Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (805 page)

“In the diffused faint glow of the skylight the Frenchman moved no more than a statue.  Davidson could have shot him with the greatest ease — but he was not homicidally inclined.  Moreover, he wanted to make sure before opening fire that the others had gone to work.  Not hearing the sounds he expected to hear, he felt uncertain whether they all were on board yet.

“While he listened, the Frenchman, whose immobility might have but cloaked an internal struggle; moved forward a pace, then another.  Davidson, entranced, watched him advance one leg, withdraw his right stump, the armed one, out of his pocket, and swinging his body to put greater force into the blow, bring the seven-pound weight down on the hammock where the head of the sleeper ought to have been.

“Davidson admitted to me that his hair stirred at the roots then.  But for Anne, his unsuspecting head would have been there.  The Frenchman’s surprise must have been simply overwhelming.  He staggered away from the lightly swinging hammock, and before Davidson could make a movement he had vanished, bounding down the ladder to warn and alarm the other fellows.

“Davidson sprang instantly out of the boat, threw up the skylight flap, and had a glimpse of the men down there crouching round the hatch.  They looked up scared, and at that moment the Frenchman outside the door bellowed out ‘Trahison — trahison!’  They bolted out of the cabin, falling over each other and swearing awfully.  The shot Davidson let off down the skylight had hit no one; but he ran to the edge of the cabin-top and at once opened fire at the dark shapes rushing about the deck.  These shots were returned, and a rapid fusillade burst out, reports and flashes, Davidson dodging behind a ventilator and pulling the trigger till his revolver clicked, and then throwing it down to take the other in his right hand.

“He had been hearing in the din the Frenchman’s infuriated yells ‘Tuez-le! tuez-le!’ above the fierce cursing of the others.  But though they fired at him they were only thinking of clearing out.  In the flashes of the last shots Davidson saw them scrambling over the rail.  That he had hit more than one he was certain.  Two different voices had cried out in pain.  But apparently none of them were disabled.

“Davidson leaned against the bulwark reloading his revolver without haste.  He had not the slightest apprehension of their coming back.  On the other hand, he had no intention of pursuing them on shore in the dark.  What they were doing he had no idea.  Looking to their hurts probably.  Not very far from the bank the invisible Frenchman was blaspheming and cursing his associates, his luck, and all the world.  He ceased; then with a sudden, vengeful yell, ‘It’s that woman! — it’s that woman that has sold us,’ was heard running off in the night.

“Davidson caught his breath in a sudden pang of remorse.  He perceived with dismay that the stratagem of his defence had given Anne away.  He did not hesitate a moment.  It was for him to save her now.  He leaped ashore.  But even as he landed on the wharf he heard a shrill shriek which pierced his very soul.

“The light was still burning in the house.  Davidson, revolver in hand, was making for it when another shriek, away to his left, made him change his direction.

“He changed his direction — but very soon he stopped.  It was then that he hesitated in cruel perplexity.  He guessed what had happened.  The woman had managed to escape from the house in some way, and now was being chased in the open by the infuriated Frenchman.  He trusted she would try to run on board for protection.

“All was still around Davidson.  Whether she had run on board or not, this silence meant that the Frenchman had lost her in the dark.

“Davidson, relieved, but still very anxious, turned towards the river-side.  He had not made two steps in that direction when another shriek burst out behind him, again close to the house.

“He thinks that the Frenchman had lost sight of the poor woman right enough.  Then came that period of silence.  But the horrible ruffian had not given up his murderous purpose.  He reasoned that she would try to steal back to her child, and went to lie in wait for her near the house.

“It must have been something like that.  As she entered the light falling about the house-ladder, he had rushed at her too soon, impatient for vengeance.  She had let out that second scream of mortal fear when she caught sight of him, and turned to run for life again.

“This time she was making for the river, but not in a straight line.  Her shrieks circled about Davidson.  He turned on his heels, following the horrible trail of sound in the darkness.  He wanted to shout ‘This way, Anne!  I am here!’ but he couldn’t.  At the horror of this chase, more ghastly in his imagination than if he could have seen it, the perspiration broke out on his forehead, while his throat was as dry as tinder.  A last supreme scream was cut short suddenly.

