Authors: Joseph Conrad
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.
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 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?"
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. . . ."
"And now?" 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 into 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 the possession of that man's
strength and of that man's devotion. When she looked up at Lingard she
saw on his face—which should have been impassive or exalted, 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 and amazing sensation. And suddenly in the midst of her appeal
to his generosity, in the middle of a phrase, Mrs. Travers faltered,
becoming aware that she was the object of his contemplation.