her very little above a whisper: "Why don't you say
something?" she answered readily, "Let me get my breath first.&qu=
ot;
Round them all so=
unds
had ceased. The men had secured again the opening through which those arms =
had
snatched her into a moment of self-forgetfulness which had left her out of
breath but uncrushed. As if something imperative had been satisfied she had=
a
moment of inward serenity, a period of peace without thought while, holding=
to
that arm that trembled no more than an arm of iron, she felt stealthily over
the ground for one of the sandals which she had lost. Oh, yes, there was no=
doubt
of it, she had been carried off the earth, without shame, without regret. B=
ut
she would not have let him know of that dropped sandal for anything in the
world. That lost sandal was as symbolic as a dropped veil. But he did not k=
now
of it. He must never know. Where was that thing? She felt sure that they had
not moved an inch from that spot. Presently her foot found it and still gri=
pping
Lingard's forearm she stooped to secure it properly. When she stood up, sti=
ll
holding his arm, they confronted each other, he rigid in an effort of
self-command but feeling as if the surges of the heaviest sea that he could
remember in his life were running through his heart; and the woman as if
emptied of all feeling by her experience, without thought yet, but beginnin=
g to
regain her sense of the situation and the memory of the immediate past.
"I have been
watching at that loophole for an hour, ever since they came running to me w=
ith
that story of the rockets," said Lingard. "I was shut up with Bel=
arab
then. I was looking out when the torch blazed and you stepped ashore. I tho=
ught
I was dreaming. But what could I do? I felt I must rush to you but I dared =
not.
That clump of palms is full of men. So are the houses you saw that time you
came ashore with me. Full of men. Armed men. A trigger is soon pulled and w=
hen
once shooting begins. . . . And you walking in the open with that light abo=
ve
your head! I didn't dare. You were safer alone. I had the strength to hold
myself in and watch you come up from the shore. No! No man that ever lived =
had
seen such a sight. What did you come for?"
"Didn't you
expect somebody? I don't mean me, I mean a messenger?"
"No!" s=
aid
Lingard, wondering at his own self-control. "Why did he let you
come?"
"You mean
Captain Jorgenson? Oh, he refused at first. He said that he had your
orders."
"How on earth
did you manage to get round him?" said Lingard in his softest tones.
"I did not
try," she began and checked herself. Lingard's question, though he rea=
lly
didn't seem to care much about an answer, had aroused afresh her suspicion =
of
Jorgenson's change of front. "I didn't have to say very much at the
last," she continued, gasping yet a little and feeling her personality,
crushed to nothing in the hug of those arms, expand again to its full
significance before the attentive immobility of that man. "Captain
Jorgenson has always looked upon me as a nuisance. Perhaps he had made up h=
is mind
to get rid of me even against your orders. Is he quite sane?"
She released her =
firm
hold of that iron forearm which fell slowly by Lingard's side. She had rega=
ined
fully the possession of her personality. There remained only a fading, slig=
htly
breathless impression of a short flight above that earth on which her feet =
were
firmly planted now. "And is that all?" she asked herself, not
bitterly, but with a sort of tender contempt.
"He is so
sane," sounded Lingard's voice, gloomily, "that if I had listened=
to
him you would not have found me here."
"What do you
mean by here? In this stockade?"
"Anywhere,&q=
uot;
he said.
"And what wo=
uld
have happened then?"
"God
knows," he answered. "What would have happened if the world had n=
ot been
made in seven days? I have known you for just about that time. It began by =
me
coming to you at night--like a thief in the night. Where the devil did I he=
ar
that? And that man you are married to thinks I am no better than a thief.&q=
uot;
"It ought to=
be
enough for you that I never made a mistake as to what you are, that I come =
to
you in less than twenty-four hours after you left me contemptuously to my
distress. Don't pretend you didn't hear me call after you. Oh, yes, you hea=
rd.
The whole ship heard me for I had no shame."
"Yes, you ca=
me,"
said Lingard, violently. "But have you really come? I can't believe my
eyes! Are you really here?"
"This is a d=
ark
spot, luckily," said Mrs. Travers. "But can you really have any
doubt?" she added, significantly.
He made a sudden
movement toward her, betraying so much passion that Mrs. Travers thought,
"I shan't come out alive this time," and yet he was there, motion=
less
before her, as though he had never stirred. It was more as though the earth=
had
made a sudden movement under his feet without being able to destroy his
balance. But the earth under Mrs. Travers' feet had made no movement and fo=
r a
second she was overwhelmed by wonder not at this proof of her own
self-possession but at the man's immense power over himself. If it had not =
been
for her strange inward exhaustion she would perhaps have surrendered to that
power. But it seemed to her that she had nothing in her worth surrendering,=
and
it was in a perfectly even tone that she said, "Give me your arm, Capt=
ain Lingard.
We can't stay all night on this spot."
As they moved on =
she
thought, "There is real greatness in that man." He was great even=
in
his behaviour. No apologies, no explanations, no abasement, no violence, and
not even the slightest tremor of the frame holding that bold and perplexed =
soul.
She knew that for certain because her fingers were resting lightly on Linga=
rd's
arm while she walked slowly by his side as though he were taking her down to
dinner. And yet she couldn't suppose for a moment, that, like herself, he w=
as
emptied of all emotion. She never before was so aware of him as a dangerous
force. "He is really ruthless," she thought. They had just left t=
he
shadow of the inner defences about the gate when a slightly hoarse, apologe=
tic voice
was heard behind them repeating insistently, what even Mrs. Travers' ear
detected to be a sort of formula. The words were: "There is this
thing--there is this thing--there is this thing." They turned round.
"Oh, my
scarf," said Mrs. Travers.
A short, squat,
broad-faced young fellow having for all costume a pair of white drawers was
offering the scarf thrown over both his arms, as if they had been sticks, a=
nd
holding it respectfully as far as possible from his person. Lingard took it
from him and Mrs. Travers claimed it at once. "Don't forget the propri=
eties,"
she said. "This is also my face veil."
She was arranging=
it
about her head when Lingard said, "There is no need. I am taking you to
those gentlemen."--"I will use it all the same," said Mrs.
Travers. "This thing works both ways, as a matter of propriety or as a
matter of precaution. Till I have an opportunity of looking into a mirror
nothing will persuade me that there isn't some change in my face." Lin=
gard
swung half round and gazed down at her. Veiled now she confronted him boldl=
y.
"Tell me, Captain Lingard, how many eyes were looking at us a little w=
hile
ago?"
"Do you
care?" he asked.
"Not in the
least," she said. "A million stars were looking on, too, and what=
did
it matter? They were not of the world I know. And it's just the same with t=
he
eyes. They are not of the world I live in."
Lingard thought:
"Nobody is." Never before had she seemed to him more unapproachab=
le,
more different and more remote. The glow of a number of small fires lighted=
the
ground only, and brought out the black bulk of men lying down in the thin d=
rift
of smoke. Only one of these fires, rather apart and burning in front of the
house which was the quarter of the prisoners, might have been called a blaze
and even that was not a great one. It didn't penetrate the dark space betwe=
en
the piles and the depth of the verandah above where only a couple of heads =
and
the glint of a spearhead could be seen dimly in the play of the light. But =
down
on the ground outside, the black shape of a man seated on a bench had an
intense relief. Another intensely black shadow threw a handful of brushwood=
on
the fire and went away. The man on the bench got up. It was d'Alcacer. He l=
et
Lingard and Mrs. Travers come quite close up to him. Extreme surprise seeme=
d to
have made him dumb.
"You didn't
expect . . ." began Mrs. Travers with some embarrassment before that m=
ute
attitude.
"I doubted my
eyes," struck in d'Alcacer, who seemed embarrassed, too. Next moment he
recovered his tone and confessed simply: "At the moment I wasn't think=
ing
of you, Mrs. Travers." He passed his hand over his forehead. "I
hardly know what I was thinking of."
In the light of t=
he
shooting-up flame Mrs. Travers could see d'Alcacer's face. There was no smi=
le
on it. She could not remember ever seeing him so grave and, as it were, so
distant. She abandoned Lingard's arm and moved closer to the fire.
"I fancy you
were very far away, Mr. d'Alcacer," she said.
"This is the
sort of freedom of which nothing can deprive us," he observed, looking
hard at the manner in which the scarf was drawn across Mrs. Travers' face.
"It's possible I was far away," he went on, "but I can assure
you that I don't know where I was. Less than an hour ago we had a great
excitement here about some rockets, but I didn't share in it. There was no =
one
I could ask a question of. The captain here was, I understood, engaged in a
most momentous conversation with the king or the governor of this place.&qu=
ot;
He addressed Ling=
ard,
directly. "May I ask whether you have reached any conclusion as yet? T=
hat
Moor is a very dilatory person, I believe."
"Any direct
attack he would, of course, resist," said Lingard. "And, so far, =
you
are protected. But I must admit that he is rather angry with me. He's tired=
of
the whole business. He loves peace above anything in the world. But I haven=
't
finished with him yet."
"As far as I
understood from what you told me before," said Mr. d'Alcacer, with a q=
uick
side glance at Mrs. Travers' uncovered and attentive eyes, "as far as I
can see he may get all the peace he wants at once by driving us two, I mean=
Mr.
Travers and myself, out of the gate on to the spears of those other enraged
barbarians. And there are some of his counsellors who advise him to do that
very thing no later than the break of day I understand."
Lingard stood for=
a moment
perfectly motionless.
"That's about
it," he said in an unemotional tone, and went away with a heavy step
without giving another look at d'Alcacer and Mrs. Travers, who after a mome=
nt
faced each other.
"You have
heard?" said d'Alcacer. "Of course that doesn't affect your fate =
in
any way, and as to him he is much too prestigious to be killed light-hearte=
dly.
When all this is over you will walk triumphantly on his arm out of this
stockade; for there is nothing in all this to affect his greatness, his abs=
olute
value in the eyes of those people--and indeed in any other eyes."
D'Alcacer kept his glance averted from Mrs. Travers and as soon as he had
finished speaking busied himself in dragging the bench a little way further
from the fire. When they sat down on it he kept his distance from Mrs. Trav=
ers.
She made no sign of unveiling herself and her eyes without a face seemed to=
him
strangely unknown and disquieting.
"The situati=
on
in a nutshell," she said. "You have arranged it all beautifully, =
even
to my triumphal exit. Well, and what then? No, you needn't answer, it has no
interest. I assure you I came here not with any notion of marching out in
triumph, as you call it. I came here, to speak in the most vulgar way, to s=
ave
your skin--and mine."
Her voice came
muffled to d'Alcacer's ears with a changed character, even to the very
intonation. Above the white and embroidered scarf her eyes in the firelight
transfixed him, black and so steady that even the red sparks of the reflect=
ed
glare did not move in them. He concealed the strong impression she made. He
bowed his head a little.
"I believe y=
ou
know perfectly well what you are doing."
"No! I don't
know," she said, more quickly than he had ever heard her speak before.
"First of all, I don't think he is so safe as you imagine. Oh, yes, he=
has
prestige enough, I don't question that. But you are apportioning life and d=
eath
with too much assurance. . . ."
"I know my
portion," murmured d'Alcacer, gently. A moment of silence fell in which
Mrs. Travers' eyes ended by intimidating d'Alcacer, who looked away. The fl=
ame
of the fire had sunk low. In the dark agglomeration of buildings, which mig=
ht
have been called Belarab's palace, there was a certain animation, a flittin=
g of
people, voices calling and answering, the passing to and fro of lights that
would illuminate suddenly a heavy pile, the corner of a house, the eaves of=
a low-pitched
roof, while in the open parts of the stockade the armed men slept by the
expiring fires.
Mrs. Travers said,
suddenly, "That Jorgenson is not friendly to us."
"Possibly.&q=
uot;
With clasped hands
and leaning over his knees d'Alcacer had assented in a very low tone. Mrs.
Travers, unobserved, pressed her hands to her breast and felt the shape of =
the
ring, thick, heavy, set with a big stone. It was there, secret, hung against
her heart, and enigmatic. What did it mean? What could it mean? What was the
feeling it could arouse or the action it could provoke? And she thought with
compunction that she ought to have given it to Lingard at once, without
thinking, without hesitating. "There! This is what I came for. To give=
you
this." Yes, but there had come an interval when she had been able to t=
hink
of nothing, and since then she had had the time to reflect--unfortunately. =
To remember
Jorgenson's hostile, contemptuous glance enveloping her from head to foot at
the break of a day after a night of lonely anguish. And now while she sat t=
here
veiled from his keen sight there was that other man, that d'Alcacer,
prophesying. O yes, triumphant. She knew already what that was. Mrs. Travers
became afraid of the ring. She felt ready to pluck it from her neck and cas=
t it
away.
"I mistrust
him," she said.--"You do!" exclaimed d'Alcacer, very
low.--"I mean that Jorgenson. He seems a merciless sort of creature.&q=
uot;--"He
is indifferent to everything," said d'Alcacer.--"It may be a
mask."--"Have you some evidence, Mrs. Travers?"
"No," s=
aid
Mrs. Travers without hesitation. "I have my instinct."
D'Alcacer remained
silent for a while as though he were pursuing another train of thought
altogether, then in a gentle, almost playful tone: "If I were a
woman," he said, turning to Mrs. Travers, "I would always trust my
intuition."--"If you were a woman, Mr. d'Alcacer, I would not be =
speaking
to you in this way because then I would be suspect to you."
The thought that
before long perhaps he would be neither man nor woman but a lump of cold cl=
ay,
crossed d'Alcacer's mind, which was living, alert, and unsubdued by the dan=
ger.
