Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated)

by Joseph Conrad

  Though he seemed to have adopted the notion of a double personality the rover did not seem to be much easier in one character than in the other. Furrows of perplexity appeared on his brow, and as the lieutenant did not speak at once Peyrol the gunner asked impatiently:

  ``So they are thinking of catching her alive?’’ It did not please him to hear the lieutenant say that it was not exactly this that the chiefs in Toulon had in their minds. Peyrol at once expressed the opinion that of all the naval chiefs that ever were, Citizen Renaud was the only one that was worth anything. Lieutenant Ral, disregarding the challenging tone, kept to the point.

  ``What they want to know is whether that English corvette interferes much with the coast traffic.’’

  ``No, she doesn’t,’’ said Peyrol: ``she leaves poor people alone, unless, I suppose, some craft acts suspiciously. I have seen her give chase to one or two. But even those she did not detain. Michel — - you know Michel — -has heard from the mainland people that she has captured several at various times. Of course, strictly speaking, nobody is safe.’’

  ``Well, no. I wonder now what that Englishman would call `acting suspiciously.’ ‘‘

  ``Ah, now you are asking something. Don’t you know what an Englishman is? One day easy and casual, next day ready to pounce on you like a tiger. Hard in the morning, careless in the afternoon, and only reliable in a fight, whether with or against you, but for the rest perfectly fantastic. You might think a little touched in the head, and there again it would not do to trust to that notion either.’’

  The lieutenant lending an attentive ear, Peyrol smoothed his brow and discoursed with gusto of Englishmen as if they had been a strange, very little-known tribe. ``In a manner of speaking,’’ he concluded, ``the oldest bird of them all can be caught with chaff, but not every day.’’ He shook his head, smiling to himself faintly as if remembering a quaint passage or two.

  ``You didn’t get all that knowledge of the English while you were a gunner,’’ observed the lieutenant dryly.

  ``There you go again,’’ said Peyrol. ``And what’s that to you where I learned it all? Suppose I learned it all from a man who is dead now. Put it down to that.’’

  ``I see. It amounts to this, that one can’t get at the back of their minds very easily.’’

  ``No,’’ said Peyrol, then added grumpily, ``and some Frenchmen are not much better. I wish I could get at the back of your mind.’’

  ``You would find a service matter there, gunner, that’s what you would find there, and a matter that seems nothing much at first sight, but when you look into it, is about as difficult to manage properly as anything you ever undertook in your life. It puzzled all the big-wigs. It must have, since I was called in. Of course I work on shore at the Admiralty and I was in the way. They showed me the order from Paris and I could see at once the difficulty of it. I pointed it out and I was told . . .’’

  ``To come here,’’ struck in Peyrol.

  ``No. To make arrangements to carry it out.’’

  ``And you began by coming here. You are always coming here.’’

  ``I began by looking for a man,’’ said the naval officer with emphasis.

  Peyrol looked at him searchingly. ``Do you mean to say that in the whole fleet you couldn’t have found a man?’’

  ``I never attempted to look for one there. My chief agreed with me that it isn’t a service for navy men.’’

  ``Well, it must be something nasty for a naval man to admit that much. What is the order? I don’t suppose you came over here without being ready to show it to me.’’

  The lieutenant plunged his hand into the inside pocket of his naval jacket and then brought it out empty.

  ``Understand, Peyrol,’’ he said earnestly, ``this is not a service of fighting. Good men are plentiful for that. The object is to play the enemy a trick.’’

  ``Trick?’’ said Peyrol in a judicial tone, ``that’s all right. I have seen in the Indian Seas Monsieur Surcouf play tricks on the English . . . seen them with my own eyes, deceptions, disguises, and such-like. . . . That’s quite sound in war.’’

  ``Certainly. The order for this one comes from the First Consul himself, for it is no small matter. It’s to deceive the English Admiral.’’

  ``What — -that Nelson? Ah! but he is a cunning one.’’

  After expressing that opinion the old rover pulled out a red bandana handkerchief and after rubbing his face with it repeated his opinion deliberately: ``Celui-l est un malin.’’

