Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (278 page)

The party was now broken up. Attwater leaned on a post, and kept Davis covered with a Winchester. One of the servants was hard by with a second at the port arms, leaning a little forward, round-eyed with eager expectancy. In the open space at the head of the stair, Huish was partly supported by the other native; his face wreathed in meaningless smiles, his mind seemingly sunk in the contemplation of an unlighted cigar.

‘Well,’ said Attwater, ‘you seem to me to be a very twopenny pirate!’

The captain uttered a sound in his throat for which we have no name; rage choked him.

‘I am going to give you Mr Whish — or the wine-sop that remains of him,’ continued Attwater. ‘He talks a great deal when he drinks, Captain Davis of the Sea Ranger. But I have quite done with him — and return the article with thanks. Now,’ he cried sharply. ‘Another false movement like that, and your family will have to deplore the loss of an invaluable parent; keep strictly still, Davis.’

Attwater said a word in the native, his eye still undeviatingly fixed on

the captain; and the servant thrust Huish smartly forward from the

brink of the stair. With an extraordinary simultaneous dispersion of

his members, that gentleman bounded forth into space, struck the earth,

ricocheted, and brought up with his arms about a palm. His mind was

quite a stranger to these events; the expression of anguish that

deformed his countenance at the moment of the leap was probably

mechanical; and he suffered these convulsions in silence; clung to the

tree like an infant; and seemed, by his dips, to suppose himself engaged

in the pastime of bobbing for apples. A more finely sympathetic mind or

a more observant eye might have remarked, a little in front of him on

the sand, and still quite beyond reach, the unlighted cigar.

 ‘There is your Whitechapel carrion!’ said Attwater. ‘And now

you might very well ask me why I do not put a period to you at once, as

you deserve. I will tell you why, Davis. It is because I have nothing to

do with the Sea Ranger and the people you drowned, or the Farallone and

the champagne that you stole. That is your account with God, He keeps

it, and He will settle it when the clock strikes. In my own case, I have

nothing to go on but suspicion, and I do not kill on suspicion, not even

vermin like you. But understand! if ever I see any of you again, it is

another matter, and you shall eat a bullet. And now take yourself off.

March! and as you value what you call your life, keep your hands up as

you go!’

The captain remained as he was, his hands up, his mouth open: mesmerised with fury.

‘March!’ said Attwater. ‘One — two — three!’

And Davis turned and passed slowly away. But even as he went, he was meditating a prompt, offensive return. In the twinkling of an eye, he had leaped behind a tree; and was crouching there, pistol in hand, peering from either side of his place of ambush with bared teeth; a serpent already poised to strike. And already he was too late. Attwater and his servants had disappeared; and only the lamps shone on the deserted table and the bright sand about the house, and threw into the night in all directions the strong and tall shadows of the palms.

Davis ground his teeth. Where were they gone, the cowards? to what hole had they retreated beyond reach? It was in vain he should try anything, he, single and with a second-hand revolver, against three persons, armed with Winchesters, and who did not show an ear out of any of the apertures of that lighted and silent house? Some of them might have already ducked below it from the rear, and be drawing a bead upon him at that moment from the low-browed crypt, the receptacle of empty bottles and broken crockery. No, there was nothing to be done but to bring away (if it were still possible) his shattered and demoralised forces.

‘Huish,’ he said, ‘come along.’

‘‘S lose my ciga’,’ said Huish, reaching vaguely forward.

The captain let out a rasping oath. ‘Come right along here,’ said he.

‘‘S all righ’. Sleep here ‘th Atty-Attwa. Go boar’ t’morr’,’ replied the festive one.

‘If you don’t come, and come now, by the living God, I’ll shoot you!’ cried the captain.

It is not to be supposed that the sense of these words in any way penetrated to the mind of Hulsh; rather that, in a fresh attempt upon the cigar, he overbalanced himself and came flying erratically forward: a course which brought him within reach of Davis.

‘Now you walk straight,’ said the captain, clutching him, ‘or I’ll know why not!’

‘‘S lose my ciga’,’ replied Huish.