“The silence which ensued was even more dreadful.  Davidson felt sick.  He tore his feet from the spot and walked straight before him, gripping the revolver and peering into the obscurity fearfully.  Suddenly a bulky shape sprang from the ground within a few yards of him and bounded away.  Instinctively he fired at it, started to run in pursuit, and stumbled against something soft which threw him down headlong.

“Even as he pitched forward on his head he knew it could be nothing else but Laughing Anne’s body.  He picked himself up and, remaining on his knees, tried to lift her in his arms.  He felt her so limp that he gave it up.  She was lying on her face, her long hair scattered on the ground.  Some of it was wet.  Davidson, feeling about her head, came to a place where the crushed bone gave way under his fingers.  But even before that discovery he knew that she was dead.  The pursuing Frenchman had flung her down with a kick from behind, and, squatting on her back, was battering in her skull with the weight she herself had fastened to his stump, when the totally unexpected Davidson loomed up in the night and scared him away.

“Davidson, kneeling by the side of that woman done so miserably to death, was overcome by remorse.  She had died for him.  His manhood was as if stunned.  For the first time he felt afraid.  He might have been pounced upon in the dark at any moment by the murderer of Laughing Anne.  He confesses to the impulse of creeping away from that pitiful corpse on his hands and knees to the refuge of the ship.  He even says that he actually began to do so. . .

“One can hardly picture to oneself Davidson crawling away on all fours from the murdered woman — Davidson unmanned and crushed by the idea that she had died for him in a sense.  But he could not have gone very far.  What stopped him was the thought of the boy, Laughing Anne’s child, that (Davidson remembered her very words) would not have a dog’s chance.

“This life the woman had left behind her appeared to Davidson’s conscience in the light of a sacred trust.  He assumed an erect attitude and, quaking inwardly still, turned about and walked towards the house.

“For all his tremors he was very determined; but that smashed skull had affected his imagination, and he felt very defenceless in the darkness, in which he seemed to hear faintly now here, now there, the prowling footsteps of the murderer without hands.  But he never faltered in his purpose.  He got away with the boy safely after all.  The house he found empty.  A profound silence encompassed him all the time, except once, just as he got down the ladder with Tony in his arms, when a faint groan reached his ears.  It seemed to come from the pitch-black space between the posts on which the house was built, but he did not stop to investigate.

“It’s no use telling you in detail how Davidson got on board with the burden Anne’s miserably cruel fate had thrust into his arms; how next morning his scared crew, after observing from a distance the state of affairs on board, rejoined with alacrity; how Davidson went ashore and, aided by his engineer (still half dead with fright), rolled up Laughing Anne’s body in a cotton sheet and brought it on board for burial at sea later.  While busy with this pious task, Davidson, glancing about, perceived a huge heap of white clothes huddled up against the corner-post of the house.  That it was the Frenchman lying there he could not doubt.  Taking it in connection with the dismal groan he had heard in the night, Davidson is pretty sure that his random shot gave a mortal hurt to the murderer of poor Anne.

“As to the others, Davidson never set eyes on a single one of them.  Whether they had concealed themselves in the scared settlement, or bolted into the forest, or were hiding on board Niclaus’s prau, which could be seen lying on the mud a hundred yards or so higher up the creek, the fact is that they vanished; and Davidson did not trouble his head about them.  He lost no time in getting out of the creek directly the Sissie floated.  After steaming some twenty miles clear of the coast, he (in his own words) ‘committed the body to the deep.’  He did everything himself.  He weighted her down with a few fire-bars, he read the service, he lifted the plank, he was the only mourner.  And while he was rendering these last services to the dead, the desolation of that life and the atrocious wretchedness of its end cried aloud to his compassion, whispered to him in tones of self-reproach.

“He ought to have handled the warning she had given him in another way.  He was convinced now that a simple display of watchfulness would have been enough to restrain that vile and cowardly crew.  But the fact was that he had not quite believed that anything would be attempted.

“The body of Laughing Anne having been ‘committed to the deep’ some twenty miles S.S.W. from Cape Selatan, the task before Davidson was to commit Laughing Anne’s child to the care of his wife.  And there poor, good Davidson made a fatal move.  He didn’t want to tell her the whole awful story, since it involved the knowledge of the danger from which he, Davidson, had escaped.  And this, too, after he had been laughing at her unreasonable fears only a short time before.

