The African Queen

by C. S. Forester

  Rose got up onto her seat and took the tiller. She studied the eddies of the pool in which they lay; she looked down the cataract which awaited them. There was no fear in her at all. The flutter of her bosom was caused by elation and excitement—the mere act of taking hold of the tiller started her heart beating faster. She gave directions to Allnutt by means of signs; a wave of her hand overside and Allnutt pushed off cautiously with the boat hook; she beckoned him to her and he put the engine into reverse for a revolution or two, just enough to get the bows clear. She watched the swirls and the slow motion of the launch backward toward the fall. Then she waved with a forward motion, and Allnutt started the propeller turning. The African Queen gathered slow headway, while the shaft vibrated underfoot. Rose brought the tiller over; the launch circled in the eddy, lurched into the main stream, and next moment was flying down with the current, and the madness of the day had begun.

  That ability to think like lightning descended upon Rose’s mind as they reached the main stream. She threaded her way through the rocks of the cataract as if it were child’s play. It had become child’s play to watch the banked-up white water round the rocks, to calculate the speed of the current and the boat’s speed through the water, when to start the turn and what allowance to make for the rebound of the water from the rock they were passing in planning their approach to the next. The big stationary wave which marked an underwater rock was noted subconsciously. Mechanically she decided how close to it she could go and what the effect of the eddy would be.

  Later, when the descent of the river was completed, Rose found she could not remember the details of that second day among the rapids with half the clearness of the first. Those first rapids were impressed upon her memory with perfect faithfulness; she could remember every bend, every rock, every eddy; she could visualize them just by closing her eyes. But the memories of the second day were far more jumbled and vague. Rose only remembered clearly that first cataract. The subsequent ones remained in her mind only as long sequences of roaring white water. There was spray which wetted her face, and there were some nasty corners—how many she could not tell. Her mind had grown accustomed to it all.

  Yet the elation remained. There was sheer joy in crashing through those waves. Rose, with never a thought that the frail fabric of the African Queen might be severely tried by those jolts and jars, found it exhilarating to head the launch into the stiff rigid waves which marked the junction of two currents, and to feel her buck and lurch under her, and to see the spray come flying back from the bows. The finest sensation of all now was the heave upwards of the stern as the African Queen reached the summit of one of those long, steep descents of green water and went racing down it with death on either hand and destruction seemingly awaiting them below.

  Towards afternoon there was a cessation of cataracts. The river widened a trifle, but the walls of the gorge, although not quite so high, remained nearly vertical still. Between these walls the river raced with terrific velocity, but without impediment. There was time now to think and to enjoy oneself, to revel in the thrill of sending the African Queen skating round the corners, pushed far out by the current until the outside bank was perilously close to one’s elbow. Even Allnutt, noticing the sudden smoothness of the passage, suspended his rigid concentration over the engine and raised his head. He watched in amazement the precipices flashing by at either hand, and he marveled at the dizzy way they slithered round the bends. There was something agonizingly pleasant about it. The feeling of constriction about the breast which he felt as he watched gave him an odd sense of satisfaction. He was full of the pride of achievement.

  The mooring place which they desired presented itself along this cataract-free portion of the river. A tributary to the Ulanga came in here—not in any conventional way, but by two bold leaps down the precipice, to plunge bodily into the water after a forty-foot drop. Rose just had time to notice it, to steer clear and be drenched by the spray, when she saw that a sudden little widening of the channel just below, where the current had eaten away the rocky bank at a spot where the rock was presumably softer, offered them the assistance of a back eddy in mooring. She called to attract Allnutt’s attention, signaled for half speed and then for reverse. Allnutt’s boat hook helped in the manoeuvre, and the African Queen came gently to a stop under the steep bank. Allnutt made fast the boat while Rose looked about her.

  “How lovely!” said Rose, involuntarily.

  She had not noticed the loveliness before; all that had caught her attention had been the back eddy. They had moored in what must have been one of the loveliest corners of Africa. The high banks here were not quite precipices, and there were numerous shelves in the rock bearing blue and purple flowering plants, which trailed shimmering wreaths down the steep faces. From the crest down to flood level the rock face was covered with the mystic blue of them. Higher upstream was the spot where the little tributary came foaming down the cliff face. A beam of sunlight reached down over the edge of the gorge and turned its spray into a dancing rainbow. The noise of its fall was not deafening; to ears grown used to the roar of the Ulanga cataracts it was just a pleasant musical accompaniment to the joyful singing of the calm, rapid river here. Under the rocky bank it was cool and delicious with the clear green river coursing alongside. The rocks were reds and browns and greys where they could be seen through the flowers, and had a smooth, well-washed appearance. There was no dust; there were no flies. It was no hotter than a summer noon in England.

  Rose had never before found pleasure in scenery, just as scenery. Samuel never had. If as a girl some bluebell wood in England (perhaps Rose had never seen a bluebell wood; it is possible) had brought a thrill into her bosom and a catch into her throat she would have viewed such symptoms with suspicion, as betokening a frivolity of mind verging upon wantonness. Samuel was narrow and practical about these things.