He had welcomed the arrival of Mrs. Travers simply because he had been very
lonely in that stockade, Mr. Travers having fallen into a phase of sulks
complicated with shivering fits. Of Lingard d'Alcacer had seen almost nothi=
ng
since they had landed, for the Man of Fate was extremely busy negotiating in
the recesses of Belarab's main hut; and the thought that his life was being=
a
matter of arduous bargaining was not agreeable to Mr. d'Alcacer. The Chief's
dependents and the armed men garrisoning the stockade paid very little
attention to him apparently, and this gave him the feeling of his captivity
being very perfect and hopeless. During the afternoon, while pacing to and =
fro
in the bit of shade thrown by the glorified sort of hut inside which Mr.
Travers shivered and sulked misanthropically, he had been aware of the more
distant verandahs becoming filled now and then by the muffled forms of wome=
n of
Belarab's household taking a distant and curious view of the white man. All
this was irksome. He found his menaced life extremely difficult to get thro=
ugh.
Yes, he welcomed the arrival of Mrs. Travers who brought with her a tragic =
note
into the empty gloom.
"Suspicion is
not in my nature, Mrs. Travers, I assure you, and I hope that you on your s=
ide
will never suspect either my reserve or my frankness. I respect the mysteri=
ous
nature of your conviction but hasn't Jorgenson given you some occasion to. .
."
"He hates
me," said Mrs. Travers, and frowned at d'Alcacer's incipient smile.
"It isn't a delusion on my part. The worst is that he hates me not for
myself. I believe he is completely indifferent to my existence. Jorgenson h=
ates
me because as it were I represent you two who are in danger, because it is =
you
two that are the trouble and I . . . Well!"
"Yes, yes,
that's certain," said d'Alcacer, hastily. "But Jorgenson is wrong=
in
making you the scapegoat. For if you were not here cool reason would step in
and would make Lingard pause in his passion to make a king out of an exile.=
If
we were murdered it would certainly make some stir in the world in time and=
he
would fall under the suspicion of complicity with those wild and inhuman Mo=
ors.
Who would regard the greatness of his day-dreams, his engaged honour, his
chivalrous feelings? Nothing could save him from that suspicion. And being =
what
he is, you understand me, Mrs. Travers (but you know him much better than I
do), it would morally kill him."
"Heavens!&qu=
ot;
whispered Mrs. Travers. "This has never occurred to me." Those wo=
rds
seemed to lose themselves in the folds of the scarf without reaching d'Alca=
cer,
who continued in his gentle tone:
'"However, a=
s it
is, he will be safe enough whatever happens. He will have your testimony to
clear him."
Mrs. Travers stood
up, suddenly, but still careful to keep her face covered, she threw the end=
of
the scarf over her shoulder.
"I fear that
Jorgenson," she cried with suppressed passion. "One can't underst=
and
what that man means to do. I think him so dangerous that if I were, for
instance, entrusted with a message bearing on the situation, I would . . .
suppress it."
D'Alcacer was loo=
king
up from the seat, full of wonder. Mrs. Travers appealed to him in a calm vo=
ice
through the folds of the scarf:
"Tell me, Mr.
d'Alcacer, you who can look on it calmly, wouldn't I be right?"
"Why, has
Jorgenson told you anything?"
"Directly--n=
othing,
except a phrase or two which really I could not understand. They seemed to =
have
a hidden sense and he appeared to attach some mysterious importance to them
that he dared not explain to me."
"That was a =
risk
on his part," exclaimed d'Alcacer. "And he trusted you. Why you, I
wonder!"
"Who can tell
what notions he has in his head? Mr. d'Alcacer, I believe his only object i=
s to
call Captain Lingard away from us. I understood it only a few minutes ago. =
It
has dawned upon me. All he wants is to call him off."
"Call him
off," repeated d'Alcacer, a little bewildered by the aroused fire of h=
er
conviction. "I am sure I don't want him called off any more than you d=
o;
and, frankly, I don't believe Jorgenson has any such power. But upon the wh=
ole,
and if you feel that Jorgenson has the power, I would--yes, if I were in yo=
ur
place I think I would suppress anything I could not understand."
Mrs. Travers list=
ened
to the very end. Her eyes--they appeared incredibly sombre to d'Alcacer--se=
emed
to watch the fall of every deliberate word and after he had ceased they
remained still for an appreciable time. Then she turned away with a gesture
that seemed to say: "So be it."
D'Alcacer raised =
his
voice suddenly after her. "Stay! Don't forget that not only your husba=
nd's
but my head, too, is being played at that game. My judgment is not . . .&qu=
ot;
She stopped for a
moment and freed her lips. In the profound stillness of the courtyard her c=
lear
voice made the shadows at the nearest fires stir a little with low murmurs =
of
surprise.
"Oh, yes, I
remember whose heads I have to save," she cried. "But in all the
world who is there to save that man from himself?"
V
D'Alcacer sat dow=
n on
the bench again. "I wonder what she knows," he thought, "and=
I
wonder what I have done." He wondered also how far he had been sincere=
and
how far affected by a very natural aversion from being murdered obscurely by
ferocious Moors with all the circumstances of barbarity. It was a very naked
death to come upon one suddenly. It was robbed of all helpful illusions, su=
ch
as the free will of a suicide, the heroism of a warrior, or the exaltation =
of a
martyr. "Hadn't I better make some sort of fight of it?" he debat=
ed
with himself. He saw himself rushing at the naked spears without any
enthusiasm. Or wouldn't it be better to go forth to meet his doom (somewhere
outside the stockade on that horrible beach) with calm dignity. "Pah! I
shall be probably speared through the back in the beastliest possible
fashion," he thought with an inward shudder. It was certainly not a
shudder of fear, for Mr. d'Alcacer attached no high value to life. It was a
shudder of disgust because Mr. d'Alcacer was a civilized man and though he =
had no
illusions about civilization he could not but admit the superiority of its
methods. It offered to one a certain refinement of form, a comeliness of
proceedings and definite safeguards against deadly surprises. "How idle
all this is," he thought, finally. His next thought was that women were
very resourceful. It was true, he went on meditating with unwonted cynicism,
that strictly speaking they had only one resource but, generally, it served=
--it
served.
He was surprised =
by
his supremely shameless bitterness at this juncture. It was so uncalled for.
This situation was too complicated to be entrusted to a cynical or shameless
hope. There was nothing to trust to. At this moment of his meditation he be=
came
aware of Lingard's approach. He raised his head eagerly. D'Alcacer was not
indifferent to his fate and even to Mr. Travers' fate. He would fain learn.=
. .
. But one look at Lingard's face was enough. "It's no use asking him
anything," he said to himself, "for he cares for nothing just
now."
Lingard sat down
heavily on the other end of the bench, and d'Alcacer, looking at his profil=
e,
confessed to himself that this was the most masculinely good-looking face he
had ever seen in his life. It was an expressive face, too, but its present
expression was also beyond d'Alcacer's past experience. At the same time its
quietness set up a barrier against common curiosities and even common fears.
No, it was no use asking him anything. Yet something should be said to break
the spell, to call down again this man to the earth. But it was Lingard who=
spoke
first. "Where has Mrs. Travers gone?"
"She has gon=
e .
. . where naturally she would be anxious to go first of all since she has
managed to come to us," answered d'Alcacer, wording his answer with the
utmost regard for the delicacy of the situation.
The stillness of
Lingard seemed to have grown even more impressive. He spoke again.
"I wonder wh=
at
those two can have to say to each other."
He might have been
asking that of the whole darkened part of the globe, but it was d'Alcacer w=
ho
answered in his courteous tones.
"Would it
surprise you very much, Captain Lingard, if I were to tell you that those t=
wo
people are quite fit to understand each other thoroughly? Yes? It surprises
you! Well, I assure you that seven thousand miles from here nobody would
wonder."
"I think I
understand," said Lingard, "but don't you know the man is light-h=
eaded?
A man like that is as good as mad."
"Yes, he had
been slightly delirious since seven o'clock," said d'Alcacer. "But
believe me, Captain Lingard," he continued, earnestly, and obeying a
perfectly disinterested impulse, "that even in his delirium he is far =
more
understandable to her and better able to understand her than . . . anybody
within a hundred miles from here."
"Ah!" s=
aid
Lingard without any emotion, "so you don't wonder. You don't see any
reason for wonder."
"No, for, do=
n't
you see, I do know."
"What do you
know?"
"Men and wom=
en,
Captain Lingard, which you. . . ."
"I don't know
any woman."
"You have sp=
oken
the strictest truth there," said d'Alcacer, and for the first time Lin=
gard
turned his head slowly and looked at his neighbour on the bench.
"Do you think
she is as good as mad, too?" asked Lingard in a startled voice.
D'Alcacer let esc=
ape
a low exclamation. No, certainly he did not think so. It was an original no=
tion
to suppose that lunatics had a sort of common logic which made them
understandable to each other. D'Alcacer tried to make his voice as gentle as
possible while he pursued: "No, Captain Lingard, I believe the woman of
whom we speak is and will always remain in the fullest possession of
herself."
Lingard, leaning
back, clasped his hands round his knees. He seemed not to be listening and
d'Alcacer, pulling a cigarette case out of his pocket, looked for a long ti=
me
at the three cigarettes it contained. It was the last of the provision he h=
ad
on him when captured. D'Alcacer had put himself on the strictest allowance.=
A
cigarette was only to be lighted on special occasions; and now there were o=
nly
three left and they had to be made to last till the end of life. They calme=
d,
they soothed, they gave an attitude. And only three left! One had to be kept
for the morning, to be lighted before going through the gate of doom--the g=
ate
of Belarab's stockade. A cigarette soothed, it gave an attitude. Was this t=
he
fitting occasion for one of the remaining two? D'Alcacer, a true Latin, was=
not
afraid of a little introspection. In the pause he descended into the innerm=
ost
depths of his being, then glanced up at the night sky. Sportsman, traveller=
, he
had often looked up at the stars before to see how time went. It was going =
very
slowly. He took out a cigarette, snapped-to the case, bent down to the embe=
rs. Then
he sat up and blew out a thin cloud of smoke. The man by his side looked wi=
th
his bowed head and clasped knee like a masculine rendering of mournful
meditation. Such attitudes are met with sometimes on the sculptures of anci=
ent
tombs. D'Alcacer began to speak:
"She is a
representative woman and yet one of those of whom there are but very few at=
any
time in the world. Not that they are very rare but that there is but little=
room
on top. They are the iridescent gleams on a hard and dark surface. For the
world is hard, Captain Lingard, it is hard, both in what it will remember a=
nd
in what it will forget. It is for such women that people toil on the ground=
and
underground and artists of all sorts invoke their inspiration."
Lingard seemed no=
t to
have heard a word. His chin rested on his breast. D'Alcacer appraised the
remaining length of his cigarette and went on in an equable tone through wh=
ich
pierced a certain sadness:
"No, there a=
re
not many of them. And yet they are all. They decorate our life for us. They=
are
the gracious figures on the drab wall which lies on this side of our common
grave. They lead a sort of ritual dance, that most of us have agreed to take
seriously. It is a very binding agreement with which sincerity and good fai=
th
and honour have nothing to do. Very binding. Woe to him or her who breaks i=
t.
Directly they leave the pageant they get lost."
Lingard turned his
head sharply and discovered d'Alcacer looking at him with profound attentio=
n.
"They get lo=
st
in a maze," continued d'Alcacer, quietly. "They wander in it
lamenting over themselves. I would shudder at that fate for anything I love=
d.
Do you know, Captain Lingard, how people lost in a maze end?" he went =
on
holding Lingard by a steadfast stare. "No? . . . I will tell you then.
They end by hating their very selves, and they die in disillusion and
despair."
As if afraid of t=
he
force of his words d'Alcacer laid a soothing hand lightly on Lingard's
shoulder. But Lingard continued to look into the embers at his feet and
remained insensible to the friendly touch. Yet d'Alcacer could not imagine =
that
he had not been heard. He folded his arms on his breast.
"I don't know
why I have been telling you all this," he said, apologetically. "I
hope I have not been intruding on your thoughts."
"I can think=
of
nothing," Lingard declared, unexpectedly. "I only know that your
voice was friendly; and for the rest--"
"One must get
through a night like this somehow," said d'Alcacer. "The very sta=
rs
seem to lag on their way. It's a common belief that a drowning man is
irresistibly compelled to review his past experience. Just now I feel quite=
out
of my depth, and whatever I have said has come from my experience. I am sure
you will forgive me. All that it amounts to is this: that it is natural for=
us
to cry for the moon but it would be very fatal to have our cries heard. For
what could any one of us do with the moon if it were given to him? I am
speaking now of us--common mortals."
It was not
immediately after d'Alcacer had ceased speaking but only after a moment that
Lingard unclasped his fingers, got up, and walked away. D'Alcacer followed =
with
a glance of quiet interest the big, shadowy form till it vanished in the
direction of an enormous forest tree left in the middle of the stockade. The
deepest shade of the night was spread over the ground of Belarab's fortified
courtyard. The very embers of the fires had turned black, showing only here=
and
there a mere spark; and the forms of the prone sleepers could hardly be
distinguished from the hard ground on which they rested, with their arms ly=
ing beside
them on the mats. Presently Mrs. Travers appeared quite close to d'Alcacer,=
who
rose instantly.
"Martin is
asleep," said Mrs. Travers in a tone that seemed to have borrowed
something of the mystery and quietness of the night.
"All the wor=
ld's
asleep," observed d'Alcacer, so low that Mrs. Travers barely caught the
words, "Except you and me, and one other who has left me to wander abo=
ut
in the night."
"Was he with
you? Where has he gone?"
"Where it's
darkest I should think," answered d'Alcacer, secretly. "It's no u=
se
going to look for him; but if you keep perfectly still and hold your breath=
you
may presently hear his footsteps."
