“And what could you do, O Wasub?” he said.
“I could always 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, serang 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,” 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 talk 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 lighted 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 him above the bulwarks. The fore-end of the brig was wrapped in a lurid and sombre 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 trucks had been tall enough to pierce the heavy mass of vapours motionless overhead. 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 miraculous 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 boat 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 shining feebly like a star about to set, unattainable, infinitely remote — belonging to another universe.
PART IV. THE GIFT OF THE SHALLOWS
I
Lingard brought Mrs. 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 silence, pronouncing the words — ”Follow me.” She followed him; their footsteps 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 boat 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 gleam 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 outline. 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 vanish 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 vanished schooner not a woman but a memory — the tormenting recollection of a human being 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 will be safe in the brig,” he said. She was silent. A dream! A dream! He lay back 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 come 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 trust me to — ” he exclaimed.
“I would like to trust you,” she interrupted, “because — ”
Above them a startled 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 boats. They had returned while he was on board the yacht, and the two men in charge 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 had actually been in sight of Daman’s praus. The man in charge reported that several fires 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 voices. There was a man keeping watch on the ridge; they knew this because they heard 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 men 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 with 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 did 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 words 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 sun to the conquering tread of an unfettered will. Yesterday they could have been discerned clearly, mastered and despised; but now another power had come into the world, and had cast over them all the wavering gloom of a dark and inscrutable purpose.
II
Recovering himself with a s
light 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 was 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 his 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, ill-luck, a cursed folly, had tricked him out of the success of his plan. He would have to go in and talk to Mrs. Travers. The idea dismayed him. Of necessity he was not one of those men who have the mastery of expression. To liberate his soul was for him a gigantic undertaking, a matter of desperate effort, of doubtful 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 wanted 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 him 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?” remonstrated 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 talk 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 suppose they do. This ‘ere brig’s good enough to get away in. Ain’t she? Guns and all. We’ll get home yet all right. What do you say, John?”
“I say nothing 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 would 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 was 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 chucked 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 account here than a lot of cattle. Likely as not we’ll have to berth on this blooming 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 one 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 lied, 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. — ”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 him, 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 cabin 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 impenetrable fairness.
Lingard looked in unconscious ecstasy at this vision, so amazing that it seemed to have strayed into his existence from beyond the limits of the conceivable. It was impossible 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 had 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 had 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 expect 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. Everything.”
“Everything,” she repeated, paused, and added much lower, “It is the very least.” 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 those two men are innocent,” she began.
“So am I — innocent. So is everybody in the world. Have you ever met a man or a woman that was not? They’ve got to take their chances all the same.”
“I expect you to be generous,” she said.
“To you?”
“Well — to me. Yes — if you like to me alone.”
“To you alone! And you know everything!” His voice dropped. “You want your happiness.”
She made an impatient movement and he saw her clench the hand that was lying on the table.
“I want my husband back,” she said, sharply.
“Yes. Yes. It’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 vision. She found herself slowly invaded by this masterful figure. He was not mediocre. Whatever he might have been he was not mediocre. The glamour of a lawless life stretched over him like the sky over the sea down on all sides to an unbroken 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 next minute. She said distinctly:
“You’ve given me your confidence. Now I want you to give me the life of these two men. The life 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!” 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 save 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 she had to reflect upon the horrors of a cruel and obscure death before she could 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, and culpable. Lingard lifted his head. Whispers were heard at the door and Hassim followed by Immada entered the cabin.
Mrs. Travers looked 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 Immada’s deep sigh was heard in the sudden silence. Then Lingard looked at Mrs. Travers and said:
“The gentlemen 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 hate us,” she murmured.
“Hate you,” 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 knowing 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. . . .”
Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) Page 438