The captain’s contained fury blazed up for a moment. He twisted Huish round, grasped him by the neck of the coat, ran him in front of him to the pier end, and flung him savagely forward on his face.

‘Look for your cigar then, you swine!’ said he, and blew his boat call till the pea in it ceased to rattle.

An immediate activity responded on board the Farallone; far away voices, and soon the sound of oars, floated along the surface of the lagoon; and at the same time, from nearer hand, Herrick aroused himself and strolled languidly up. He bent over the insignificant figure of Huish, where it grovelled, apparently insensible, at the base of the figure-head.

‘Dead?’ he asked.

‘No, he’s not dead,’ said Davis.

‘And Attwater?’ asked Herrick.

‘Now you just shut your head!’ replied Davis. ‘You can do that, I fancy, and by God, I’ll show you how! I’ll stand no more of your drivel.’

They waited accordingly in silence till the boat bumped on the furthest piers; then raised Huish, head and heels, carried him down the gangway, and flung him summarily in the bottom. On the way out he was heard murmuring of the loss of his cigar; and after he had been handed up the side like baggage, and cast down in the alleyway to slumber, his last audible expression was: ‘Splen’l fl’ Attwa’!’ This the expert construed into ‘Splendid fellow, Attwater’; with so much innocence had this great spirit issued from the adventures of the evening.

The captain went and walked in the waist with brief, irate turns; Herrick leaned his arms on the taffrail; the crew had all turned in. The ship had a gentle, cradling motion; at times a block piped like a bird. On shore, through the colonnade of palm stems, Attwater’s house was to be seen shining steadily with many lamps. And there was nothing else visible, whether in the heaven above or in the lagoon below, but the stars and their reflections. It might have been minutes or it might have been hours, that Herrick leaned there, looking in the glorified water and drinking peace. ‘A bath of stars,’ he was thinking; when a hand was laid at last on his shoulder.

‘Herrick,’ said the captain, ‘I’ve been walking off my trouble.’

A sharp jar passed through the young man, but he neither answered nor so much as turned his head.

‘I guess I spoke a little rough to you on shore,’ pursued the captain; ‘the fact is, I was real mad; but now it’s over, and you and me have to turn to and think.’

‘I will NOT think,’ said Herrick.

‘Here, old man!’ said Davis, kindly; ‘this won’t fight, you know! You’ve got to brace up and help me get things straight. You’re not going back on a friend? That’s not like you, Herrick!’

‘O yes, it is,’ said Herrick.

‘Come, come!’ said the captain, and paused as if quite at a loss. ‘Look here,’ he cried, ‘you have a glass of champagne. I won’t touch it, so that’ll show you if I’m in earnest. But it’s just the pick-me-up for you; it’ll put an edge on you at once.’

‘O, you leave me alone!’ said Herrick, and turned away.

The captain caught him by the sleeve; and he shook him off and turned on him, for the moment, like a demoniac.

‘Go to hell in your own way!’ he cried.

And he turned away again, this time unchecked, and stepped forward to where the boat rocked alongside and ground occasionally against the schooner. He looked about him. A corner of the house was interposed between the captain and himself; all was well; no eye must see him in that last act. He slid silently into the boat; thence, silently, into the starry water.

Instinctively he swam a little; it would be time enough to stop by and by.

The shock of the immersion brightened his mind immediately. The events of the ignoble day passed before him in a frieze of pictures, and he thanked ‘whatever Gods there be’ for that open door of suicide. In such a little while he would be done with it, the random business at an end, the prodigal son come home. A very bright planet shone before him and drew a trenchant wake along the water. He took that for his line and followed it. That was the last earthly thing that he should look upon; that radiant speck, which he had soon magnified into a City of Laputa, along whose terraces there walked men and women of awful and benignant features, who viewed him with distant commiseration. These imaginary spectators consoled him; he told himself their talk, one to another; it was of himself and his sad destiny.