"What did he
tell you?" breathed out Mrs. Travers.
"I didn't ask
him anything. I only know that something has happened which has robbed him =
of
his power of thinking . . . Hadn't I better go to the hut? Don Martin ought=
to
have someone with him when he wakes up." Mrs. Travers remained perfect=
ly
still and even now and then held her breath with a vague fear of hearing th=
ose
footsteps wandering in the dark. D'Alcacer had disappeared. Again Mrs. Trav=
ers
held her breath. No. Nothing. Not a sound. Only the night to her eyes seeme=
d to
have grown darker. Was that a footstep? "Where could I hide myself?&qu=
ot;
she thought. But she didn't move.
After leaving
d'Alcacer, Lingard threading his way between the fires found himself under =
the
big tree, the same tree against which Daman had been leaning on the day of =
the
great talk when the white prisoners had been surrendered to Lingard's keepi=
ng
on definite conditions. Lingard passed through the deep obscurity made by t=
he
outspread boughs of the only witness left there of a past that for endless =
ages
had seen no mankind on this shore defended by the Shallows, around this lag=
oon overshadowed
by the jungle. In the calm night the old giant, without shudders or murmurs=
in
its enormous limbs, saw the restless man drift through the black shade into=
the
starlight.
In that distant p=
art
of the courtyard there were only a few sentries who, themselves invisible, =
saw
Lingard's white figure pace to and fro endlessly. They knew well who that w=
as.
It was the great white man. A very great man. A very rich man. A possessor =
of
fire-arms, who could dispense valuable gifts and deal deadly blows, the fri=
end
of their Ruler, the enemy of his enemies, known to them for years and alway=
s mysterious.
At their posts, flattened against the stakes near convenient loopholes, they
cast backward glances and exchanged faint whispers from time to time.
Lingard might have
thought himself alone. He had lost touch with the world. What he had said to
d'Alcacer was perfectly true. He had no thought. He was in the state of a m=
an
who, having cast his eyes through the open gates of Paradise, is rendered
insensible by that moment's vision to all the forms and matters of the eart=
h;
and in the extremity of his emotion ceases even to look upon himself but as=
the
subject of a sublime experience which exalts or unfits, sanctifies or damns=
--he
didn't know which. Every shadowy thought, every passing sensation was like a
base intrusion on that supreme memory. He couldn't bear it.
When he had tried=
to
resume his conversation with Belarab after Mrs. Travers' arrival he had
discovered himself unable to go on. He had just enough self-control to break
off the interview in measured terms. He pointed out the lateness of the hou=
r, a
most astonishing excuse to people to whom time is nothing and whose life and
activities are not ruled by the clock. Indeed Lingard hardly knew what he w=
as
saying or doing when he went out again leaving everybody dumb with astonish=
ment
at the change in his aspect and in his behaviour. A suspicious silence reig=
ned
for a long time in Belarab's great audience room till the Chief dismissed
everybody by two quiet words and a slight gesture.
With her chin in =
her
hand in the pose of a sybil trying to read the future in the glow of dying
embers, Mrs. Travers, without holding her breath, heard quite close to her =
the
footsteps which she had been listening for with mingled alarm, remorse, and
hope.
She didn't change=
her
attitude. The deep red glow lighted her up dimly, her face, the white hand
hanging by her side, her feet in their sandals. The disturbing footsteps
stopped close to her.
"Where have =
you
been all this time?" she asked, without looking round.
"I don't
know," answered Lingard. He was speaking the exact truth. He didn't kn=
ow.
Ever since he had released that woman from his arms everything but the vagu=
est
notions had departed from him. Events, necessities, things--he had lost his
grip on them all. And he didn't care. They were futile and impotent; he had=
no
patience with them. The offended and astonished Belarab, d'Alcacer with his
kindly touch and friendly voice, the sleeping men, the men awake, the
Settlement full of unrestful life and the restless Shallows of the coast, w=
ere
removed from him into an immensity of pitying contempt. Perhaps they existe=
d.
Perhaps all this waited for him. Well, let all this wait; let everything wa=
it, till
to-morrow or to the end of time, which could now come at any moment for all=
he
cared--but certainly till to-morrow.
"I only
know," he went on with an emphasis that made Mrs. Travers raise her he=
ad,
"that wherever I go I shall carry you with me--against my breast."=
;
Mrs. Travers' fine
ear caught the mingled tones of suppressed exultation and dawning fear, the
ardour and the faltering of those words. She was feeling still the physical
truth at the root of them so strongly that she couldn't help saying in a dr=
eamy
whisper:
"Did you mea=
n to
crush the life out of me?"
He answered in the
same tone:
"I could not
have done it. You are too strong. Was I rough? I didn't mean to be. I have =
been
often told I didn't know my own strength. You did not seem able to get thro=
ugh
that opening and so I caught hold of you. You came away in my hands quite
easily. Suddenly I thought to myself, 'now I will make sure.'"
He paused as if h=
is
breath had failed him. Mrs. Travers dared not make the slightest movement.
Still in the pose of one in quest of hidden truth she murmured, "Make
sure?"
"Yes. And no=
w I
am sure. You are here--here! Before I couldn't tell."
"Oh, you
couldn't tell before," she said.
"No."
"So it was
reality that you were seeking."
He repeated as if
speaking to himself: "And now I am sure."
Her sandalled foo=
t,
all rosy in the glow, felt the warmth of the embers. The tepid night had
enveloped her body; and still under the impression of his strength she gave
herself up to a momentary feeling of quietude that came about her heart as =
soft
as the night air penetrated by the feeble clearness of the stars. "Thi=
s is
a limpid soul," she thought.
"You know I
always believed in you," he began again. "You know I did. Well. I
never believed in you so much as I do now, as you sit there, just as you ar=
e,
and with hardly enough light to make you out by."
It occurred to her
that she had never heard a voice she liked so well--except one. But that had
been a great actor's voice; whereas this man was nothing in the world but h=
is
very own self. He persuaded, he moved, he disturbed, he soothed by his inhe=
rent
truth. He had wanted to make sure and he had made sure apparently; and too
weary to resist the waywardness of her thoughts Mrs. Travers reflected with=
a
sort of amusement that apparently he had not been disappointed. She thought,
"He believes in me. What amazing words. Of all the people that might h=
ave believed
in me I had to find this one here. He believes in me more than in
himself." A gust of sudden remorse tore her out from her quietness, ma=
de
her cry out to him:
"Captain
Lingard, we forget how we have met, we forget what is going on. We mustn't.=
I
won't say that you placed your belief wrongly but I have to confess somethi=
ng
to you. I must tell you how I came here to-night. Jorgenson . . ."
He interrupted her
forcibly but without raising his voice.
"Jorgenson.
Who's Jorgenson? You came to me because you couldn't help yourself."
This took her bre=
ath
away. "But I must tell you. There is something in my coming which is n=
ot
clear to me."
"You can tel=
l me
nothing that I don't know already," he said in a pleading tone. "=
Say
nothing. Sit still. Time enough to-morrow. To-morrow! The night is drawing =
to
an end and I care for nothing in the world but you. Let me be. Give me the =
rest
that is in you."
She had never hea=
rd
such accents on his lips and she felt for him a great and tender pity. Why =
not
humour this mood in which he wanted to preserve the moments that would never
come to him again on this earth? She hesitated in silence. She saw him stir=
in
the darkness as if he could not make up his mind to sit down on the bench. =
But
suddenly he scattered the embers with his foot and sank on the ground again=
st
her feet, and she was not startled in the least to feel the weight of his h=
ead
on her knee. Mrs. Travers was not startled but she felt profoundly moved. W=
hy
should she torment him with all those questions of freedom and captivity, of
violence and intrigue, of life and death? He was not in a state to be told
anything and it seemed to her that she did not want to speak, that in the
greatness of her compassion she simply could not speak. All she could do for
him was to rest her hand lightly on his head and respond silently to the sl=
ight
movement she felt, sigh or sob, but a movement which suddenly immobilized h=
er
in an anxious emotion.
About the same ti=
me
on the other side of the lagoon Jorgenson, raising his eyes, noted the stars
and said to himself that the night would not last long now. He wished for
daylight. He hoped that Lingard had already done something. The blaze in
Tengga's compound had been re-lighted. Tom's power was unbounded, practical=
ly
unbounded. And he was invulnerable.
Jorgenson let his=
old
eyes wander amongst the gleams and shadows of the great sheet of water betw=
een
him and that hostile shore and fancied he could detect a floating shadow ha=
ving
the characteristic shape of a man in a small canoe.
"O! Ya!
Man!" he hailed. "What do you want?" Other eyes, too, had de=
tected
that shadow. Low murmurs arose on the deck of the Emma. "If you don't
speak at once I shall fire," shouted Jorgenson, fiercely.
"No, white
man," returned the floating shape in a solemn drawl. "I am the be=
arer
of friendly words. A chief's words. I come from Tengga."
"There was a
bullet that came on board not a long time ago--also from Tengga," said
Jorgenson.
"That was an
accident," protested the voice from the lagoon. "What else could =
it
be? Is there war between you and Tengga? No, no, O white man! All Tengga
desires is a long talk. He has sent me to ask you to come ashore."
At these words
Jorgenson's heart sank a little. This invitation meant that Lingard had mad=
e no
move. Was Tom asleep or altogether mad?
"The talk wo=
uld
be of peace," declared impressively the shadow which had drifted much
closer to the hulk now.
"It isn't fo=
r me
to talk with great chiefs," Jorgenson returned, cautiously.
"But Tengga =
is a
friend," argued the nocturnal messenger. "And by that fire there =
are
other friends--your friends, the Rajah Hassim and the lady Immada, who send=
you
their greetings and who expect their eyes to rest on you before sunrise.&qu=
ot;
"That's a
lie," remarked Jorgenson, perfunctorily, and fell into thought, while =
the
shadowy bearer of words preserved a scandalized silence, though, of course,=
he
had not expected to be believed for a moment. But one could never tell what=
a
white man would believe. He had wanted to produce the impression that Hassim
and Immada were the honoured guests of Tengga. It occurred to him suddenly =
that
perhaps Jorgenson didn't know anything of the capture. And he persisted.
"My words are
all true, Tuan. The Rajah of Wajo and his sister are with my master. I left
them sitting by the fire on Tengga's right hand. Will you come ashore to be
welcomed amongst friends?"
Jorgenson had been
reflecting profoundly. His object was to gain as much time as possible for
Lingard's interference which indeed could not fail to be effective. But he =
had
not the slightest wish to entrust himself to Tengga's friendliness. Not tha=
t he
minded the risk; but he did not see the use of taking it.
"No!" he
said, "I can't go ashore. We white men have ways of our own and I am c=
hief
of this hulk. And my chief is the Rajah Laut, a white man like myself. All =
the
words that matter are in him and if Tengga is such a great chief let him ask
the Rajah Laut for a talk. Yes, that's the proper thing for Tengga to do if=
he
is such a great chief as he says."
"The Rajah L=
aut
has made his choice. He dwells with Belarab, and with the white people who =
are
huddled together like trapped deer in Belarab's stockade. Why shouldn't you
meantime go over where everything is lighted up and open and talk in friend=
ship
with Tengga's friends, whose hearts have been made sick by many doubts; Raj=
ah
Hassim and the lady Immada and Daman, the chief of the men of the sea, who =
do
not know now whom they can trust unless it be you, Tuan, the keeper of much
wealth?"
The diplomatist in
the small dugout paused for a moment to give special weight to the final
argument:
"Which you h=
ave
no means to defend. We know how many armed men there are with you."
"They are gr=
eat
fighters," Jorgenson observed, unconcernedly, spreading his elbows on =
the
rail and looking over at the floating black patch of characteristic shape
whence proceeded the voice of the wily envoy of Tengga. "Each man of t=
hem
is worth ten of such as you can find in the Settlement."
"Yes, by All=
ah.
Even worth twenty of these common people. Indeed, you have enough with you =
to
make a great fight but not enough for victory."
"God alone g=
ives
victory," said suddenly the voice of Jaffir, who, very still at
Jorgenson's elbow, had been listening to the conversation.
"Very
true," was the answer in an extremely conventional tone. "Will yo=
u come
ashore, O white man; and be the leader of chiefs?"
"I have been
that before," said Jorgenson, with great dignity, "and now all I =
want
is peace. But I won't come ashore amongst people whose minds are so much
troubled, till Rajah Hassim and his sister return on board this ship and te=
ll
me the tale of their new friendship with Tengga."
His heart was sin= king with every minute, the very air was growing heavier with the sense of oncom= ing disaster, on that night that was neither war nor peace and whose only voice= was the voice of Tengga's envoy, insinuating in tone though menacing in words.<= o:p>
"No, that ca=
nnot
be," said that voice. "But, Tuan, verily Tengga himself is ready =
to
come on board here to talk with you. He is very ready to come and indeed, T=
uan,
he means to come on board here before very long."
"Yes, with f=
ifty
war-canoes filled with the ferocious rabble of the Shore of Refuge,"
Jaffir was heard commenting, sarcastically, over the rail; and a sinister
muttered "It may be so," ascended alongside from the black water.=
Jorgenson kept si=
lent
as if waiting for a supreme inspiration and suddenly he spoke in his
other-world voice: "Tell Tengga from me that as long as he brings with=
him
Rajah Hassim and the Rajah's sister, he and his chief men will be welcome on
deck here, no matter how many boats come along with them. For that I do not
care. You may go now."
A profound silence
succeeded. It was clear that the envoy was gone, keeping in the shadow of t=
he
shore. Jorgenson turned to Jaffir.
"Death among=
st
friends is but a festival," he quoted, mumbling in his moustache.
