Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated)

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  ‘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.

  ‘Yes, I am wet,’ said Herrick. ‘Can you do anything with me?’

  Attwater read his face attentively.

  ‘It would depend a good deal upon what you are,’ said he.

  ‘What I am? A coward!’ said Herrick.

  ‘There is very little to be done with that,’ said Attwater. ‘And yet the description hardly strikes one as exhaustive.’

  ‘Oh, what does it matter?’ cried Herrick. ‘Here I am. I am broken crockery; I am a burst drum; the whole of my life is gone to water; I have nothing left that I believe in, except my living horror of myself. Why do I come to you? I don’t know; you are cold, cruel, hateful; and I hate you, or I think I hate you. But you are an honest man
, an honest gentleman. I put myself, helpless, in your hands. What must I do? If I can’t do anything, be merciful and put a bullet through me; it’s only a puppy with a broken leg!’

  ‘If I were you, I would pick up that pistol, come up to the house, and put on some dry clothes,’ said Attwater.

  ‘If you really mean it?’ said Herrick. ‘You know they — we — they. .. But you know all.’

  ‘I know quite enough,’ said Attwater. ‘Come up to the house.’

  And the captain, from the deck of the Farallone, saw the two men pass together under the shadow of the grove.

  CHAPTER 11. DAVID AND GOLIATH

  Huish had bundled himself up from the glare of the day — his face to the house, his knees retracted. The frail bones in the thin tropical raiment seemed scarce more considerable than a fowl’s; and Davis, sitting on the rail with his arm about a stay, contemplated him with gloom, wondering what manner of counsel that insignificant figure should contain. For since Herrick had thrown him off and deserted to the enemy, Huish, alone of mankind, remained to him to be a helper and oracle.

  He considered their position with a sinking heart. The ship was a stolen ship; the stores, either from initial carelessness or ill administration during the voyage, were insufficient to carry them to any port except back to Papeete; and there retribution waited in the shape of a gendarme, a judge with a queer-shaped hat, and the horror of distant Noumea. Upon that side, there was no glimmer of hope. Here, at the island, the dragon was roused; Attwater with his men and his Winchesters watched and patrolled the house; let him who dare approach it. What else was then left but to sit there, inactive, pacing the decks — until the Trinity Hall arrived and they were cast into irons, or until the food came to an end, and the pangs of famine succeeded? For the Trinity Hall Davis was prepared; he would barricade the house, and die there defending it, like a rat in a crevice. But for the other? The cruise of the Farallone, into which he had plunged only a fortnight before, with such golden expectations, could this be the nightmare end of it? The ship rotting at anchor, the crew stumbling and dying in the scuppers? It seemed as if any extreme of hazard were to be preferred to so grisly a certainty; as if it would be better to up-anchor after all, put to sea at a venture, and, perhaps, perish at the hands of cannibals on one of the more obscure Paumotus. His eye roved swiftly over sea and sky in quest of any promise of wind, but the fountains of the Trade were empty. Where it had run yesterday and for weeks before, a roaring blue river charioting clouds, silence now reigned; and the whole height of the atmosphere stood balanced. On the endless ribbon of island that stretched out to either hand of him its array of golden and green and silvery palms, not the most volatile frond was to be seen stirring; they drooped to their stable images in the lagoon like things carved of metal, and already their long line began to reverberate heat. There was no escape possible that day, none probable on the morrow. And still the stores were running out!

  Then came over Davis, from deep down in the roots of his being, or at least from far back among his memories of childhood and innocence, a wave of superstition. This run of ill luck was something beyond natural; the chances of the game were in themselves more various; it seemed as if the devil must serve the pieces. The devil? He heard again the clear note of Attwater’s bell ringing abroad into the night, and dying away. How if God...?

  Briskly, he averted his mind. Attwater: that was the point. Attwater had food and a treasure of pearls; escape made possible in the present, riches in the future. They must come to grips, with Attwater; the man must die. A smoky heat went over his face, as he recalled the impotent figure he had made last night and the contemptuous speeches he must bear in silence. Rage, shame, and the love of life, all pointed the one way; and only invention halted: how to reach him? had he strength enough? was there any help in that misbegotten packet of bones against the house?

  His eyes dwelled upon him with a strange avidity, as though he would read into his soul; and presently the sleeper moved, stirred uneasily, turned suddenly round, and threw him a blinking look. Davis maintained the same dark stare, and Huish looked away again and sat up.

  ‘Lord, I’ve an ‘eadache on me!’ said he. ‘I believe I was a bit swipey last night. W’ere’s that cry-byby ‘Errick?’

  ‘Gone,’ said the captain.

  ‘Ashore?’ cried Huish. ‘Oh, I say! I’d ‘a gone too.’

  ‘Would you?’ said the captain.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ replied Huish. ‘I like Attwater. ‘E’s all right; we got on like one o’clock when you were gone. And ain’t his sherry in it, rather? It’s like Spiers and Ponds’ Amontillado! I wish I ‘ad a drain of it now.’ He sighed.