“‘I thought that if I told her everything,’ Davidson explained to me, ‘she would never have a moment’s peace while I was away on my trips.’

“He simply stated that the boy was an orphan, the child of some people to whom he, Davidson, was under the greatest obligation, and that he felt morally bound to look after him.  Some day he would tell her more, he said, and meantime he trusted in the goodness and warmth of her heart, in her woman’s natural compassion.

“He did not know that her heart was about the size of a parched pea, and had the proportional amount of warmth; and that her faculty of compassion was mainly directed to herself.  He was only startled and disappointed at the air of cold surprise and the suspicious look with which she received his imperfect tale.  But she did not say much.  She never had much to say.  She was a fool of the silent, hopeless kind.

“What story Davidson’s crew thought fit to set afloat in Malay town is neither here nor there.  Davidson himself took some of his friends into his confidence, besides giving the full story officially to the Harbour Master.

“The Harbour Master was considerably astonished.  He didn’t think, however, that a formal complaint should be made to the Dutch Government.  They would probably do nothing in the end, after a lot of trouble and correspondence.  The robbery had not come off, after all.  Those vagabonds could be trusted to go to the devil in their own way.  No amount of fuss would bring the poor woman to life again, and the actual murderer had been done justice to by a chance shot from Davidson.  Better let the matter drop.

“This was good common sense.  But he was impressed.

“‘Sounds a terrible affair, Captain Davidson.’

“‘Aye, terrible enough,’ agreed the remorseful Davidson.  But the most terrible thing for him, though he didn’t know it yet then, was that his wife’s silly brain was slowly coming to the conclusion that Tony was Davidson’s child, and that he had invented that lame story to introduce him into her pure home in defiance of decency, of virtue — of her most sacred feelings.

“Davidson was aware of some constraint in his domestic relations.  But at the best of times she was not demonstrative; and perhaps that very coldness was part of her charm in the placid Davidson’s eyes.  Women are loved for all sorts of reasons and even for characteristics which one would think repellent.  She was watching him and nursing her suspicions.

“Then, one day, Monkey-faced Ritchie called on that sweet, shy Mrs. Davidson.  She had come out under his care, and he considered himself a privileged person — her oldest friend in the tropics.  He posed for a great admirer of hers.  He was always a great chatterer.  He had got hold of the story rather vaguely, and he started chattering on that subject, thinking she knew all about it.  And in due course he let out something about Laughing Anne.

“‘Laughing Anne,’ says Mrs. Davidson with a start.  ‘What’s that?’

“Ritchie plunged into circumlocution at once, but she very soon stopped him.  ‘Is that creature dead?’ she asks.

“‘I believe so,’ stammered Ritchie.  ‘Your husband says so.’

“‘But you don’t know for certain?’

“‘No!  How could I, Mrs. Davidson!’

“‘That’s all wanted to know,’ says she, and goes out of the room.

“When Davidson came home she was ready to go for him, not with common voluble indignation, but as if trickling a stream of cold clear water down his back.  She talked of his base intrigue with a vile woman, of being made a fool of, of the insult to her dignity.

“Davidson begged her to listen to him and told her all the story, thinking that it would move a heart of stone.  He tried to make her understand his remorse.  She heard him to the end, said ‘Indeed!’ and turned her back on him.

“‘Don’t you believe me?’ he asked, appalled.

“She didn’t say yes or no.  All she said was, ‘Send that brat away at once.’

“‘I can’t throw him out into the street,’ cried Davidson.  ‘You don’t mean it.’

“‘I don’t care.  There are charitable institutions for such children, I suppose.’

“‘That I will never do,’ said Davidson.

“‘Very well.  That’s enough for me.’

“Davidson’s home after this was like a silent, frozen hell for him.  A stupid woman with a sense of grievance is worse than an unchained devil.  He sent the boy to the White Fathers in Malacca.  This was not a very expensive sort of education, but she could not forgive him for not casting the offensive child away utterly.  She worked up her sense of her wifely wrongs and of her injured purity to such a pitch that one day, when poor Davidson was pleading with her to be reasonable and not to make an impossible existence for them both, she turned on him in a chill passion and told him that his very sight was odious to her.