"It is, by
Allah," assented Jaffir with sombre fervour.
VI
Thirty-six hours
later Carter, alone with Lingard in the cabin of the brig, could almost feel
during a pause in his talk the oppressive, the breathless peace of the Shal=
lows
awaiting another sunset.
"I never
expected to see any of you alive," Carter began in his easy tone, but =
with
much less carelessness in his bearing as though his days of responsibility
amongst the Shoals of the Shore of Refuge had matured his view of the exter=
nal
world and of his own place therein.
"Of course
not," muttered Lingard.
The listlessness =
of
that man whom he had always seen acting under the stress of a secret passion
seemed perfectly appalling to Carter's youthful and deliberate energy. Ever
since he had found himself again face to face with Lingard he had tried to
conceal the shocking impression with a delicacy which owed nothing to train=
ing
but was as intuitive as a child's.
While justifying =
to
Lingard his manner of dealing with the situation on the Shore of Refuge, he
could not for the life of him help asking himself what was this new mystery=
. He
was also young enough to long for a word of commendation.
"Come,
Captain," he argued; "how would you have liked to come out and fi=
nd
nothing but two half-burnt wrecks stuck on the sands--perhaps?"
He waited for a
moment, then in sheer compassion turned away his eyes from that fixed gaze,
from that harassed face with sunk cheeks, from that figure of indomitable
strength robbed of its fire. He said to himself: "He doesn't hear
me," and raised his voice without altering its self-contained tone:
"I was below
yesterday morning when we felt the shock, but the noise came to us only as a
deep rumble. I made one jump for the companion but that precious Shaw was
before me yelling, 'Earthquake! Earthquake!' and I am hanged if he didn't m=
iss
his footing and land down on his head at the bottom of the stairs. I had to
stop to pick him up but I got on deck in time to see a mighty black cloud t=
hat
seemed almost solid pop up from behind the forest like a balloon. It stayed
there for quite a long time. Some of our Calashes on deck swore to me that =
they
had seen a red flash above the tree-tops. But that's hard to believe. I gue=
ssed
at once that something had blown up on shore. My first thought was that I w=
ould
never see you any more and I made up my mind at once to find out all the tr=
uth you
have been keeping away from me. No, sir! Don't you make a mistake! I wasn't
going to give you up, dead or alive."
He looked hard at
Lingard while saying these words and saw the first sign of animation pass o=
ver
that ravaged face. He saw even its lips move slightly; but there was no sou=
nd,
and Carter looked away again.
"Perhaps you
would have done better by telling me everything; but you left me behind on =
my
own to be your man here. I put my hand to the work I could see before me. I=
am
a sailor. There were two ships to look after. And here they are both for yo=
u,
fit to go or to stay, to fight or to run, as you choose." He watched w=
ith
bated breath the effort Lingard had to make to utter the two words of the
desired commendation:
"Well
done!"
"And I am yo=
ur
man still," Carter added, impulsively, and hastened to look away from
Lingard, who had tried to smile at him and had failed. Carter didn't know w=
hat
to do next, remain in the cabin or leave that unsupported strong man to
himself. With a shyness completely foreign to his character and which he co=
uld
not understand himself, he suggested in an engaging murmur and with an
embarrassed assumption of his right to give advice:
"Why not lie
down for a bit, sir? I can attend to anything that may turn up. You seem do=
ne
up, sir."
He was facing
Lingard, who stood on the other side of the table in a leaning forward atti=
tude
propped up on rigid arms and stared fixedly at him--perhaps? Carter felt on=
the
verge of despair. This couldn't last. He was relieved to see Lingard shake =
his
head slightly.
"No, Mr. Car=
ter.
I think I will go on deck," said the Captain of the famous brig Lightn=
ing,
while his eyes roamed all over the cabin. Carter stood aside at once, but it
was some little time before Lingard made a move.
The sun had sunk already, leaving that evening no trace of its glory on a sky clear as cryst= al and on the waters without a ripple. All colour seemed to have gone out of t= he world. The oncoming shadow rose as subtle as a perfume from the black coast lying athwart the eastern semicircle; and such was the silence within the horizon that one might have fancied oneself come to the end of time. Black = and toylike in the clear depths and the final stillness of the evening the brig= and the schooner lay anchored in the middle of the main channel with their heads swung the same way. Lingard, with his chin on his breast and his arms folde= d, moved slowly here and there about the poop. Close and mute like his shadow, Carte= r, at his elbow, followed his movements. He felt an anxious solicitude. . . .<= o:p>
It was a sentiment
perfectly new to him. He had never before felt this sort of solicitude about
himself or any other man. His personality was being developed by new
experience, and as he was very simple he received the initiation with shyne=
ss
and self-mistrust. He had noticed with innocent alarm that Lingard had not
looked either at the sky or over the sea, neither at his own ship nor the
schooner astern; not along the decks, not aloft, not anywhere. He had looke=
d at
nothing! And somehow Carter felt himself more lonely and without support th=
an
when he had been left alone by that man in charge of two ships entangled
amongst the Shallows and environed by some sinister mystery. Since that man=
had
come back, instead of welcome relief Carter felt his responsibility rest on=
his
young shoulders with tenfold weight. His profound conviction was that Linga=
rd
should be roused.
"Captain
Lingard," he burst out in desperation; "you can't say I have worr=
ied
you very much since this morning when I received you at the side, but I mus=
t be
told something. What is it going to be with us? Fight or run?"
Lingard stopped s=
hort
and now there was no doubt in Carter's mind that the Captain was looking at
him. There was no room for any doubt before that stern and enquiring gaze.
"Aha!" thought Carter. "This has startled him"; and fee=
ling
that his shyness had departed he pursued his advantage. "For the fact =
of
the matter is, sir, that, whatever happens, unless I am to be your man you =
will
have no officer. I had better tell you at once that I have bundled that
respectable, crazy, fat Shaw out of the ship. He was upsetting all hands.
Yesterday I told him to go and get his dunnage together because I was going=
to
send him aboard the yacht. He couldn't have made more uproar about it if I =
had
proposed to chuck him overboard. I warned him that if he didn't go quietly I
would have him tied up like a sheep ready for slaughter. However, he went d=
own
the ladder on his own feet, shaking his fist at me and promising to have me=
hanged
for a pirate some day. He can do no harm on board the yacht. And now, sir, =
it's
for you to give orders and not for me--thank God!"
Lingard turned aw=
ay,
abruptly. Carter didn't budge. After a moment he heard himself called from =
the
other side of the deck and obeyed with alacrity.
"What's that
story of a man you picked up on the coast last evening?" asked Lingard=
in
his gentlest tone. "Didn't you tell me something about it when I came =
on
board?"
"I tried
to," said Carter, frankly. "But I soon gave it up. You didn't see=
m to
pay any attention to what I was saying. I thought you wanted to be left alo=
ne
for a bit. What can I know of your ways, yet, sir? Are you aware, Captain
Lingard, that since this morning I have been down five times at the cabin d=
oor
to look at you? There you sat. . . ."
He paused and Lin=
gard
said: "You have been five times down in the cabin?"
"Yes. And the
sixth time I made up my mind to make you take some notice of me. I can't be
left without orders. There are two ships to look after, a lot of things to =
be
done. . . ."
"There is
nothing to be done," Lingard interrupted with a mere murmur but in a t=
one
which made Carter keep silent for a while.
"Even to know
that much would have been something to go by," he ventured at last.
"I couldn't let you sit there with the sun getting pretty low and a lo=
ng
night before us."
"I feel stun=
ned
yet," said Lingard, looking Carter straight in the face, as if to watch
the effect of that confession.
"Were you ve=
ry
near that explosion?" asked the young man with sympathetic curiosity a=
nd
seeking for some sign on Lingard's person. But there was nothing. Not a sin=
gle
hair of the Captain's head seemed to have been singed.
"Near,"
muttered Lingard. "It might have been my head." He pressed it with
both hands, then let them fall. "What about that man?" he asked, =
brusquely.
"Where did he come from? . . . I suppose he is dead now," he adde=
d in
an envious tone.
"No, sir. He
must have as many lives as a cat," answered Carter. "I will tell =
you
how it was. As I said before I wasn't going to give you up, dead or alive, =
so
yesterday when the sun went down a little in the afternoon I had two of our
boats manned and pulled in shore, taking soundings to find a passage if the=
re
was one. I meant to go back and look for you with the brig or without the
brig--but that doesn't matter now. There were three or four floating logs in
sight. One of the Calashes in my boat made out something red on one of them=
. I
thought it was worth while to go and see what it was. It was that man's sar=
ong.
It had got entangled among the branches and prevented him rolling off into =
the
water. I was never so glad, I assure you, as when we found out that he was
still breathing. If we could only nurse him back to life, I thought, he cou=
ld
perhaps tell me a lot of things. The log on which he hung had come out of t=
he
mouth of the creek and he couldn't have been more than half a day on it by =
my
calculation. I had him taken down the main hatchway and put into a hammock =
in
the 'tween-decks. He only just breathed then, but some time during the nigh=
t he
came to himself and got out of the hammock to lie down on a mat. I suppose =
he
was more comfortable that way. He recovered his speech only this morning an=
d I went
down at once and told you of it, but you took no notice. I told you also wh=
o he
was but I don't know whether you heard me or not."
"I don't
remember," said Lingard under his breath.
"They are
wonderful, those Malays. This morning he was only half alive, if that much,=
and
now I understand he has been talking to Wasub for an hour. Will you go down=
to
see him, sir, or shall I send a couple of men to carry him on deck?"
Lingard looked
bewildered for a moment.
"Who on eart=
h is
he?" he asked.
"Why, it's t=
hat
fellow whom you sent out, that night I met you, to catch our first gig. Wha=
t do
they call him? Jaffir, I think. Hasn't he been with you ashore, sir? Didn't=
he
find you with the letter I gave him for you? A most determined looking chap=
. I
knew him again the moment we got him off the log."
Lingard seized ho=
ld
of the royal backstay within reach of his hand. Jaffir! Jaffir! Faithful ab=
ove
all others; the messenger of supreme moments; the reckless and devoted serv=
ant!
Lingard felt a crushing sense of despair. "No, I can't face this,"=
; he
whispered to himself, looking at the coast black as ink now before his eyes=
in
the world's shadow that was slowly encompassing the grey clearness of the
Shallow Waters. "Send Wasub to me. I am going down into the cabin.&quo=
t;
He crossed over to
the companion, then checking himself suddenly: "Was there a boat from =
the
yacht during the day?" he asked as if struck by a sudden
thought.--"No, sir," answered Carter. "We had no communicati=
on with
the yacht to-day."--"Send Wasub to me," repeated Lingard in a
stern voice as he went down the stairs.
The old serang co=
ming
in noiselessly saw his Captain as he had seen him many times before, sitting
under the gilt thunderbolts, apparently as strong in his body, in his wealt=
h,
and in his knowledge of secret words that have a power over men and element=
s,
as ever. The old Malay squatted down within a couple of feet from Lingard,
leaned his back against the satinwood panel of the bulkhead, then raising h=
is
old eyes with a watchful and benevolent expression to the white man's face,
clasped his hands between his knees.
"Wasub, you =
have
learned now everything. Is there no one left alive but Jaffir? Are they all
dead?"
"May you
live!" answered Wasub; and Lingard whispered an appalled "All dea=
d!"
to which Wasub nodded slightly twice. His cracked voice had a lamenting
intonation. "It is all true! It is all true! You are left alone, Tuan;=
you
are left alone!"
"It was their
destiny," said Lingard at last, with forced calmness. "But has Ja=
ffir
told you of the manner of this calamity? How is it that he alone came out a=
live
from it to be found by you?"
"He was told=
by
his lord to depart and he obeyed," began Wasub, fixing his eyes on the
deck and speaking just loud enough to be heard by Lingard, who, bending for=
ward
in his seat, shrank inwardly from every word and yet would not have missed a
single one of them for anything.
For the catastrop=
he
had fallen on his head like a bolt from the blue in the early morning hours=
of
the day before. At the first break of dawn he had been sent for to resume, =
his
talk with Belarab. He had felt suddenly Mrs. Travers remove her hand from h=
is
head. Her voice speaking intimately into his ear: "Get up. There are s=
ome
people coming," had recalled him to himself. He had got up from the
ground. The light was dim, the air full of mist; and it was only gradually =
that
he began to make out forms above his head and about his feet: trees, houses,
men sleeping on the ground. He didn't recognize them. It was but a cruel ch=
ange
of dream. Who could tell what was real in this world? He looked about him,
dazedly; he was still drunk with the deep draught of oblivion he had conque=
red
for himself. Yes--but it was she who had let him snatch the cup. He looked =
down
at the woman on the bench. She moved not. She had remained like that, still=
for
hours, giving him a waking dream of rest without end, in an infinity of
happiness without sound and movement, without thought, without joy; but wit=
h an
infinite ease of content, like a world-embracing reverie breathing the air =
of
sadness and scented with love. For hours she had not moved.
"You are the
most generous of women," he said. He bent over her. Her eyes were wide
open. Her lips felt cold. It did not shock him. After he stood up he remain=
ed
near her. Heat is a consuming thing, but she with her cold lips seemed to h=
im
indestructible--and, perhaps, immortal!
Again he stooped,=
but
this time it was only to kiss the fringe of her head scarf. Then he turned =
away
to meet the three men, who, coming round the corner of the hut containing t=
he
prisoners, were approaching him with measured steps. They desired his prese=
nce
in the Council room. Belarab was awake.