  This time the lieutenant really brought out a paper from his pocket and saying, ``I have copied the order for you to see,’’ handed it to the rover, who took it from him with a doubtful air.

  Lieutenant Ral watched old Peyrol handling it at arm’s length, then with his arm bent trying to adjust the distance to his eyesight, and wondered whether he had copied it in a hand big enough to be read easily by the gunner Peyrol. The order ran like this: ``You will make up a packet of dispatches and pretended private letters as if from officers, containing a clear statement besides hints calculated to convince the enemy that the destination of the fleet now fitting in Toulon is for Egypt and generally for the East. That packet you will send by sea in some small craft to Naples, taking care that the vessel shall fall into the enemy’s hands.’’ The Prfet Maritime had called Ral, had shown him the paragraph of the letter from Paris, had turned the page over and laid his finger on the signature, ``Bonaparte.’’ Then after giving him a meaning glance, the admiral locked up the paper in a drawer and put the key in his pocket. Lieutenant Ral had written the passage down from memory directly the notion of consulting Peyrol had occurred to him.

  The rover, screwing his eyes and pursing his lips, had come to the end of it. The lieutenant extended his hand negligently and took the paper away: ``Well, what do you think?’’ he asked. ``You understand that there can be no question of any ship of war being sacrificed to that dodge. What do you think of it?’’

  ``Easier said than done,’’ opined Peyrol curtly.

  ``That’s what I told my admiral.’’

  ``Is he a lubber, so that you had to explain it to him?’’

  ``No, gunner, he is not. He listened to me, nodding his head.’’

  ``And what did he say when you finished?’’

  ``He said: `Parfaitement. Have you got any ideas about it?’ And I said — -listen to me, gunner — -I said: `Oui, Amiral, I think I’ve got a man,’ and the admiral interrupted me at once: `All right, you don’t want to talk to me about him. I put you in charge of that affair and give you a week to arrange it. When it’s done report to me. Meantime you may just as well take this packet.’ They were already prepared, Peyrol, all those faked letters and dispatches. I carried it out of the admiral’s room, a parcel done up in sail-cloth, properly corded and sealed. I have had it in my possession for three days. It’s upstairs in my valise.’’

  ``That doesn’t advance you very much,’’ growled old Peyrol.

  ``No,’’ admitted the lieutenant. ``I can also dispose of a few thousand francs.’’

  ``Francs,’’ repeated Peyrol. ``Well, you had better get back to Toulon and try to bribe some man to put his head into the jaws of the English lion.’’

  Ral reflected, then said slowly, ``I wouldn’t tell any man that. Of course a service of danger, that would be understood.’’

  ``It would be. And if you could get a fellow with some sense in his caboche, he would naturally try to slip past the English fleet and maybe do it, too. And then where’s your trick?’’

  ``We could give him a course to steer.’’

  ``Yes. And it may happen that your course would just take him clear of all Nelson’s fleet, for you never can tell what the English are doing. They might be watering in Sardinia.’’

  ``Some cruisers are sure to be out and pick him up.’’

  ``Maybe. But that’s not doing the job, that’s taking a chance. Do you think you are talking to a toothless baby — -or what?’’

  ``No, my gunn
er. It will take a strong man’s teeth to undo that knot.’’ A moment of silence followed. Then Peyrol assumed a dogmatic tone.

  ``I will tell you what it is, lieutenant. This seems to me just the sort of order that a landlubber would give to good seamen. You daren’t deny that.’’

  ``I don’t deny it,’’ the lieutenant admitted. ``And look at the whole difficulty. For supposing even that the tartane blunders right into the English fleet, as if it had been indeed arranged, they would just look into her hold or perhaps poke their noses here and there but it would never occur to them to search for dispatches, would it? Our man, of course, would have them well hidden, wouldn’t he? He is not to know. And if he were ass enough to leave them lying about the decks the English would at once smell a rat there. But what I think he would do would be to throw the dispatches overboard.’’

  ``Yes — -unless he is told the nature of the job,’’ said Peyrol.

  ``Evidently. But where’s the bribe big enough to induce a man to taste of the English pontoons?’’

