by Jack London
By mutual consent it was agreed to pass the final days of the fateful year upon the island. Here Dragomiloff, Grunya, and Hall lived in simple fashion, doing their own cooking, drawing their own water, finding their food in the sea as the natives before them had done for years. Surprisingly, they found it pleasant, a relaxing change from the flurry of their lives upon the mainland. But each knew it to be an escape from their problems, and one which could last but a short time.
To his own amazement, Hall found his liking for Dragomiloff returning daily, despite the frightful recollection of Starkington’s death. The memory was fading; it slid further into the recesses of his mind until it appeared as a remembered scene from a book long since read, or a panel of a mural viewed in some obscure gallery long forgotten.
Dragomiloff never shirked his share of the chores, nor did he attempt by reason of his position or his age to direct or command. He was always ready with a helping hand at the fishing and the cooking, and the evenness of his temper often led Hall to wonder if the dreadful scene of the whirlpool had actually existed. Yet daily, as the calendar flew, the small man kept more and more to himself. He sat at meals silent and increasingly thoughtful; the tasks he selected were now those suitable to one person. And daily he spent more and more time along the beach, staring across the empty expanse of the sea towards the mainland, as if waiting.
It was in the late afternoon of the penultimate day that he approached Hall, who was crouching in the surf sifting the shallows for the succulent crabs that hid there. His face was taut, although his voice remained even.
“Hall, you are certain that you cabled to Haas?”
Hall looked up, surprised.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I cannot imagine why he has not come.”
“Possibly some circumstance beyond his control.” Hall stared at his companion. “You know, he is the last of the Assassination Bureau.”
Dragomiloff’s face was expressionless as he contemplated the brown face of the crouching man.
“Except for me, of course,” he stated quietly, and turned in the direction of the hut.
Hall’s eyes followed Dragomiloff’s figure for a moment and then, with a shrug, he returned to his crabbing. When the small wicker basket was sufficiently full to insure a good evening meal he straightened up, rubbing the cramped muscles of his back. We are all on edge, but there is but one last day, he thought with satisfaction, and then frowned. There was no doubt but that he would miss the island.
The sun was sinking into the green hills of the mainland as he came back to the hut. He placed the basket of squirming crabs in the small kitchen and padded through into the living room. Grunya was bent in deep conversation with her father; they both stopped short as soon as he entered. It was evident they did not wish to be disturbed. Feeling a bit hurt, Hall left the scene abruptly and walked down to the beach. Secrets? he thought a bit bitterly as he tramped the damp sand. Secrets at this late stage?
It was dark when he returned. Dragomiloff was in his room, bent over his writing table, his lamp casting the shadow of his profile sharply against the thatched wall. Grunya was sitting by a small lamp weaving a small mat from palm-fronds. Hall dropped into a chair opposite her and watched the play of her strong hands silently for a few moments. Her usual smile at sight of him was missing.
“Grunya.”
She looked up inquiringly, her face set.
“Yes, Winter?”
“Grunya.” He kept his voice low. “We are at the end of our days here. Soon we shall return to civilization.” He hesitated, somewhat frightened by the solemnity of her face. “Will you—still wish to marry me?”
“Of course.” Her eyes dropped once again to the work in her lap; her fingers picked up their chore. “I want nothing more than to marry you.”
“And your father?”
She looked up, no muscle of her face moving. Not for the first time Hall noted the sharp resemblance to the blond man in the strong, fine lines of her face.
“What about my father?”
“What will he do? The Assassination Bureau will be no more. It was a large part of his life.”
“It was all of his life.” Then her eyes came up, unfathomable. They slid over Hall’s shoulder and stopped. Hall swung about. Dragomiloff had come into the room and was standing quietly. Grunya’s eyes came back to Hall. She attempted a smile.
“Winter, we . . . we need water. Would you . . . ?”
“Of course.”
He rose, took the bucket, and walked in the direction of the small spring at the northern end of the island. The moon had risen, large and white, and lit his path with dancing shadows from the stirring flowers along the way. His heart was heavy; Grunya’s strange sternness—almost coldness—weighed upon him. But then a lighter thought came. Each of us, he thought, has been subject to strain these past few days. Lord knows how I must have appeared to her! Just a few more days and they would find themselves aboard ship, and the captain could marry them. Man and wife! He filled the bucket and started back, whistling softly to himself.
The water butt was in the kitchen. He up-ended the bucket and poured; water overflowed, washing against his bare feet. The butt had been full. In sudden fear he threw the bucket down and dashed for the living room. Grunya was still working silently, but her cheeks were wet with tears. A sheaf of papers lay upon the table before her, curled and heavy under the lamp.
“Grunya, my dear! What . . .”
She attempted to continue her work but the tears streamed faster and faster until she flung the weaving from her and fell into his waiting arms.
“Oh, Winter . . . !”
“What is it? What is it, my darling?” Sudden suspicion came to him and he turned in the direction of Dragomiloff’s room. The room was dark, but the moonlight, streaming in at the open window, fell across the empty bed. He sprang for the door, but Grunya clutched his arm.