They also express=
ed
their satisfaction at finding the white man awake, because Belarab wanted to
impart to him information of the greatest importance. It seemed to Lingard =
that
he had been awake ever since he could remember. It was as to being alive th=
at
he felt not so sure. He had no doubt of his existence; but was this life--t=
his
profound indifference, this strange contempt for what his eyes could see, t=
his distaste
for words, this unbelief in the importance of things and men? He tried to
regain possession of himself, his old self which had things to do, words to
speak as well as to hear. But it was too difficult. He was seduced away by =
the
tense feeling of existence far superior to the mere consciousness of life, =
and
which in its immensity of contradictions, delight, dread, exultation and
despair could not be faced and yet was not to be evaded. There was no peace=
in
it. But who wanted peace? Surrender was better, the dreadful ease of slack
limbs in the sweep of an enormous tide and in a divine emptiness of mind. If
this was existence then he knew that he existed. And he knew that the woman
existed, too, in the sweep of the tide, without speech, without movement,
without heat! Indestructible--and, perhaps, immortal!
VII
With the sublime
indifference of a man who has had a glimpse through the open doors of Parad=
ise
and is no longer careful of mere life, Lingard had followed Belarab's anxio=
us
messengers. The stockade was waking up in a subdued resonance of voices. Men
were getting up from the ground, fires were being rekindled. Draped figures
flitted in the mist amongst the buildings; and through the mat wall of a ba=
mboo
house Lingard heard the feeble wailing of a child. A day of mere life was
beginning; but in the Chief's great Council room several wax candles and a
couple of cheap European lamps kept the dawn at bay, while the morning mist
which could not be kept out made a faint reddish halo round every flame.
Belarab was not o=
nly
awake, but he even looked like a man who had not slept for a long time. The
creator of the Shore of Refuge, the weary Ruler of the Settlement, with his
scorn of the unrest and folly of men, was angry with his white friend who w=
as
always bringing his desires and his troubles to his very door. Belarab did =
not
want any one to die but neither did he want any one in particular to live. =
What
he was concerned about was to preserve the mystery and the power of his
melancholy hesitations. These delicate things were menaced by Lingard's bru=
sque
movements, by that passionate white man who believed in more than one God a=
nd
always seemed to doubt the power of Destiny. Belarab was profoundly annoyed=
. He
was also genuinely concerned, for he liked Lingard. He liked him not only f=
or
his strength, which protected his clear-minded scepticism from those dangers
that beset all rulers, but he liked him also for himself. That man of infin=
ite
hesitations, born from a sort of mystic contempt for Allah's creation, yet
believed absolutely both in Lingard's power and in his boldness. Absolutely.
And yet, in the marvellous consistency of his temperament, now that the mom=
ent
had come, he dreaded to put both power and fortitude to the test.
Lingard could not
know that some little time before the first break of dawn one of Belarab's
spies in the Settlement had found his way inside the stockade at a spot rem=
ote
from the lagoon, and that a very few moments after Lingard had left the Chi=
ef
in consequence of Jorgenson's rockets, Belarab was listening to an amazing =
tale
of Hassim and Immada's capture and of Tengga's determination, very much
strengthened by that fact, to obtain possession of the Emma, either by forc=
e or
by negotiation, or by some crafty subterfuge in which the Rajah and his sis=
ter
could be made to play their part. In his mistrust of the universe, which se=
emed
almost to extend to the will of God himself, Belarab was very much alarmed,=
for
the material power of Daman's piratical crowd was at Tengga's command; and =
who
could tell whether this Wajo Rajah would remain loyal in the circumstances?=
It
was also very characteristic of him whom the original settlers of the Shore=
of
Refuge called the Father of Safety, that he did not say anything of this to=
Lingard,
for he was afraid of rousing Lingard's fierce energy which would even carry
away himself and all his people and put the peace of so many years to the
sudden hazard of a battle.
Therefore Belarab=
set
himself to persuade Lingard on general considerations to deliver the white =
men,
who really belonged to Daman, to that supreme Chief of the Illanuns and by =
this
simple proceeding detach him completely from Tengga. Why should he, Belarab=
, go
to war against half the Settlement on their account? It was not necessary, =
it was
not reasonable. It would be even in a manner a sin to begin a strife in a
community of True Believers. Whereas with an offer like that in his hand he
could send an embassy to Tengga who would see there at once the downfall of=
his
purposes and the end of his hopes. At once! That moment! . . . Afterward the
question of a ransom could be arranged with Daman in which he, Belarab, wou=
ld
mediate in the fullness of his recovered power, without a rival and in the
sincerity of his heart. And then, if need be, he could put forth all his po=
wer
against the chief of the sea-vagabonds who would, as a matter of fact, be
negotiating under the shadow of the sword.
Belarab talked,
low-voiced and dignified, with now and then a subtle intonation, a persuasi=
ve
inflexion or a half-melancholy smile in the course of the argument. What
encouraged him most was the changed aspect of his white friend. The fierce
power of his personality seemed to have turned into a dream. Lingard listen=
ed,
growing gradually inscrutable in his continued silence, but remaining gentl=
e in
a sort of rapt patience as if lapped in the wings of the Angel of Peace
himself. Emboldened by that transformation, Belarab's counsellors seated on=
the
mats murmured loudly their assent to the views of the Chief. Through the
thickening white mist of tropical lands, the light of the tropical day filt=
ered
into the hall. One of the wise men got up from the floor and with prudent
fingers began extinguishing the waxlights one by one. He hesitated to touch=
the
lamps, the flames of which looked yellow and cold. A puff of the morning br=
eeze
entered the great room, faint and chill. Lingard, facing Belarab in a wooden
armchair, with slack limbs and in the divine emptiness of a mind enchanted =
by a
glimpse of Paradise, shuddered profoundly.
A strong voice
shouted in the doorway without any ceremony and with a sort of jeering acce=
nt:
"Tengga's bo=
ats
are out in the mist."
Lingard half rose
from his seat, Belarab himself could not repress a start. Lingard's attitude
was a listening one, but after a moment of hesitation he ran out of the hal=
l.
The inside of the stockade was beginning to buzz like a disturbed hive.
Outside Belarab's
house Lingard slowed his pace. The mist still hung. A great sustained murmur
pervaded it and the blurred forms of men were all moving outward from the
centre toward the palisades. Somewhere amongst the buildings a gong clanged.
D'Alcacer's raised voice was heard:
"What is
happening?"
Lingard was passi=
ng
then close to the prisoners' house. There was a group of armed men below the
verandah and above their heads he saw Mrs. Travers by the side of d'Alcacer.
The fire by which Lingard had spent the night was extinguished, its embers
scattered, and the bench itself lay overturned. Mrs. Travers must have run =
up
on the verandah at the first alarm. She and d'Alcacer up there seemed to
dominate the tumult which was now subsiding. Lingard noticed the scarf acro=
ss
Mrs. Travers' face. D'Alcacer was bareheaded. He shouted again:
"What's the
matter?"
"I am going =
to
see," shouted Lingard back.
He resisted the
impulse to join those two, dominate the tumult, let it roll away from under=
his
feet--the mere life of men, vain like a dream and interfering with the
tremendous sense of his own existence. He resisted it, he could hardly have
told why. Even the sense of self-preservation had abandoned him. There was a
throng of people pressing close about him yet careful not to get in his way.
Surprise, concern, doubt were depicted on all those faces; but there were s=
ome
who observed that the great white man making his way to the lagoon side of =
the
stockade wore a fixed smile. He asked at large:
"Can one see=
any
distance over the water?"
One of Belarab's
headmen who was nearest to him answered:
"The mist has
thickened. If you see anything, Tuan, it will be but a shadow of things.&qu=
ot;
The four sides of=
the
stockade had been manned by that time. Lingard, ascending the banquette, lo=
oked
out and saw the lagoon shrouded in white, without as much as a shadow on it,
and so still that not even the sound of water lapping the shore reached his
ears. He found himself in profound accord with this blind and soundless pea=
ce.
"Has anythin=
g at
all been seen?" he asked incredulously.
Four men were
produced at once who had seen a dark mass of boats moving in the light of t=
he
dawn. Others were sent for. He hardly listened to them. His thought escaped=
him
and he stood motionless, looking out into the unstirring mist pervaded by t=
he
perfect silence. Presently Belarab joined him, escorted by three grave, swa=
rthy
men, himself dark-faced, stroking his short grey beard with impenetrable
composure. He said to Lingard, "Your white man doesn't fight," to
which Lingard answered, "There is nothing to fight against. What your
people have seen, Belarab, were indeed but shadows on the water." Bela=
rab
murmured, "You ought to have allowed me to make friends with Daman last
night."
A faint uneasiness
was stealing into Lingard's breast.
A moment later
d'Alcacer came up, inconspicuously watched over by two men with lances, and=
to
his anxious inquiry Lingard said: "I don't think there is anything goi=
ng
on. Listen how still everything is. The only way of bringing the matter to a
test would be to persuade Belarab to let his men march out and make an atta=
ck
on Tengga's stronghold this moment. Then we would learn something. But I
couldn't persuade Belarab to march out into this fog. Indeed, an expedition
like this might end badly. I myself don't believe that all Tengga's people =
are
on the lagoon. . . . Where is Mrs. Travers?"
The question made
d'Alcacer start by its abruptness which revealed the woman's possession of =
that
man's mind. "She is with Don Martin, who is better but feels very weak=
. If
we are to be given up, he will have to be carried out to his fate. I can de=
pict
to myself the scene. Don Martin carried shoulder high surrounded by those
barbarians with spears, and Mrs. Travers with myself walking on each side of
the stretcher. Mrs. Travers has declared to me her intention to go out with
us."
"Oh, she has
declared her intention," murmured Lingard, absent-mindedly.
D'Alcacer felt
himself completely abandoned by that man. And within two paces of him he
noticed the group of Belarab and his three swarthy attendants in their white
robes, preserving an air of serene detachment. For the first time since the
stranding on the coast d'Alcacer's heart sank within him. "But
perhaps," he went on, "this Moor may not in the end insist on giv=
ing
us up to a cruel death, Captain Lingard."
"He wanted to
give you up in the middle of the night, a few hours ago," said Lingard,
without even looking at d'Alcacer who raised his hands a little and let them
fall. Lingard sat down on the breech of a heavy piece mounted on a naval
carriage so as to command the lagoon. He folded his arms on his breast.
D'Alcacer asked, gently:
"We have been
reprieved then?"
"No," s=
aid
Lingard. "It's I who was reprieved."
A long silence
followed. Along the whole line of the manned stockade the whisperings had
ceased. The vibrations of the gong had died out, too. Only the watchers per=
ched
in the highest boughs of the big tree made a slight rustle amongst the leav=
es.
"What are you
thinking of, Captain Lingard?" d'Alcacer asked in a low voice. Lingard=
did
not change his position.
"I am trying=
to
keep it off," he said in the same tone.
"What? Tryin=
g to
keep thought off?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Is this the
time for such experiments?" asked d'Alcacer.
"Why not? It=
's
my reprieve. Don't grudge it to me, Mr. d'Alcacer."
"Upon my wor=
d I
don't. But isn't it dangerous?"
"You will ha=
ve
to take your chance."
D'Alcacer had a
moment of internal struggle. He asked himself whether he should tell Lingard
that Mrs. Travers had come to the stockade with some sort of message from
Jorgenson. He had it on the tip of his tongue to advise Lingard to go and s=
ee
Mrs. Travers and ask her point blank whether she had anything to tell him; =
but
before he could make up his mind the voices of invisible men high up in the
tree were heard reporting the thinning of the fog. This caused a stir to run
along the four sides of the stockade.
Lingard felt the
draught of air in his face, the motionless mist began to drive over the
palisades and, suddenly, the lagoon came into view with a great blinding
glitter of its wrinkled surface and the faint sound of its wash rising all
along the shore. A multitude of hands went up to shade the eager eyes, and
exclamations of wonder burst out from many men at the sight of a crowd of
canoes of various sizes and kinds lying close together with the effect as o=
f an
enormous raft, a little way off the side of the Emma. The excited voices ro=
se
higher and higher. There was no doubt about Tengga's being on the lagoon. B=
ut
what was Jorgenson about? The Emma lay as if abandoned by her keeper and he=
r crew,
while the mob of mixed boats seemed to be meditating an attack.
For all his
determination to keep thought off to the very last possible moment, Lingard
could not defend himself from a sense of wonder and fear. What was Jorgenson
about? For a moment Lingard expected the side of the Emma to wreath itself =
in
puffs of smoke, but an age seemed to elapse without the sound of a shot rea=
ching
his ears.
The boats were af=
raid
to close. They were hanging off, irresolute; but why did Jorgenson not put =
an
end to their hesitation by a volley or two of musketry if only over their
heads? Through the anguish of his perplexity Lingard found himself returnin=
g to
life, to mere life with its sense of pain and mortality, like a man awakened
from a dream by a stab in the breast. What did this silence of the Emma mea=
n?
Could she have been already carried in the fog? But that was unthinkable. S=
ome sounds
of resistance must have been heard. No, the boats hung off because they knew
with what desperate defence they would meet; and perhaps Jorgenson knew very
well what he was doing by holding his fire to the very last moment and lett=
ing
the craven hearts grow cold with the fear of a murderous discharge that wou=
ld
have to be faced. What was certain was that this was the time for Belarab to
open the great gate and let his men go out, display his power, sweep through
the further end of the Settlement, destroy Tengga's defences, do away once =
for
all with the absurd rivalry of that intriguing amateur boat-builder. Lingar=
d turned
eagerly toward Belarab but saw the Chief busy looking across the lagoon thr=
ough
a long glass resting on the shoulder of a stooping slave. He was motionless
like a carving. Suddenly he let go the long glass which some ready hands ca=
ught
as it fell and said to Lingard:
"No fight.&q=
uot;
"How do you
know?" muttered Lingard, astounded.