  ``The man will take the bribe all right and then will do his best not to be caught; and if he can’t avoid that, he will take jolly good care that the English should find nothing on board his tartane. Oh no, lieutenant, any damn scallywag that owns a tartane will take a couple of thousand francs from your hand as tame as can be; but as to deceiving the English Admiral, it’s the very devil of an affair. Didn’t you think of all that before you spoke to the big epaulettes that gave you the job?’’

  ``I did see it, and I put it all before him,’’ the lieutenant said, lowering his voice still more, for their conversation had been carried on in undertones though the house behind them was silent and solitude reigned round the approaches of Escampobar Farm. It was the hour of siesta — -for those that could sleep. The lieutenant, edging closer towards the old man, almost breathed the words in his ear.

  ``What I wanted was to hear you say all those things. Do you understand now what I meant this morning on the lookout? Don’t you remember what I said?’’

  Peyrol, gazing into space, spoke in a level murmur.

  ``I remember a naval officer trying to shake old Peyrol off his feet and not managing to do it. I may be disparu but I am too solid yet for any blancbec that loses his temper, devil only knows why. And it’s a good thing that you didn’t manage it, else I would have taken you down with me, and we would have made our last somersault together for the amusement of an English ship’s company. A pretty end that!’’

  ``Don’t you remember me saying, when you mentioned that the English would have sent a boat to go through our pockets, that this would have been the perfect way?’’ In his stony immobility with the other man leaning towards his car, Peyrol seemed a mere insensible receptacle for whispers, and the lieutenant went on forcibly: ``Well, it was in allusion to this affair, for, look here, gunner, what could be more convincing, if they had found the packet of dispatches on me! What would have been their surprise, their wonder! Not the slightest doubt could enter their heads. Could it, gunner? Of course it couldn’t. I can imagine the captain of that corvette crowding sail on her to get this packet into the Admiral’s hands. The secret of the Toulon fleet’s destination found on the body of a dead officer. Wouldn’t they have exulted at their enormous piece of luck! But they wouldn’t have called it accidental. Oh, no! They would have called it providential. I know the English a little too. They like to have God on their side — - the only ally they never need pay a subsidy to. Come, gunner, would it not have been a perfect way?’’

  Lieutenant Ral threw himself back and Peyrol, still like a carven image of grim dreaminess, growled softly:

  ``Time yet. The English ship is still in the Passe.’’ He waited a little in his uncanny living-statue manner before he added viciously: ``You don’t seem in a hurry to go and take that leap.’’

  ``Upon my word, I am almost sick enough of life to do it,’’ the lieutenant said in a conversational tone.

  ``Well, don’t forget to run upstairs and take that packet with you before you go,’’ said Peyrol as before. ``But don’t wait for me; I am not sick of life. I am disparu, and that’s good enough. There’s no need for me to die.’’

  And at last he moved in his seat, swung his head from side to side as if to make sure that his neck had not been turned to stone, emitted a short laugh, and grumbled: ``Disparu! Hein! Well, I am damned!’’ as if the word ``vanished’’ had been a gross insult to enter against a man’s name in a register. It seemed to rankle, as Lieutenant Ral observed with some surprise; or else it was something inarticulate that rankled, manifesting itself in that funny way. The lieutenant, too, had a moment of anger which flamed and went out at once in the deadly cold philosophic reflection: ``We are victims of the destiny which has brought us together.’’ Then again his resentment flamed. Why should he have stumbled against that girl or that woman, he didn’t know how he must think of her, and suffer so horribly for it? He who had endeavoured almost from a boy to destroy all the softer feelings within himself. His changing moods of distaste, of wonder at himself and at the unexpected turns of life, wore the aspect of profound abstraction from which he was recalled by an outburst of Peyrol’s, not loud but fierce enough.

  ``No,’’ cried Peyrol, ``I am too old to break my bones for the sake of a lubberly soldier in Paris who fancies he has invented something clever.’’

  ``I don’t ask you to,’’ the lieutenant said, with extreme severity, in what Peyrol would call an epaulette wearer’s voice. ``You old sea-bandit. And it wouldn’t be for the sake of a soldier anyhow. You and I are Frenchmen after all.’’