  But Rose was free now from Samuel and his joyless, bilious outlook; it was a freedom all the more insidious because she was not conscious of it. She stood in the stern and drank in the sweet beauty of all, smiling at the play of colour in the rainbow at the waterfall. Her mind played with memories, of the broad, sun-soaked reaches of the upper Ulanga, of the cataracts and dangers they had just passed.

  There was further happiness in that. There was a thrill of achievement. Rose knew that in bringing the African Queen down those rapids she had really accomplished something, something which in her present mood she ranked far above any successful baking of bread, or even (it is to be feared) any winning of infidel souls to righteousness. For once in her joyless life she could feel pleased with herself, and it was a sensation intoxicating in its novelty. Her body seethed with life.

  Allnutt came climbing back into the boat from the shore. He was limping a little.

  “D’you mind ’avin’ a look at my foot, Miss?” he said. “Got a splinter in it up on the bank an’ I dunno if it’s all out.”

  “Of course,” said Rose.

  He sat upon the bench in the stern, and made to take off his canvas shoe, but Rose was beforehand with him. On her knees she slipped the shoe off and took his slender, rather appealing foot into her hands. She found the place of entry of the splinter, and pressed it with her finger tip while Allnutt twitched with ridiculous ticklishness. She watched the blood come back again.

  “No, there’s nothing there now,” she said, and let his foot go. It was the first time she had touched him since they had left the mission.

  “Thank you, Miss,” said Allnutt.

  He lingered on the bench gazing up at the flowers, while Rose lingered on her knees at his feet.

  “Coo, ain’t it pretty,” said Allnutt. There was a little awe in his tone, and his voice was hardly raised loud enough to be heard above the sound of the river.

  The long twenty-four hours spent in the echoing turmoil of the cataracts seemed to have muddled their thoughts. Neither of them was thinking clearly. Both of them felt oddly happy and companionable, and yet at the same time they we
re conscious something was missing, although they felt it close at hand. Rose watched Allnutt’s face as he looked wondering round him. There was something appealing, almost childlike, about the little man with his dazed smile. She wanted to pet him, and then, noticing this desire in herself, she put it aside as not expressing exactly what it was she wanted, although she could find no better words for it. Both of them were breathing harder than usual, as though undergoing some strain.

  “That waterfall there,” said Allnutt, hesitatingly, “reminds me—”

  He never said of what it reminded him. He looked down at Rose beside him, her sweet bosom close to him. He, too, was glowing with life and inspired by the awesome beauty of the place. He did not know what he was doing when he put out his hand to her throat, sunburned and cool. Rose caught at his hands, to hold them, not to put them away, and he came down to his knees and their bodies came together.

  Rose was conscious of kisses, of her racing pulse and her swimming head. She was conscious of hands which pulled at her clothing and which she could not deny even if she would. She was conscious of pain which made her put up her arms round Allnutt’s slight body and press him to her, holding him to her breasts while he did his will—her will—upon her.

  Chapter 8

  PROBABLY it had all been inevitable. They had been urged into it by all their circumstances—their solitude, their close proximity, the dangers they had encountered, their healthy life. Even their quarrels had helped. Rose’s ingrained prudery had been drastically eradicated during these days of living in close contact with a man, and it was that prudery which had constituted the main barrier between them. There is no room for false modesty or physical shame in a small boat.

  Rose was made for love; she had been ashamed of it, frightened of it, once upon a time, and had averted her eyes from the truth, but she could not maintain that suppression amid the wild beauty of the Ulanga. And once one started making allowances for Allnutt he became a likable little figure. He was no more responsible for his deficiencies than a child would be. His very frailties had their appeal for Rose. It must have been that little gesture of his in coming to her with a splinter in his foot which broke down the last barrier of Rose’s reserve. And she wanted to give, and to give again, and to go on giving; it was her nature.

  There was not even the difficulty of differences of social rank interposed between them. Clergyman’s sister notwithstanding, there was no denying that Rose was a small tradesman’s daughter. Allnutt’s cockney accent was different from her own provincial twang, but it did not grate upon her nerves. She had been accustomed for much of her life to meet upon terms of social equality people with just as much accent. If Allnutt and Rose had met in England and decided to marry, Rose’s circle might not have thought she was doing well for herself, but they would not have looked upon her as descending more than a single step of the social ladder at most.

  Most important factor of all, perhaps, was the influence of the doctrine of the imperfection of man (as opposed to woman) which Rose had imbibed all through her girlhood. Her mother, her aunts, all the married women she knew, had a supreme contempt for men regarded in the light of house-inhabiting creatures. They were careless, and clumsy, and untidy. They were incapable of dusting a room or cooking a joint. They were subject to fits of tantrums. Women had to devote themselves to clearing their path for them and smoothing their way. Yet at the same time it was a point of faith that these incomprehensible creatures were the lords of creation for whom nothing could be too good. For them the larger portion of the supper haddock must always be reserved. For them on Sunday afternoons one must step quietly lest their nap be disturbed. Their trivial illnesses must be coddled, their peevish complaints heard with patience, their bad temper condoned. In fact—perhaps it is the explanation of this state of affairs—men were, in their inscrutable oddity, and in the unquestioned deference accorded them, just like miniatures of the exacting and all-powerful God Whom the women worshipped.