"There are t=
hree
empty sampans alongside the ladder," said Belarab in a just audible vo=
ice.
"There is bad talk there."
"Talk? I don=
't
understand," said Lingard, slowly.
But Belarab had
turned toward his three attendants in white robes, with shaven polls under
skull-caps of plaited grass, with prayer beads hanging from their wrists, a=
nd
an air of superior calm on their dark faces: companions of his desperate da=
ys,
men of blood once and now imperturbable in their piety and wisdom of trusted
counsellors.
"This white =
man
is being betrayed," he murmured to them with the greatest composure.
D'Alcacer,
uncomprehending, watched the scene: the Man of Fate puzzled and fierce like=
a
disturbed lion, the white-robed Moors, the multitude of half-naked barbaria=
ns,
squatting by the guns, standing by the loopholes in the immobility of an ar=
ranged
display. He saw Mrs. Travers on the verandah of the prisoners' house, an
anxious figure with a white scarf over her head. Mr. Travers was no doubt t=
oo
weak after his fit of fever to come outside. If it hadn't been for that, all
the whites would have been in sight of each other at the very moment of the
catastrophe which was to give them back to the claims of their life, at the
cost of other lives sent violently out of the world. D'Alcacer heard Lingar=
d asking
loudly for the long glass and saw Belarab make a sign with his hand, when he
felt the earth receive a violent blow from underneath. While he staggered t=
o it
the heavens split over his head with a crash in the lick of a red tongue of
flame; and a sudden dreadful gloom fell all round the stunned d'Alcacer, who
beheld with terror the morning sun, robbed of its rays, glow dull and brown
through the sombre murk which had taken possession of the universe. The Emma
had blown up; and when the rain of shattered timbers and mangled corpses
falling into the lagoon had ceased, the cloud of smoke hanging motionless u=
nder
the livid sun cast its shadow afar on the Shore of Refuge where all strife =
had come
to an end.
A great wail of
terror ascended from the Settlement and was succeeded by a profound silence=
. People
could be seen bolting in unreasoning panic away from the houses and into the
fields. On the lagoon the raft of boats had broken up. Some of them were
sinking, others paddling away in all directions. What was left above water =
of
the Emma had burst into a clear flame under the shadow of the cloud, the gr=
eat
smoky cloud that hung solid and unstirring above the tops of the forest,
visible for miles up and down the coast and over the Shallows.
The first person =
to
recover inside the stockade was Belarab himself. Mechanically he murmured t=
he
exclamation of wonder, "God is great," and looked at Lingard. But
Lingard was not looking at him. The shock of the explosion had robbed him of
speech and movement. He stared at the Emma blazing in a distant and insigni=
ficant
flame under the sinister shadow of the cloud created by Jorgenson's mistrust
and contempt for the life of men. Belarab turned away. His opinion had chan=
ged.
He regarded Lingard no longer as a betrayed man but the effect was the same=
. He
was no longer a man of any importance. What Belarab really wanted now was to
see all the white people clear out of the lagoon as soon as possible. Prese=
ntly
he ordered the gate to be thrown open and his armed men poured out to take
possession of the Settlement. Later Tengga's houses were set on fire and
Belarab, mounting a fiery pony, issued forth to make a triumphal progress
surrounded by a great crowd of headmen and guards.
That night the wh=
ite
people left the stockade in a cortege of torch bearers. Mr. Travers had to =
be
carried down to the beach, where two of Belarab's war-boats awaited their
distinguished passengers. Mrs. Travers passed through the gate on d'Alcacer=
's
arm. Her face was half veiled. She moved through the throng of spectators
displayed in the torchlight looking straight before her. Belarab, standing =
in
front of a group of headmen, pretended not to see the white people as they =
went
by. With Lingard he shook hands, murmuring the usual formulas of friendship;
and when he heard the great white man say, "You shall never see me
again," he felt immensely relieved. Belarab did not want to see that w=
hite
man again, but as he responded to the pressure of Lingard's hand he had a g=
rave
smile.
"God alone k=
nows
the future," he said.
Lingard walked to=
the
beach by himself, feeling a stranger to all men and abandoned by the
All-Knowing God. By that time the first boat with Mr. and Mrs. Travers had
already got away out of the blood-red light thrown by the torches upon the
water. D'Alcacer and Lingard followed in the second. Presently the dark sha=
de
of the creek, walled in by the impenetrable forest, closed round them and t=
he
splash of the paddles echoed in the still, damp air.
"How do you
think this awful accident happened?" asked d'Alcacer, who had been sit=
ting
silent by Lingard's side.
"What is an
accident?" said Lingard with a great effort. "Where did you hear =
of
such a thing? Accident! Don't disturb me, Mr. d'Alcacer. I have just come b=
ack
to life and it has closed on me colder and darker than the grave itself. Le=
t me
get used . . . I can't bear the sound of a human voice yet."
VIII
And now, stoical =
in
the cold and darkness of his regained life, Lingard had to listen to the vo=
ice
of Wasub telling him Jaffir's story. The old serang's face expressed a prof=
ound
dejection and there was infinite sadness in the flowing murmur of his words=
.
"Yes, by All=
ah!
They were all there: that tyrannical Tengga, noisy like a fool; the Rajah
Hassim, a ruler without a country; Daman, the wandering chief, and the three
Pangerans of the sea-robbers. They came on board boldly, for Tuan Jorgenson=
had
given them permission, and their talk was that you, Tuan, were a willing
captive in Belarab's stockade. They said they had waited all night for a
message of peace from you or from Belarab. But there was nothing, and with =
the
first sign of day they put out on the lagoon to make friends with Tuan
Jorgenson; for, they said, you, Tuan, were as if you had not been, possessi=
ng
no more power than a dead man, the mere slave of these strange white people,
and Belarab's prisoner. Thus Tengga talked. God had taken from him all wisd=
om
and all fear. And then he must have thought he was safe while Rajah Hassim =
and
the lady Immada were on board. I tell you they sat there in the midst of yo=
ur
enemies, captive! The lady Immada, with her face covered, mourned to hersel=
f.
The Rajah Hassim made a sign to Jaffir and Jaffir came to stand by his side=
and
talked to his lord. The main hatch was open and many of the Illanuns crowded
there to look down at the goods that were inside the ship. They had never s=
een
so much loot in their lives. Jaffir and his lord could hear plainly Tuan
Jorgenson and Tengga talking together. Tengga discoursed loudly and his wor=
ds
were the words of a doomed man, for he was asking Tuan Jorgenson to give up=
the
arms and everything that was on board the Emma to himself and to Daman. And
then, he said, 'We shall fight Belarab and make friends with these strange
white people by behaving generously to them and letting them sail away unha=
rmed
to their own country. We don't want them here. You, Tuan Jorgenson, are the
only white man I care for.' They heard Tuan Jorgenson say to Tengga: 'Now y=
ou
have told me everything there is in your mind you had better go ashore with
your friends and return to-morrow.' And Tengga asked: 'Why! would you fight=
me
to-morrow rather than live many days in peace with me?' and he laughed and
slapped his thigh. And Tuan Jorgenson answered:
"'No, I won't
fight you. But even a spider will give the fly time to say its prayers.'
"Tuan
Jorgenson's voice sounded very strange and louder than ever anybody had hea=
rd
it before. O Rajah Laut, Jaffir and the white man had been waiting, too, all
night for some sign from you; a shot fired or a signal-fire, lighted to
strengthen their hearts. There had been nothing. Rajah Hassim, whispering,
ordered Jaffir to take the first opportunity to leap overboard and take to =
you
his message of friendship and good-bye. Did the Rajah and Jaffir know what =
was
coming? Who can tell? But what else could they see than calamity for all Wa=
jo
men, whatever Tuan Jorgenson had made up his mind to do? Jaffir prepared to
obey his lord, and yet with so many enemies' boats in the water he did not
think he would ever reach the shore; and as to yourself he was not at all s=
ure that
you were still alive. But he said nothing of this to his Rajah. Nobody was
looking their way. Jaffir pressed his lord's hand to his breast and waited =
his
opportunity. The fog began to blow away and presently everything was disclo=
sed
to the sight. Jorgenson was on his feet, he was holding a lighted cigar bet=
ween
his fingers. Tengga was sitting in front of him on one of the chairs the wh=
ite
people had used. His followers were pressing round him, with Daman and Sent=
ot,
who were muttering incantations; and even the Pangerans had moved closer to=
the
hatchway. Jaffir's opportunity had come but he lingered by the side of his
Rajah. In the clear air the sun shone with great force. Tuan Jorgenson look=
ed
once more toward Belarab's stockade, O Rajah Laut! But there was nothing th=
ere,
not even a flag displayed that had not been there before. Jaffir looked that
way, too, and as he turned his head he saw Tuan Jorgenson, in the midst of
twenty spear-blades that could in an instant have been driven into his brea=
st, put
the cigar in his mouth and jump down the hatchway. At that moment Rajah Has=
sim
gave Jaffir a push toward the side and Jaffir leaped overboard.
"He was stil=
l in
the water when all the world was darkened round him as if the life of the s=
un
had been blown out of it in a crash. A great wave came along and washed him=
on
shore, while pieces of wood, iron, and the limbs of torn men were splashing
round him in the water. He managed to crawl out of the mud. Something had h=
it
him while he was swimming and he thought he would die. But life stirred in =
him.
He had a message for you. For a long time he went on crawling under the big
trees on his hands and knees, for there is no rest for a messenger till the
message is delivered. At last he found himself on the left bank of the cree=
k. And
still he felt life stir in him. So he started to swim across, for if you we=
re
in this world you were on the other side. While he swam he felt his strength
abandoning him. He managed to scramble on to a drifting log and lay on it l=
ike one
who is dead, till we pulled him into one of our boats."
Wasub ceased. It
seemed to Lingard that it was impossible for mortal man to suffer more than=
he
suffered in the succeeding moment of silence crowded by the mute images as =
of
universal destruction. He felt himself gone to pieces as though the violent
expression of Jorgenson's intolerable mistrust of the life of men had shatt=
ered
his soul, leaving his body robbed of all power of resistance and of all
fortitude, a prey forever to infinite remorse and endless regrets.
"Leave me,
Wasub," he said. "They are all dead--but I would sleep."
Wasub raised his =
dumb
old eyes to the white man's face.
"Tuan, it is
necessary that you should hear Jaffir," he said, patiently.
"Is he going=
to
die?" asked Lingard in a low, cautious tone as though he were afraid of
the sound of his own voice.
"Who can
tell?" Wasub's voice sounded more patient than ever. "There is no
wound on his body but, O Tuan, he does not wish to live."
"Abandoned by
his God," muttered Lingard to himself.
Wasub waited a li=
ttle
before he went on, "And, Tuan, he has a message for you."
"Of course.
Well, I don't want to hear it."
"It is from
those who will never speak to you again," Wasub persevered, sadly.
"It is a great trust. A Rajah's own words. It is difficult for Jaffir =
to
die. He keeps on muttering about a ring that was for you, and that he let p=
ass
out of his care. It was a great talisman!"
"Yes. But it=
did
not work this time. And if I go and tell Jaffir why he will be able to tell=
his
Rajah, O Wasub, since you say that he is going to die. . . . I wonder where
they will meet," he muttered to himself.
Once more Wasub
raised his eyes to Lingard's face. "Paradise is the lot of all True
Believers," he whispered, firm in his simple faith.
The man who had b=
een
undone by a glimpse of Paradise exchanged a profound look with the old Mala=
y.
Then he got up. On his passage to the main hatchway the commander of the br=
ig
met no one on the decks, as if all mankind had given him up except the old =
man
who preceded him and that other man dying in the deepening twilight, who was
awaiting his coming. Below, in the light of the hatchway, he saw a young Ca=
lash
with a broad yellow face and his wiry hair sticking up in stiff wisps throu=
gh the
folds of his head-kerchief, holding an earthenware water-jar to the lips of
Jaffir extended on his back on a pile of mats.
A languid roll of=
the
already glazed eyeballs, a mere stir of black and white in the gathering du=
sk
showed that the faithful messenger of princes was aware of the presence of =
the
man who had been so long known to him and his people as the King of the Sea.
Lingard knelt down close to Jaffir's head, which rolled a little from side =
to
side and then became still, staring at a beam of the upper deck. Lingard be=
nt
his ear to the dark lips. "Deliver your message" he said in a gen=
tle
tone.
"The Rajah
wished to hold your hand once more," whispered Jaffir so faintly that
Lingard had to guess the words rather than hear them. "I was to tell
you," he went on--and stopped suddenly.
"What were y=
ou
to tell me?"
"To forget
everything," said Jaffir with a loud effort as if beginning a long spe=
ech.
After that he said nothing more till Lingard murmured, "And the lady
Immada?"
Jaffir collected =
all
his strength. "She hoped no more," he uttered, distinctly. "=
The
order came to her while she mourned, veiled, apart. I didn't even see her
face."
Lingard swayed ov=
er
the dying man so heavily that Wasub, standing near by, hastened to catch hi=
m by
the shoulder. Jaffir seemed unaware of anything, and went on staring at the
beam.
"Can you hear
me, O Jaffir?" asked Lingard.
"I hear.&quo=
t;
"I never had=
the
ring. Who could bring it to me?"
"We gave it =
to
the white woman--may Jehannum be her lot!"