  ``You have discovered that, have you?’’

  ``Yes,’’ said Ral. ``This morning, listening to your talk on the hillside with that English corvette within one might say a stone’s throw.’’

  ``Yes,’’ groaned Peyrol. ``A French-built ship!’’ He struck his breast a resounding blow. ``It hurts one there to see her. It seemed to me I could jump down on her deck single-handed.’’

  ``Yes, there you and I understood each other,’’ said the lieutenant. ``But look here, this affair is a much bigger thing than getting back a captured corvette. In reality it is much more than merely playing a trick on an admiral. It’s a part of a deep plan, Peyrol! It’s another stroke to help us on the way towards a great victory at sea.’’

  ``Us!’’ said Peyrol. ``I am a sea-bandit and you are a sea-officer. What do you mean by us?’’

  ``I mean all Frenchmen,’’ said the lieutenant. ``Or, let us say simply France, which you too have served.’’

  Peyrol, whose stone-effigy bearing had become humanized almost against his will, gave an appreciative nod, and said: ``You’ve got something in your mind. Now what is it? If you will trust a sea-bandit.’’

  ``No, I will trust a gunner of the Republic. It occurred to me that for this great affair we could make use of this corvette that you have been observing so long. For to count on the capture of any old tartane by the fleet in a way that would not arouse suspicion is no use.’’

  ``A lubberly notion,’’ assented Peyrol, with more heartiness than he had ever displayed towards Lieutenant Ral.

  ``Yes, but there’s that corvette. Couldn’t something be arranged to make them swallow the whole thing, somehow, some way? You laugh . . . Why?’’

  ``I laugh because it would be a great joke,’’ said Peyrol, whose hilarity was very short-lived. ``That fellow on board, he thinks himself very clever. I never set my eyes on him, but I used to feel that I knew him as if he were my own brother; but now . . .’’

  He stopped short. Lieutenant Ral, after observing the sudden change on his countenance, said in an impressive manner:

  ``I think you have just had an idea.’’

  ``Not the slightest,’’ said Peyrol, turning suddenly into stone as if by enchantment. The lieutenant did not feel discouraged and he was not surprised to hear the effigy of Peyrol pronounce: ``All the same one could see.’’ Then very abruptly: ``You meant to stay her
e to-night?’’

  ``Yes. I will only go down to Madrague and leave word with the sailing barge which was to come to-day from Toulon to go back without me.’’

  ``No, lieutenant. You must return to Toulon to-day. When you get there you must turn out some of those damned quill-drivers at the Port Office if it were midnight and have papers made out for a tartane — -oh, any name you like. Some sort of papers. And then you must come back as soon as you can. Why not go down to Madrague now and see whether the barge isn’t already there? If she is, then by starting at once you may get back here some time about midnight.’’

  He got up impetuously and the lieutenant stood up too. Hesitation was imprinted on his whole attitude. Peyrol’s aspect was not animated, but his Roman face with its severe aspect gave him a great air of authority.

  ``Won’t you tell me something more?’’ asked the lieutenant.

  ``No,’’ said the rover. ``Not till we meet again. If you return during the night don’t you try to get into the house. Wait outside. Don’t rouse anybody. I will be about, and if there is anything to say I will say it to you then. What are you looking about you for? You don’t want to go up for your valise. Your pistols up in your room too? What do you want with pistols, only to go to Toulon and back with a naval boat’s crew?’’ He actually laid his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder and impelled him gently towards the track leading to Madrague. Ral turned his head at the touch and their eyes met with the strained closeness of a wrestler’s hug. It was the lieutenant who gave way before the unflinchingly direct stare of the old Brother of the Coast. He gave way under the cover of a sarcastic smile and a very airy, ``I see you want me out of the way for some reason or other,’’ which produced not the slightest effect upon Peyrol, who stood with his arm pointing towards Madrague. When the lieutenant turned his back on him Peyrol’s pointing arm fell down by his side; but he watched the lieutenant out of sight before he turned too and moved in a contrary direction.

  CHAPTER IX