From such flights of fancy, he was aroused by the growing coldness of the water. Why should he delay? Here, where he was now, let him drop the curtain, let him seek the ineffable refuge, let him lie down with all races and generations of men in the house of sleep. It was easy to say, easy to do. To stop swimming: there was no mystery in that, if he could do it. Could he? And he could not. He knew it instantly. He was aware instantly of an opposition in his members, unanimous and invincible, clinging to life with a single and fixed resolve, finger by finger, sinew by sinew; something that was at once he and not he — at once within and without him; — the shutting of some miniature valve in his brain, which a single manly thought should suffice to open — and the grasp of an external fate ineluctable as gravity. To any man there may come at times a consciousness that there blows, through all the articulations of his body, the wind of a spirit not wholly his; that his mind rebels; that another girds him and carries him whither he would not. It came now to Herrick, with the authority of a revelation. There was no escape possible. The open door was closed in his recreant face. He must go back into the world and amongst men without illusion. He must stagger on to the end with the pack of his responsibility and his disgrace, until a cold, a blow, a merciful chance ball, or the more merciful hangman, should dismiss him from his infamy. There were men who could commit suicide; there were men who could not; and he was one who could not.

For perhaps a minute, there raged in his mind the coil of this discovery; then cheerless certitude followed; and, with an incredible simplicity of submission to ascertained fact, he turned round and struck out for shore. There was a courage in this which he could not appreciate; the ignobility of his cowardice wholly occupying him. A strong current set against him like a wind in his face; he contended with it heavily, wearily, without enthusiasm, but with substantial advantage; marking his progress the while, without pleasure, by the outline of the trees. Once he had a moment of hope. He heard to the southward of him, towards the centre of the lagoon, the wallowing of some great fish, doubtless a shark, and paused for a little, treading water. Might not this be the hangman? he thought. But the wallowing died away; mere silence succeeded; and Herrick pushed on again for the shore, raging as he went at his own nature. Ay, he would wait for the shark; but if he had heard him coming!... His smile was tragic. He could have spat upon himself.

About three in the morning, chance, and the set of the current, and the bias of his own right-handed body, so decided it between them that he came to shore upon the beach in front of Attwater’s. There he sat down, and looked forth into a world without any of the lights of hope. The poor diving dress of self-conceit was sadly tattered! With the fairy tale of suicide, of a refuge always open to him, he had hitherto beguiled and supported himself in the trials of life; and behold! that also was only a fairy tale, that also was folk-lore. With the consequences of his acts he saw himself implacably confronted for the duration of life: stretched upon a cross, and nailed there with the iron bolts of his own cowardice. He had no tears; he told himself no stories. His disgust with himself was so complete that even the process of apologetic mythology had ceased. He was like a man cast down from a pillar, and every bone broken. He lay there, and admitted the facts, and did not attempt to rise.

Dawn began to break over the far side of the atoll, the sky brightened, the clouds became dyed with gorgeous colours, the shadows of the night lifted. And, suddenly, Herrick was aware that the lagoon and the trees wore again their daylight livery; and he saw, on board the Farallone, Davis extinguishing the lantern, and smoke rising from the galley.

Davis, without doubt, remarked and recognised the figure on the beach; or perhaps hesitated to recognise it; for after he had gazed a long while from under his hand, he went into the house and fetched a glass. It was very powerful; Herrick had often used it. With an instinct of shame, he hid his face in his hands.

‘And what brings you here, Mr Herrick-Hay, or Mr Hay-Herrick?’ asked the voice of Attwater. ‘Your back view from my present position is remarkably fine, and I would continue to present it. We can get on very nicely as we are, and if you were to turn round, do you know? I think it would be awkward.’

Herrick slowly rose to his feet; his heart throbbed hard, a hideous excitement shook him, but he was master of himself. Slowly he turned, and faced Attwater and the muzzle of a pointed rifle. ‘Why could I not do that last night?’ he thought.

‘Well, why don’t you fire?’ he said aloud, with a voice that trembled.

Attwater slowly put his gun under his arm, then his hands in his pockets.

‘What brings you here?’ he repeated.

‘I don’t know,’ said Herrick; and then, with a cry: ‘Can you do anything with me?’

‘Are you armed?’ said Attwater. ‘I ask for the form’s sake.’

‘Armed? No!’ said Herrick. ‘O yes, I am, too!’ And he flung upon the beach a dripping pistol.

‘You are wet,’ said Attwater.