"No! It shal=
l be
my lot," said Lingard with despairing force, while Wasub raised both h=
is
hands in dismay. "For, listen, Jaffir, if she had given the ring to me=
it
would have been to one that was dumb, deaf, and robbed of all courage."=
;
It was impossible=
to
say whether Jaffir had heard. He made no sound, there was no change in his
awful stare, but his prone body moved under the cotton sheet as if to get
further away from the white man. Lingard got up slowly and making a sign to
Wasub to remain where he was, went up on deck without giving another glance=
to
the dying man. Again it seemed to him that he was pacing the quarter-deck o=
f a
deserted ship. The mulatto steward, watching through the crack of the pantry
door, saw the Captain stagger into the cuddy and fling-to the door behind h=
im
with a crash. For more than an hour nobody approached that closed door till=
Carter
coming down the companion stairs spoke without attempting to open it.
"Are you the=
re,
sir?" The answer, "You may come in," comforted the young man=
by
its strong resonance. He went in.
"Well?"=
"Jaffir is d=
ead.
This moment. I thought you would want to know."
Lingard looked
persistently at Carter, thinking that now Jaffir was dead there was no one =
left
on the empty earth to speak to him a word of reproach; no one to know the
greatness of his intentions, the bond of fidelity between him and Hassim and
Immada, the depth of his affection for those people, the earnestness of his
visions, and the unbounded trust that was his reward. By the mad scorn of
Jorgenson flaming up against the life of men, all this was as if it had nev=
er
been. It had become a secret locked up in his own breast forever.
"Tell Wasub =
to
open one of the long-cloth bales in the hold, Mr. Carter, and give the crew=
a
cotton sheet to bury him decently according to their faith. Let it be done
to-night. They must have the boats, too. I suppose they will want to take h=
im
on the sandbank."
"Yes, sir,&q=
uot;
said Carter.
"Let them ha=
ve
what they want, spades, torches. . . . Wasub will chant the right words.
Paradise is the lot of all True Believers. Do you understand me, Mr. Carter?
Paradise! I wonder what it will be for him! Unless he gets messages to carry
through the jungle, avoiding ambushes, swimming in storms and knowing no re=
st,
he won't like it."
Carter listened w=
ith
an unmoved face. It seemed to him that the Captain had forgotten his presen=
ce.
"And all the
time he will be sleeping on that sandbank," Lingard began again, sitti=
ng
in his old place under the gilt thunderbolts suspended over his head with h=
is
elbows on the table and his hands to his temples. "If they want a boar=
d to
set up at the grave let them have a piece of an oak plank. It will stay
there--till the next monsoon. Perhaps."
Carter felt
uncomfortable before that tense stare which just missed him and in that
confined cabin seemed awful in its piercing and far-off expression. But as =
he
had not been dismissed he did not like to go away.
"Everything =
will
be done as you wish it, sir," he said. "I suppose the yacht will =
be
leaving the first thing to-morrow morning, sir."
"If she does=
n't
we must give her a solid shot or two to liven her up--eh, Mr. Carter?"=
Carter did not kn=
ow
whether to smile or to look horrified. In the end he did both, but as to sa=
ying
anything he found it impossible. But Lingard did not expect an answer.
"I believe y=
ou
are going to stay with me, Mr. Carter?"
"I told you,
sir, I am your man if you want me."
"The trouble=
is,
Mr. Carter, that I am no longer the man to whom you spoke that night in
Carimata."
"Neither am =
I,
sir, in a manner of speaking."
Lingard, relaxing=
the
tenseness of his stare, looked at the young man, thoughtfully.
"After all, =
it
is the brig that will want you. She will never change. The finest craft afl=
oat
in these seas. She will carry me about as she did before, but . . ."
He unclasped his
hands, made a sweeping gesture.
Carter gave all h=
is
naive sympathy to that man who had certainly rescued the white people but
seemed to have lost his own soul in the attempt. Carter had heard something
from Wasub. He had made out enough of this story from the old serang's pidg=
in
English to know that the Captain's native friends, one of them a woman, had
perished in a mysterious catastrophe. But the why of it, and how it came ab=
out,
remained still quite incomprehensible to him. Of course, a man like the Cap=
tain
would feel terribly cut up. . . .
"You will be
soon yourself again, sir," he said in the kindest possible tone.
With the same
simplicity Lingard shook his head. He was thinking of the dead Jaffir with =
his
last message delivered and untroubled now by all these matters of the earth=
. He
had been ordered to tell him to forget everything. Lingard had an inward
shudder. In the dismay of his heart he might have believed his brig to lie
under the very wing of the Angel of Desolation--so oppressive, so final, and
hopeless seemed the silence in which he and Carter looked at each other,
wistfully.
Lingard reached f=
or a
sheet of paper amongst several lying on the table, took up a pen, hesitated=
a
moment, and then wrote:
"Meet me at
day-break on the sandbank."
He addressed the
envelope to Mrs. Travers, Yacht Hermit, and pushed it across the table.
"Send this on
board the schooner at once, Mr. Carter. Wait a moment. When our boats shove=
off
for the sandbank have the forecastle gun fired. I want to know when that de=
ad
man has left the ship."
He sat alone, lea=
ning
his head on his hand, listening, listening endlessly, for the report of the
gun. Would it never come? When it came at last muffled, distant, with a sli=
ght
shock through the body of the brig he remained still with his head leaning =
on
his hand but with a distinct conviction, with an almost physical certitude,
that under the cotton sheet shrouding the dead man something of himself, to=
o,
had left the ship.
IX
In a roomy cabin,
furnished and fitted with austere comfort, Mr. Travers reposed at ease in a=
low
bed-place under a snowy white sheet and a light silk coverlet, his head sun=
k in
a white pillow of extreme purity. A faint scent of lavender hung about the
fresh linen. Though lying on his back like a person who is seriously ill Mr.
Travers was conscious of nothing worse than a great fatigue. Mr. Travers'
restfulness had something faintly triumphant in it. To find himself again on
board his yacht had soothed his vanity and had revived his sense of his own=
importance.
He contemplated it in a distant perspective, restored to its proper
surroundings and unaffected by an adventure too extraordinary to trouble a
superior mind or even to remain in one's memory for any length of time. He =
was
not responsible. Like many men ambitious of directing the affairs of a nati=
on,
Mr. Travers disliked the sense of responsibility. He would not have been ab=
ove
evading it in case of need, but with perverse loftiness he really, in his
heart, scorned it. That was the reason why he was able to lie at rest and e=
njoy
a sense of returning vigour. But he did not care much to talk as yet, and t=
hat
was why the silence in the stateroom had lasted for hours. The bulkhead lam=
p had
a green silk shade. It was unnecessary to admit for a moment the existence =
of
impudence or ruffianism. A discreet knocking at the cabin door sounded
deferential.
Mrs. Travers got =
up
to see what was wanted, and returned without uttering a single word to the
folding armchair by the side of the bed-place, with an envelope in her hand
which she tore open in the greenish light. Mr. Travers remained incurious b=
ut
his wife handed to him an unfolded sheet of paper which he condescended to =
hold
up to his eyes. It contained only one line of writing. He let the paper fal=
l on
the coverlet and went on reposing as before. It was a sick man's repose. Mr=
s.
Travers in the armchair, with her hands on the arm-rests, had a great digni=
ty
of attitude.
"I intend to
go," she declared after a time.
"You intend =
to
go," repeated Mr. Travers in a feeble, deliberate voice. "Really,=
it
doesn't matter what you decide to do. All this is of so little importance. =
It
seems to me that there can be no possible object."
"Perhaps
not," she admitted. "But don't you think that the uttermost farth=
ing
should always be paid?"
Mr. Travers' head
rolled over on the pillow and gave a covertly scared look at that outspoken
woman. But it rolled back again at once and the whole man remained passive,=
the
very embodiment of helpless exhaustion. Mrs. Travers noticed this, and had =
the
unexpected impression that Mr. Travers was not so ill as he looked. "H=
e's
making the most of it. It's a matter of diplomacy," she thought. She
thought this without irony, bitterness, or disgust. Only her heart sank a
little lower and she felt that she could not remain in the cabin with that =
man
for the rest of the evening. For all life--yes! But not for that evening.
"It's simply
monstrous," murmured the man, who was either very diplomatic or very
exhausted, in a languid manner. "There is something abnormal in you.&q=
uot;
Mrs. Travers got =
up
swiftly.
"One comes
across monstrous things. But I assure you that of all the monsters that wai=
t on
what you would call a normal existence the one I dread most is tediousness.=
A
merciless monster without teeth or claws. Impotent. Horrible!"
She left the
stateroom, vanishing out of it with noiseless resolution. No power on earth
could have kept her in there for another minute. On deck she found a moonle=
ss
night with a velvety tepid feeling in the air, and in the sky a mass of blu=
rred
starlight, like the tarnished tinsel of a worn-out, very old, very tedious
firmament. The usual routine of the yacht had been already resumed, the awn=
ings
had been stretched aft, a solitary round lamp had been hung as usual under =
the
main boom. Out of the deep gloom behind it d'Alcacer, a long, loose figure,
lounged in the dim light across the deck. D'Alcacer had got promptly in tou=
ch
with the store of cigarettes he owed to the Governor General's generosity. =
A large,
pulsating spark glowed, illuminating redly the design of his lips under the
fine dark moustache, the tip of his nose, his lean chin. D'Alcacer reproach=
ed
himself for an unwonted light-heartedness which had somehow taken possessio=
n of
him. He had not experienced that sort of feeling for years. Reprehensible a=
s it
was he did not want anything to disturb it. But as he could not run away op=
enly
from Mrs. Travers he advanced to meet her.
"I do hope y=
ou
have nothing to tell me," he said with whimsical earnestness.
"I? No! Have
you?"
He assured her he=
had
not, and proffered a request. "Don't let us tell each other anything, =
Mrs.
Travers. Don't let us think of anything. I believe it will be the best way =
to
get over the evening." There was real anxiety in his jesting tone.
"Very
well," Mrs. Travers assented, seriously. "But in that case we had=
better
not remain together." She asked, then, d'Alcacer to go below and sit w=
ith
Mr. Travers who didn't like to be left alone. "Though he, too, doesn't
seem to want to be told anything," she added, parenthetically, and went
on: "But I must ask you something else, Mr. d'Alcacer. I propose to sit
down in this chair and go to sleep--if I can. Will you promise to call me a=
bout
five o'clock? I prefer not to speak to any one on deck, and, moreover, I can
trust you."
He bowed in silen=
ce
and went away slowly. Mrs. Travers, turning her head, perceived a steady li=
ght
at the brig's yard-arm, very bright among the tarnished stars. She walked a=
ft
and looked over the taffrail. It was exactly like that other night. She half
expected to hear presently the low, rippling sound of an advancing boat. But
the universe remained without a sound. When she at last dropped into the de=
ck
chair she was absolutely at the end of her power of thinking. "I suppo=
se
that's how the condemned manage to get some sleep on the night before the e=
xecution,"
she said to herself a moment before her eyelids closed as if under a leaden
hand.
She woke up, with=
her
face wet with tears, out of a vivid dream of Lingard in chain-mail armour a=
nd
vaguely recalling a Crusader, but bare-headed and walking away from her in =
the
depths of an impossible landscape. She hurried on to catch up with him but a
throng of barbarians with enormous turbans came between them at the last mo=
ment
and she lost sight of him forever in the flurry of a ghastly sand-storm. Wh=
at
frightened her most was that she had not been able to see his face. It was =
then
that she began to cry over her hard fate. When she woke up the tears were s=
till
rolling down her cheeks and she perceived in the light of the deck-lamp
d'Alcacer arrested a little way off.
"Did you hav=
e to
speak to me?" she asked.
"No," s=
aid
d'Alcacer. "You didn't give me time. When I came as far as this I fanc=
ied
I heard you sobbing. It must have been a delusion."
"Oh, no. My =
face
is wet yet. It was a dream. I suppose it is five o'clock. Thank you for bei=
ng
so punctual. I have something to do before sunrise."
D'Alcacer moved
nearer. "I know. You have decided to keep an appointment on the sandba=
nk.
Your husband didn't utter twenty words in all these hours but he managed to
tell me that piece of news."
"I shouldn't
have thought," she murmured, vaguely.
"He wanted m=
e to
understand that it had no importance," stated d'Alcacer in a very seri=
ous
tone.
"Yes. He kno=
ws
what he is talking about," said Mrs. Travers in such a bitter tone as =
to
disconcert d'Alcacer for a moment. "I don't see a single soul about the
decks," Mrs. Travers continued, almost directly.
"The very
watchmen are asleep," said d'Alcacer.
"There is
nothing secret in this expedition, but I prefer not to call any one. Perhaps
you wouldn't mind pulling me off yourself in our small boat."
It seemed to her =
that
d'Alcacer showed some hesitation. She added: "It has no importance, you
know."
He bowed his asse=
nt
and preceded her down the side in silence. When she entered the boat he had=
the
sculls ready and directly she sat down he shoved off. It was so dark yet th=
at
but for the brig's yard-arm light he could not have kept his direction. He
pulled a very deliberate stroke, looking over his shoulder frequently. It w=
as
Mrs. Travers who saw first the faint gleam of the uncovered sandspit on the
black, quiet water.
"A little mo=
re
to the left," she said. "No, the other way. . . ." D'Alcacer
obeyed her directions but his stroke grew even slower than before. She spoke
again. "Don't you think that the uttermost farthing should always be p=
aid,
Mr. d'Alcacer?"
D'Alcacer glanced
over his shoulder, then: "It would be the only honourable way. But it =
may
be hard. Too hard for our common fearful hearts."
"I am prepar=
ed
for anything."
He ceased pulling=
for
a moment . . . "Anything that may be found on a sandbank," Mrs.
Travers went on. "On an arid, insignificant, and deserted sandbank.&qu=
ot;
D'Alcacer gave two
strokes and ceased again.
"There is ro=
om
for a whole world of suffering on a sandbank, for all the bitterness and
resentment a human soul may be made to feel."