“No! You must not! Read this!”
He paused irresolutely, but the pressure of her hand upon his arm was demanding. Her eyes, raised to his, were filled with tears, but they were filled, also, with determination. Slowly he relaxed and reached for the sheaf of papers. Grunya watched his face as he read, her eyes roving from the broad forehead to the stern jaw, noting the marks of the man who would be her only refuge forever.
“Dear Children:
“I can wait no longer. Haas has not come and my hours are running out.
“You must try and understand me and—as Hall would call it—my madness. I speak now of the action I must take. As head of the Assassination Bureau I accepted a commission; this commission will be fulfilled. The Bureau has never failed and it will not fail now. To do so would negate everything it has ever stood for. I am sure that only death could have prevented Haas from accomplishing his mission, but in our organization the duty always passes to another. As the last member, I must accept it.
“But I do not accept it with sadness. The Bureau was my life, and as it vanishes, so must Ivan Dragomiloff vanish. Nor am I accepting it with shame; pride marks the step I shall take this night. Possibly we were wrong—at one time you, Hall, convinced me that we were. But we were never wrong for the wrong reasons—even in our wrongness there was a rightness.
“That we killed, and that many times, we do not deny. But the terrible thing in killing is not the quantity of victims, but the quality. The death of one Socrates is a far greater crime against humanity than the slaughter of endless hordes of the savages that Genghis Khan led on the brutal rape of Asia; but who truly believes it? The public—were they to know—would scream imprecation down at our Bureau, even as, with the same breath, they glorified to the heavens all forms of thoughtless and needless slaying.
“You doubt me? Walk through the parks of our great cities, and our squares, and our plazas. What monuments do you find to Aristotle? Or to Paine? Or Spinoza? No; these spaces are reserved for the demigods, sword in hand, who led us in all our slaughtering crusades since we ra
ised ourselves from the apes. The late war with Spain will doubtless fill the few remaining spots, both here and in Spain, with horsed heroes, arms raised in bloody salute, commemorating in deathless bronze the victory of violence in the battle for men’s minds.
“Yet I allowed myself to be convinced that we were wrong. Why? Because in essence we were wrong. The world must come to recognize the joint responsibility for justice; it can no longer remain the aim of a select—and self-selected—few. Even now, the rumblings that come from Europe foreshadow a greater catastrophe than mankind has yet endured, but the salvation must come from a larger morality than even we could offer. It must come from the growing moral fibre of the world itself.
“Yet, one doubt; one question. If that moral fibre be not forthcoming? Then, in some distant age, the Assassination Bureau may well be re-born. For of the deaths that can be laid at our doors, the following may be said: No man died who did not deserve it. No man died whose death did not benefit mankind. It is doubtful if the same will be said of those whose statues rise from the squares after the next ‘final’ war is fought.
“But time runs out. I ask you, Hall, to guard Grunya. She is the life I bequeath to this earth, the proof that no man, right or wrong, can pass without leaving his mark.
“One last kiss to my Grunya. One final handclasp to you, my friend.
“D.”
Hall lifted his eyes from the papers between his fingers; they sought the beautiful face of his loved one.
“You did not attempt to stop him?”
“No.” Her gaze was steady and brave. “All my life he has done everything for me. My slightest wish was granted.” Her eyes misted; her mouth quivered with an effort for control. “I love him so much! I had no other means of repaying him.”
Hall gathered her in his arms, wonder at her great strength flooding him. Suddenly the strain was too much; she burst into violent tears, clutching his arms with all her force.
“Oh, Winter, was I wrong? Was I wrong? Should I have begged him for his life?”
He held her tightly, soothingly. Through the open doorway his eyes sought the smooth sea reflected brightly in the brilliant moonlight. A shadow crossed his vision, a slight figure in the distance, bent easily over a paddle, moving quietly to the center of the channel to await the Huhu Kai. He did not know whether he saw it or imagined it, but suddenly one arm seemed to rise from the dwindling canoe in a happy salute.
“No,” he said fiercely, holding her tighter. “No, my darling. You were not wrong.”
THE END
[Jack London’s narrative stops on page 109 with the paragraph “Hall, who had sat down, again stood up, moving the wineglass to one side as he rested one hand on the table.” At this point, Robert L. Fish’s completion of the novel begins.]
JACK LONDON’S NOTES FOR
THE COMPLETION OF THE BOOK
You “sped the blow” before the truce up. Drago finds this out. Alarm of Breen when he sees the point. “But I can’t stop it. Any attempt to stop it will immediately explode it.”
Drago: “I’ll help you out,” Breen grateful.
They prove to Breen that he set it in the truce. “You’re right.
I almost was guilty of wrong. Disconnect it—I can’t. That was the device I mentioned. The beauty of this machine is that it is like a decree of the Bureau. Once set, as it is set, no power on earth can stop it. Automatic locking device. A blacksmith could not now remove the clockwork.”
Take it down and throw it in the Bay.
“Friends, lunatics—will you permit this?”