  So Rose did not look for perfection in the man she loved. She took it for granted that she would not respect him. He would not be so dear to her if she did. If, as to her certain knowledge he did, he got drunk, and was not enamoured of a prospect of personal danger, that was only on a par with her father’s dyspeptic malignity, or Uncle Albert’s habit of betting, or Samuel’s fits of cold ill-temper. It was not a question of knowing all and forgiving all, but of knowing all except that she was entitled to forgive. And these very frailties of his made an insidious appeal to the maternal part of her, and so did his corporal frailty, and the hard luck he had always experienced. She yearned for him in a way which differed from and reinforced the clamourings of her emancipated body. As the flame of passion died down in him, and with his lips to her rich throat, he murmured a few odd, sleepy words to her, she was very happy, and cradled him in her strong arms.

  Allnutt was very happy too. Whatever he might do in the heat of passion, his need was just as much for a mother as for a mistress. To him there was a comfort in Rose’s arms he had never known before. He felt he could trust her and depend upon her as he had never trusted or depended upon a woman in his life. All the misery and tension of his life dropped away from him as he pillowed his head on her firm bosom.

  Sanity did not come to them until morning, and not until late morning at that, and when it came it was only a partial sort of sanity. There was a moment in the early morning light when Rose found herself blushing at the memory of last night’s immodesties, and filled with disquiet at the thought of her unmarried condition, but Allnutt’s lips were close to hers, and her arms were about his slender body, and there was red blood in her veins, and memories and disquietude alike vanished as she caught him to her. There was a blushing interval when she had to own that she did not know his name, and, when he told her, shyly, she savoured the name “Charlie” over to herself like a schoolgirl, and she thought it a very nice name, too.

  When the yearning for the morning cup of tea became quite uncontrollable—and after a night of love Rose found herself aching for tea just as much as after a day’s cataract-running—it was she who insisted on rising and preparing breakfast. That “better portion of the haddock” convention worked strongly on her. She had not minded in the least having meals prepared by Allnutt her assistant, but it seemed wrong to her that Charlie (whom already she called “husband” to herself, being quite ignorant of the word “lover”) should be bothered with domestic details. She felt supremely pleased and flattered when he insisted on helping her; she positively fluttered. And she laughed outright when he cracked a couple of jokes.

  All the same, and in a fashion completely devoid of casuistry, Rose was appreciative of the difference between business and pleasure. When breakfast was finished she took control of the expedition again without a second thought. She took it for granted that they were going on, and that in the end they were going to torpedo the Königin Luise, and it did not occur to Allnutt that now he occupied a privileged position, he might take advantage of it to protest. He was a man simply made to be henpecked. What with the success they had met under Rose’s command up to now, and with the events of the night, Rose’s ascendancy over him was complete. He was quite happy to cast all the responsibility onto her shoulders and to await philosophically whatever destiny might send. He gathered fuel and he got up steam with the indifference engendered by routine.

  Only when they were on the point of departure did either of them waver. Rose found him close beside her murmuring in a broken voice—

  “Give us another kiss, old girl.”

  And Rose put her arms around him and kissed him, and whispered—“Charlie, Charlie, dear Charlie.” She patted his shoulder, and she looked round at the beauty all about them, where she had given him her virginity, and her eyes were wet. Then they cast off, and Allnutt pushed off with the boat hook, and a second later they were in the mad riot of the Ulanga once more, coursing down between the precipices.

  In some moment of sensible conversation that mor
ning Allnutt had advanced the suggestion that the last cataract had been left behind and this portion of the river was merely the approach to the flat land round the lake. He proved to be wrong. After ten wild minutes of smooth water the familiar din of an approaching cataract reached Rose’s ears. There was need to brace herself once more, to hold the tiller steady, and to stare forward to pick out the continuous line of clear water, a winding one to avoid the rocks and yet with no turn in it too sharp, which it was necessary to select in the few fleeting seconds between the sighting of the cataract and the moment when the African Queen began to heave among the first waves of the race.

  So they went on down the wild river, deafened and drenched. Amazingly they survived each successive peril, although it was too much to hope that their luck would hold. They came to a place where the channel was too narrow and obstructed to offer in its whole width a single inch of clear water. Rose could only pick the point where the wild smother of foam was lowest, and to judge from the portions of the rocks exposed what course was taken by the water that boiled between them. The African Queen reared up and crashed into the tangle of meeting waves. She shook with the impact; water flew back high over the top of the funnel. Rose saw clear water ahead, and then as the launch surged through there was a crash beneath her, followed by a horrid vibration which seemed as if it would rattle the boat into pieces. With the instinct of the engineer Allnutt shut off the steam.