"Yes, I supp=
ose
you would know," she whispered while he gave a stroke or two and again
glanced over his shoulder. She murmured the words:
"Bitterness,
resentment," and a moment afterward became aware of the keel of the bo=
at
running up on the sand. But she didn't move, and d'Alcacer, too, remained
seated on the thwart with the blades of his sculls raised as if ready to dr=
op
them and back the dinghy out into deep water at the first sign.
Mrs. Travers made=
no
sign, but she asked, abruptly: "Mr. d'Alcacer, do you think I shall ev=
er
come back?"
Her tone seemed to
him to lack sincerity. But who could tell what this abruptness covered--sin=
cere
fear or mere vanity? He asked himself whether she was playing a part for his
benefit, or only for herself.
"I don't thi=
nk
you quite understand the situation, Mrs. Travers. I don't think you have a
clear idea, either of his simplicity or of his visionary's pride."
She thought,
contemptuously, that there were other things which d'Alcacer didn't know and
surrendered to a sudden temptation to enlighten him a little.
"You forget =
his
capacity for passion and that his simplicity doesn't know its own
strength."
There was no
mistaking the sincerity of that murmur. "She has felt it," d'Alca=
cer
said to himself with absolute certitude. He wondered when, where, how, on w=
hat
occasion? Mrs. Travers stood up in the stern sheets suddenly and d'Alcacer
leaped on the sand to help her out of the boat.
"Hadn't I be=
tter
hang about here to take you back again?" he suggested, as he let go her
hand.
"You
mustn't!" she exclaimed, anxiously. "You must return to the yacht=
. There
will be plenty of light in another hour. I will come to this spot and wave =
my
handkerchief when I want to be taken off."
At their feet the
shallow water slept profoundly, the ghostly gleam of the sands baffled the =
eye
by its lack of form. Far off, the growth of bushes in the centre raised a
massive black bulk against the stars to the southward. Mrs. Travers lingered
for a moment near the boat as if afraid of the strange solitude of this lon=
ely
sandbank and of this lone sea that seemed to fill the whole encircling univ=
erse
of remote stars and limitless shadows. "There is nobody here," she
whispered to herself.
"He is somew=
here
about waiting for you, or I don't know the man," affirmed d'Alcacer in=
an
undertone. He gave a vigorous shove which sent the little boat into the wat=
er.
D'Alcacer was
perfectly right. Lingard had come up on deck long before Mrs. Travers woke =
up
with her face wet with tears. The burial party had returned hours before and
the crew of the brig were plunged in sleep, except for two watchmen, who at
Lingard's appearance retreated noiselessly from the poop. Lingard, leaning =
on
the rail, fell into a sombre reverie of his past. Reproachful spectres crow=
ded
the air, animated and vocal, not in the articulate language of mortals but =
assailing
him with faint sobs, deep sighs, and fateful gestures. When he came to hims=
elf
and turned about they vanished, all but one dark shape without sound or
movement. Lingard looked at it with secret horror.
"Who's
that?" he asked in a troubled voice.
The shadow moved
closer: "It's only me, sir," said Carter, who had left orders to =
be
called directly the Captain was seen on deck.
"Oh, yes, I
might have known," mumbled Lingard in some confusion. He requested Car=
ter
to have a boat manned and when after a time the young man told him that it =
was
ready, he said "All right!" and remained leaning on his elbow.
"I beg your
pardon, sir," said Carter after a longish silence, "but are you g=
oing
some distance?"
"No, I only =
want
to be put ashore on the sandbank."
Carter was reliev=
ed
to hear this, but also surprised. "There is nothing living there,
sir," he said.
"I wonder,&q=
uot;
muttered Lingard.
"But I am
certain," Carter insisted. "The last of the women and children be=
longing
to those cut-throats were taken off by the sampans which brought you and the
yacht-party out."
He walked at
Lingard's elbow to the gangway and listened to his orders.
"Directly th=
ere
is enough light to see flags by, make a signal to the schooner to heave sho=
rt
on her cable and loose her sails. If there is any hanging back give them a
blank gun, Mr. Carter. I will have no shilly-shallying. If she doesn't go at
the word, by heavens, I will drive her out. I am still master here--for ano=
ther
day."
The overwhelming
sense of immensity, of disturbing emptiness, which affects those who walk on
the sands in the midst of the sea, intimidated Mrs. Travers. The world
resembled a limitless flat shadow which was motionless and elusive. Then
against the southern stars she saw a human form that isolated and lone appe=
ared
to her immense: the shape of a giant outlined amongst the constellations. A=
s it
approached her it shrank to common proportions, got clear of the stars, lost
its awesomeness, and became menacing in its ominous and silent advance. Mrs=
. Travers
hastened to speak.
"You have as=
ked
for me. I am come. I trust you will have no reason to regret my
obedience."
He walked up quite
close to her, bent down slightly to peer into her face. The first of the
tropical dawn put its characteristic cold sheen into the sky above the Shor=
e of
Refuge.
Mrs. Travers did =
not
turn away her head.
"Are you loo=
king
for a change in me? No. You won't see it. Now I know that I couldn't change
even if I wanted to. I am made of clay that is too hard."
"I am lookin=
g at
you for the first time," said Lingard. "I never could see you bef=
ore.
There were too many things, too many thoughts, too many people. No, I never=
saw
you before. But now the world is dead."
He grasped her
shoulders, approaching his face close to hers. She never flinched.
"Yes, the wo=
rld
is dead," she said. "Look your fill then. It won't be for long.&q=
uot;
He let her go as
suddenly as though she had struck him. The cold white light of the tropical
dawn had crept past the zenith now and the expanse of the shallow waters lo=
oked
cold, too, without stir or ripple within the enormous rim of the horizon wh=
ere,
to the west, a shadow lingered still.
"Take my
arm," he said.
She did so at onc=
e,
and turning their backs on the two ships they began to walk along the sands,
but they had not made many steps when Mrs. Travers perceived an oblong mound
with a board planted upright at one end. Mrs. Travers knew that part of the
sands. It was here she used to walk with her husband and d'Alcacer every
evening after dinner, while the yacht lay stranded and her boats were away =
in
search of assistance--which they had found--which they had found! This was =
something
that she had never seen there before. Lingard had suddenly stopped and look=
ed
at it moodily. She pressed his arm to rouse him and asked, "What is
this?"
"This is a
grave," said Lingard in a low voice, and still gazing at the heap of s=
and.
"I had him taken out of the ship last night. Strange," he went on=
in
a musing tone, "how much a grave big enough for one man only can hold.=
His
message was to forget everything."
"Never,
never," murmured Mrs. Travers. "I wish I had been on board the Em=
ma.
. . . You had a madman there," she cried out, suddenly. They moved on
again, Lingard looking at Mrs. Travers who was leaning on his arm.
"I wonder wh=
ich
of us two was mad," he said.
"I wonder you
can bear to look at me," she murmured. Then Lingard spoke again.
"I had to see
you once more."
"That abomin=
able
Jorgenson," she whispered to herself.
"No, no, he =
gave
me my chance--before he gave me up."
Mrs. Travers disengaged her arm and Lingard stopped, too, facing her in a long silence.<= o:p>
"I could not
refuse to meet you," said Mrs. Travers at last. "I could not refu=
se
you anything. You have all the right on your side and I don't care what you=
do
or say. But I wonder at my own courage when I think of the confession I hav=
e to
make." She advanced, laid her hand on Lingard's shoulder and spoke
earnestly. "I shuddered at the thought of meeting you again. And now y=
ou
must listen to my confession."
"Don't say a
word," said Lingard in an untroubled voice and never taking his eyes f=
rom
her face. "I know already."
"You
can't," she cried. Her hand slipped off his shoulder. "Then why d=
on't
you throw me into the sea?" she asked, passionately. "Am I to liv=
e on
hating myself?"
"You mustn't=
!"
he said with an accent of fear. "Haven't you understood long ago that =
if
you had given me that ring it would have been just the same?"
"Am I to bel=
ieve
this? No, no! You are too generous to a mere sham. You are the most magnani=
mous
of men but you are throwing it away on me. Do you think it is remorse that I
feel? No. If it is anything it is despair. But you must have known that--and
yet you wanted to look at me again."
"I told you I
never had a chance before," said Lingard in an unmoved voice. "It=
was
only after I heard they gave you the ring that I felt the hold you have got=
on
me. How could I tell before? What has hate or love to do with you and me? H=
ate.
Love. What can touch you? For me you stand above death itself; for I see now
that as long as I live you will never die."
They confronted e=
ach
other at the southern edge of the sands as if afloat on the open sea. The
central ridge heaped up by the winds masked from them the very mastheads of=
the
two ships and the growing brightness of the light only augmented the sense =
of
their invincible solitude in the awful serenity of the world. Mrs. Travers
suddenly put her arm across her eyes and averted her face.
Then he added:
"That's
all."
Mrs. Travers let =
fall
her arm and began to retrace her steps, unsupported and alone. Lingard foll=
owed
her on the edge of the sand uncovered by the ebbing tide. A belt of orange
light appeared in the cold sky above the black forest of the Shore of Refuge
and faded quickly to gold that melted soon into a blinding and colourless
glare. It was not till after she had passed Jaffir's grave that Mrs. Travers
stole a backward glance and discovered that she was alone. Lingard had left=
her
to herself. She saw him sitting near the mound of sand, his back bowed, his
hands clasping his knees, as if he had obeyed the invincible call of his gr=
eat
visions haunting the grave of the faithful messenger. Shading her eyes with=
her
hand Mrs. Travers watched the immobility of that man of infinite illusions.=
He
never moved, he never raised his head. It was all over. He was done with he=
r.
She waited a little longer and then went slowly on her way.
Shaw, now acting
second mate of the yacht, came off with another hand in a little boat to ta=
ke
Mrs. Travers on board. He stared at her like an offended owl. How the lady
could suddenly appear at sunrise waving her handkerchief from the sandbank =
he
could not understand. For, even if she had managed to row herself off secre=
tly
in the dark, she could not have sent the empty boat back to the yacht. It w=
as
to Shaw a sort of improper miracle.
D'Alcacer hurried=
to
the top of the side ladder and as they met on deck Mrs. Travers astonished =
him
by saying in a strangely provoking tone:
"You were ri=
ght.
I have come back." Then with a little laugh which impressed d'Alcacer
painfully she added with a nod downward, "and Martin, too, was perfect=
ly
right. It was absolutely unimportant."
She walked on
straight to the taffrail and d'Alcacer followed her aft, alarmed at her whi=
te
face, at her brusque movements, at the nervous way in which she was fumblin=
g at
her throat. He waited discreetly till she turned round and thrust out toward
him her open palm on which he saw a thick gold ring set with a large green
stone.
"Look at thi=
s,
Mr. d'Alcacer. This is the thing which I asked you whether I should give up=
or
conceal--the symbol of the last hour--the call of the supreme minute. And he
said it would have made no difference! He is the most magnanimous of men and
the uttermost farthing has been paid. He has done with me. The most magnani=
mous
. . . but there is a grave on the sands by which I left him sitting with no
glance to spare for me. His last glance on earth! I am left with this thing=
. Absolutely
unimportant. A dead talisman." With a nervous jerk she flung the ring
overboard, then with a hurried entreaty to d'Alcacer, "Stay here a mom=
ent.
Don't let anybody come near us," she burst into tears and turned her b=
ack
on him.
Lingard returned =
on
board his brig and in the early afternoon the Lightning got under way, runn=
ing
past the schooner to give her a lead through the maze of Shoals. Lingard wa=
s on
deck but never looked once at the following vessel. Directly both ships wer=
e in
clear water he went below saying to Carter: "You know what to do."=
;
"Yes, sir,&q=
uot;
said Carter.
Shortly after his
Captain had disappeared from the deck Carter laid the main topsail to the m=
ast.
The Lightning lost her way while the schooner with all her light kites abro=
ad
passed close under her stern holding on her course. Mrs. Travers stood aft =
very
rigid, gripping the rail with both hands. The brim of her white hat was blo=
wn
upward on one side and her yachting skirt stirred in the breeze. By her side
d'Alcacer waved his hand courteously. Carter raised his cap to them.
During the aftern=
oon
he paced the poop with measured steps, with a pair of binoculars in his han=
d.
At last he laid the glasses down, glanced at the compass-card and walked to=
the
cabin skylight which was open.
"Just lost h=
er,
sir," he said. All was still down there. He raised his voice a little:=
"You told me=
to
let you know directly I lost sight of the yacht."
The sound of a
stifled groan reached the attentive Carter and a weary voice said, "All
right, I am coming."
When Lingard step=
ped
out on the poop of the Lightning the open water had turned purple already in
the evening light, while to the east the Shallows made a steely glitter all
along the sombre line of the shore. Lingard, with folded arms, looked over =
the
sea. Carter approached him and spoke quietly.
"The tide has
turned and the night is coming on. Hadn't we better get away from these Sho=
als,
sir?"
Lingard did not s=
tir.
"Yes, the ni=
ght
is coming on. You may fill the main topsail, Mr. Carter," he said and =
he
relapsed into silence with his eyes fixed in the southern board where the s=
hadows
were creeping stealthily toward the setting sun. Presently Carter stood at =
his
elbow again.
"The brig is
beginning to forge ahead, sir," he said in a warning tone.
Lingard came out =
of
his absorption with a deep tremor of his powerful frame like the shudder of=
an
uprooted tree.
"How was the
yacht heading when you lost sight of her?" he asked.
"South as ne=
ar
as possible," answered Carter. "Will you give me a course to steer
for the night, sir?"
Lingard's lips
trembled before he spoke but his voice was calm.
"Steer
north," he said.