  ‘Well, you’ll never get no more of it — that’s one thing,’ said Davis, gravely.

  ‘‘Ere! wot’s wrong with you, Dyvis? Coppers ‘ot? Well, look at me! I ain’t grumpy,’ said Huish; ‘I’m as plyful as a canary-bird, I am.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Davis, ‘you’re playful; I own that; and you were playful last night, I believe, and a damned fine performance you made of it.’

  ‘‘Allo!’ said Huish. ‘‘Ow’s this? Wot performance?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said the captain, getting slowly off the rail.

  And he did: at full length, with every wounding epithet and absurd detail repeated and emphasised; he had his own vanity and Huish’s upon the grill, and roasted them; and as he spoke, he inflicted and endured agonies of humiliation. It was a plain man’s masterpiece of the sardonic.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ said he, when he had done, and looked down at Huish, flushed and serious, and yet jeering.

  ‘I’ll tell you wot it is,’ was the reply, ‘you and me cut a pretty dicky figure.’

  ‘That’s so,’ said Davis, ‘a pretty measly figure, by God! And, by God, I want to see that man at my knees.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Huish. ‘‘Ow to get him there?’

  ‘That’s it!’ cried Davis. ‘How to get hold of him! They’re four to two; though there’s only one man among them to count, and that’s Attwater. Get a bead on Attwater, and the others would cut and run and sing out like frightened poultry — and old man Herrick would come round with his hat for a share of the pearls. No, SIR! it’s how to get hold of Attwater! And we daren’t even go ashore; he would shoot us in the boat like dogs.’

  ‘Are you particular about having him dead or alive?’ asked Huish.

  ‘I want to see him dead,’ said the captain.

  ‘Ah, well!’ said Huish, ‘then I believe I’ll do a bit of breakfast.’

  And he turned into the house.

  The captain doggedly followed him.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘What’s your idea, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, you let me alone, will you?’ said Huish, opening a bottle of champagne. ‘You’ll ‘ear my idea soon enough. Wyte till I pour some chain on my ‘ot coppers.’ He drank a glass off, and affected to listen. ‘‘Ark!’ said he, ‘‘ear it fizz. Like ‘am fryin’, I declyre. ‘Ave a glass, do, and look sociable.’

  ‘No!’ said the captain, with emphasis; ‘no, I will not! there’s business.’

  ‘You p’ys your money and you tykes your choice, my little man,’ returned Huish. ‘Seems rather a shyme to me to spoil your breakfast for wot’s really ancient ‘istory.’

  He finished three parts of a bottle of champagne, and nibbled a corner of biscuit, with extreme deliberation; the captain sitting opposite and champing the bit like an impatient horse. Then Huish leaned his arms on the table and looked Davis in the face.

  ‘W’en you’re ready!’ said he.

  ‘Well, now, what’s your idea?’ said Davis, with a sigh.

  ‘Fair play!’ said Huish. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘The trouble is that I’ve got none,’ replied Davis; and wandered for some time in aimless discussion of the difficulties in their path, and useless explanations of his own fiasco.

  ‘About done?’ said Huish.

  ‘I’ll dry up right h
ere,’ replied Davis.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Huish, ‘you give me your ‘and across the table, and say, “Gawd strike me dead if I don’t back you up.”‘

  His voice was hardly raised, yet it thrilled the hearer. His face seemed the epitome of cunning, and the captain recoiled from it as from a blow.

  ‘What for?’ said he.

  ‘Luck,’ said Huish. ‘Substantial guarantee demanded.’

  And he continued to hold out his hand.

  ‘I don’t see the good of any such tomfoolery,’ said the other.

  ‘I do, though,’ returned Huish. ‘Gimme your ‘and and say the words; then you’ll ‘ear my view of it. Don’t, and you won’t.’

  The captain went through the required form, breathing short, and gazing on the clerk with anguish. What to fear, he knew not; yet he feared slavishly what was to fall from the pale lips.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me ‘alf a second,’ said Huish, ‘I’ll go and fetch the byby.’

  ‘The baby?’ said Davis. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Fragile. With care. This side up,’ replied the clerk with a wink, as he disappeared.

  He returned, smiling to himself, and carrying in his hand a silk handkerchief. The long stupid wrinkles ran up Davis’s brow, as he saw it. What should it contain? He could think of nothing more recondite than a revolver.

  Huish resumed his seat.

  ‘Now,’ said he, ‘are you man enough to take charge of ‘Errick and the niggers? Because I’ll take care of Hattwater.’

  ‘How?’ cried Davis. ‘You can’t!’

  ‘Tut, tut!’ said the clerk. ‘You gimme time. Wot’s the first point? The first point is that we can’t get ashore, and I’ll make you a present of that for a ‘ard one. But ‘ow about a flag of truce? Would that do the trick, d’ye think? or would Attwater simply blyze aw’y at us in the bloomin’ boat like dawgs?’