The Rescue (23 page)

He sat down and took up the sculls. Wasub held on to the gunwale as to a
last hope of a further confidence. He had served in the brig five years.
Lingard remembered that very well. This aged figure had been intimately
associated with the brig's life and with his own, appearing silently
ready for every incident and emergency in an unquestioning expectation
of orders; symbolic of blind trust in his strength, of an unlimited
obedience to his will. Was it unlimited?

"We shall require courage and fidelity," added Lingard, in a tentative
tone.

"There are those who know me," snapped the old man, readily, as if the
words had been waiting for a long time. "Observe, Tuan. I have filled
with fresh water the little breaker in the bows."

"I know you, too," said Lingard.

"And the wind—and the sea," ejaculated the serang, jerkily. "These
also are faithful to the strong. By Allah! I who am a pilgrim and have
listened to words of wisdom in many places, I tell you, Tuan, there is
strength in the knowledge of what is hidden in things without life, as
well as in the living men. Will Tuan be gone long?"

"I come back in a short time—together with the rest of the whites from
over there. This is the beginning of many stratagems. Wasub! Daman, the
son of a dog, has suddenly made prisoners two of my own people. My face
is made black."

"Tse! Tse! What ferocity is that! One should not offer shame to a friend
or to a friend's brother lest revenge come sweeping like a flood. Yet
can an Illanun chief be other than tyrannical? My old eyes have seen
much but they never saw a tiger change its stripes. Ya-wa! The tiger can
not. This is the wisdom of us ignorant Malay men. The wisdom of white
Tuans is great. They think that by the power of many speeches the tiger
may—" He broke off and in a crisp, busy tone said: "The rudder dwells
safely under the aftermost seat should Tuan be pleased to sail the boat.
This breeze will not die away before sunrise." Again his voice changed
as if two different souls had been flitting in and out of his body. "No,
no, kill the tiger and then the stripes may be counted without fear—one
by one, thus."

He pointed a frail brown finger and, abruptly, made a mirthless dry
sound as if a rattle had been sprung in his throat.

"The wretches are many," said Lingard.

"Nay, Tuan. They follow their great men even as we in the brig follow
you. That is right."

Lingard reflected for a moment.

"My men will follow me then," he said.

"They are poor calashes without sense," commented Wasub with pitying
superiority. "Some with no more comprehension than men of the bush
freshly caught. There is Sali, the foolish son of my sister and by your
great favour appointed to mind the tiller of this ship. His stupidity is
extreme, but his eyes are good—nearly as good as mine that by praying
and much exercise can see far into the night."

Lingard laughed low and then looked earnestly at the serang. Above their
heads a man shook a flare over the side and a thin shower of sparks
floated downward and expired before touching the water.

"So you can see in the night, O serang! Well, then, look and speak.
Speak! Fight—or no fight? Weapons or words? Which folly? Well, what do
you see?"

"A darkness, a darkness," whispered Wasub at last in a frightened tone.
"There are nights—" He shook his head and muttered. "Look. The tide has
turned. Ya, Tuan. The tide has turned."

Lingard looked downward where the water could be seen, gliding past the
ship's side, moving smoothly, streaked with lines of froth, across the
illumined circle thrown round the brig by the lights on her poop.
Air bubbles sparkled, lines of darkness, ripples of glitter appeared,
glided, went astern without a splash, without a trickle, without a
plaint, without a break. The unchecked gentleness of the flow captured
the eye by a subtle spell, fastened insidiously upon the mind a
disturbing sense of the irretrievable. The ebbing of the sea athwart the
lonely sheen of flames resembled the eternal ebb-tide of time; and when
at last Lingard looked up, the knowledge of that noiseless passage of
the waters produced on his mind a bewildering effect. For a moment the
speck of light lost in vast obscurity the brig, the boat, the hidden
coast, the Shallows, the very walls and roof of darkness—the seen
and the unseen alike seemed to be gliding smoothly onward through the
enormous gloom of space. Then, with a great mental effort, he brought
everything to a sudden standstill; and only the froth and bubbles went
on streaming past ceaselessly, unchecked by the power of his will.

"The tide has turned—you say, serang? Has it—? Well, perhaps it has,
perhaps it has," he finished, muttering to himself.

"Truly it has. Can not Tuan see it run under his own eyes?" said Wasub
with an alarmed earnestness. "Look. Now it is in my mind that a prau
coming from amongst the southern islands, if steered cunningly in the
free set of the current, would approach the bows of this, our brig,
drifting silently as a shape without a substance."

"And board suddenly—is that it?" said Lingard.

"Daman is crafty and the Illanuns are very bloodthirsty. Night is
nothing to them. They are certainly valorous. Are they not born in the
midst of fighting and are they not inspired by the evil of their hearts
even before they can speak? And their chiefs would be leading them while
you, Tuan, are going from us even now—"

"You don't want me to go?" asked Lingard.

For a time Wasub listened attentively to the profound silence.

"Can we fight without a leader?" he began again. "It is the belief in
victory that gives courage. And what would poor calashes do, sons of
peasants and fishermen, freshly caught—without knowledge? They believe
in your strength—and in your power—or else—Will those whites that
came so suddenly avenge you? They are here like fish within the stakes.
Ya-wa! Who will bring the news and who will come to find the truth and
perchance to carry off your body? You go alone, Tuan!"

"There must be no fighting. It would be a calamity," insisted Lingard.
"There is blood that must not be spilt."

"Hear, Tuan!" exclaimed Wasub with heat. "The waters are running out
now." He punctuated his speech by slight jerks at the dinghy. "The
waters go and at the appointed time they shall return. And if between
their going and coming the blood of all the men in the world were poured
into it, the sea would not rise higher at the full by the breadth of my
finger nail."

"But the world would not be the same. You do not see that, serang. Give
the boat a good shove."

"Directly," said the old Malay and his face became impassive. "Tuan
knows when it is best to go, and death sometimes retreats before a firm
tread like a startled snake. Tuan should take a follower with him, not
a silly youth, but one who has lived—who has a steady heart—who would
walk close behind watchfully—and quietly. Yes. Quietly and with quick
eyes—like mine—perhaps with a weapon—I know how to strike."

Lingard looked at the wrinkled visage very near his own and into the
peering old eyes. They shone strangely. A tense eagerness was expressed
in the squatting figure leaning out toward him. On the other
side, within reach of his arm, the night stood like a wall
-discouraging—opaque—impenetrable. No help would avail. The darkness
he had to combat was too impalpable to be cleft by a blow—too dense to
be pierced by the eye; yet as if by some enchantment in the words that
made this vain offer of fidelity, it became less overpowering to his
sight, less crushing to his thought. He had a moment of pride which
soothed his heart for the space of two beats. His unreasonable and
misjudged heart, shrinking before the menace of failure, expanded freely
with a sense of generous gratitude. In the threatening dimness of his
emotions this man's offer made a point of clearness, the glimmer of
a torch held aloft in the night. It was priceless, no doubt, but
ineffectual; too small, too far, too solitary. It did not dispel the
mysterious obscurity that had descended upon his fortunes so that his
eyes could no longer see the work of his hands. The sadness of defeat
pervaded the world.

"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.

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.