“They can’t stop it,” Hanover chuckled. “The irrefragable logic of the elements! The irrefragable logic of the elements!”
“Are you going to stay here and be blown up?” Hall demanded angrily.
“Certainly not. But, as Breen says, there is plenty of time. Ten minutes will remove the slowest of us outside the area of destruction. In the meantime consider the marvel of it!”
Hall considers other people.
Breen: “I broke down in my reasoning. That shows fallibility of human reason. But, Hanover, you see no breakdown in the reasoning of the elements. Can’t break.”
So absorbed, all forgot the flight of time, Drago stood up, and put an affectionate hand on Lucoville’s shoulder—near to the neck.
Speaks pleasantly.—swift—spasmodic—hand. Death-touch of Japanese. Caught hat and coat. Slips out—Haas springing like a tiger, collided with servant—crash of dishes.
“Dear friend Lucoville,” says Hanover, peering through spectacles. “You will never reply.”
The Chief truly had the last word.
Next day’s papers—San Francisco Examiner—mysterious explosion in Bay—dead fish. No clue.
Drago’s message: “Going to Los Angeles. Shall remain some time. Come and get me.”
At dinner when Drago had exalted adventure path—they accused him of being a sentimentalist, an Epicurean (sneered).
“Gentlemen!” Hall cried desperately, “I appeal to you as mathematicians. Ethics can be reduced to science. Why give all your lives for his?
Gentlemen, fellow madmen—reflect. Cast this situation in terms of an equation. It is unscientific, irrational. More, it is unmoral. As high ethicists it would be a wanton act, etc.”
They debate. They give in.
Drago: “Wisely done. And now, a truce. I believe we are the only group in the United States or the world who so trust.” Pulls out watch. “It is 9:30. Let us go and have dinner. 2 hours truce. After that, if nothing is determined or deranged, let the status quo continue.
Hall loses Grunya, who saves Drago, and escapes with him. Then Hall, telegrams, traces them through Mexico, West Indies, Panama, Ecuador—cables big (5 times) sum to Drago, and starts in pursuit.
Arrives; finds them gone. Encounters Haas, and follows him. Sail on same windjammer for Australia. There loses Haas.
Himself, cabling, locates them as headed for Tahiti. Meets them in Tahiti. Marries Grunya. Appearance of Haas.
The three, Drago, Grunya and Hall (married) live in Tahiti until assassins arrive. Then Drago sneaks in cutter for Taiohae.
Drago assures others of his sanity; they’re not even insane. They’re stupid. They cannot understand the transvaluation of values he has achieved.
On a sandy islet, Dragomiloff manages to blow up the whole group except Haas who is too avidly clever. House mined.
Drago, in Nuka Island, village Taiohae, Marquesas. There is a wrecked cutter and assassin (Haas) is thrown up on beach where Melville escaped nearly a century earlier. While Drago is off exploring Typee Valley on this island, Hall and Grunya play off the assassin Haas, and think are rid of him.
Drago dies triumphantly: Weak, helpless, on Marquesas island, by accident of wreck is discovered by appointed slayer—Haas. Only by accident, however. “In truth I have outwitted organization.” Slayer and he discuss way he is to die. Drago has a slow, painless poison. Agrees to take. Takes. Will be an hour in dying. Drago: “Now, let us discuss the wrongness of the organization which must be disbanded.”
Grunya and Hall arrive. Schooner lying on and off. They come ashore in whaleboat, in time for his end. After all dead but Haas, Hall cleaned up the affairs of the Bureau. $117,000 was turned over to him. Stored books and furniture of Drago. Sent mute to be caretaker of the bungalow at Edge Moor.
ENDING AS OUTLINED
BY CHARMIAN LONDON
The small yacht sailing, spinnaker winged out, day and night, for many days and nights. The saturnalia of destruction—splendid description of the bonita—by the hundreds of thousands. The great hunting. The miles wide swatch of destruction. The gunies, bosuns, frigate birds, etc., increasing—tens of thousands. All after flying fish. When flying fish come aboard, they, too, rush to catch them. Saturnalia of killing gets on their nerves. Birds break wings against rigging, fall overboard, torn to pieces by bonita and attacked from above by their fluttering kind—frigate birds, bosuns, etc. Native sailors catch bon
ita to eat raw—as haul in, caught-bonita are attacked by their fellows. Sailors catch a shark—cut it clean open, none of its parts left. Beating heart in a man’s hand—shark heaved overboard, swims and swims, snapping with jaws as the bonita hosts flit by in the sun-flooded brine—beating heart shock to Grunya. Finally the madness of the tropic sun, etc. Here begin to shoot birds, fish, etc., with small automatic rifle, and she looks up and applauds. All killed or injured are immediately eaten by others. Once the Irish terrier goes overboard and is torn to pieces by bonita. Once, her scarf, red, struck and dragged down, etc., etc. Nothing can escape.
And so the end, tragic foredoomed, as they go ashore, sharks snap at their oar blades. And on the beach, a school of small fish, discovered, rush upon the beach. They wade ashore through this silvery surf of perished life, and find—Dragomiloff dying.
