Bab Bab 42 · ‘I don’t think he could do more than perhaps look upon that straight

. ‘I don’t think he could do more than perhaps look upon that straight

path. He seemed to have been puzzled by what he saw, for he interrupted

himself in his narrative more than once to exclaim, “He nearly slipped

from me there. I could not make him out. Who was he?” And after

glaring at me wildly he would go on, jubilating and sneering. To me the

conversation of these two across the creek appears now as the deadliest

kind of duel on which Fate looked on with her cold-eyed knowledge of the

end. No, he didn’t turn Jim’s soul inside out, but I am much mistaken if

the spirit so utterly out of his reach had not been made to taste to the

full the bitterness of that contest. These were the emissaries with whom

the world he had renounced was pursuing him in his retreat--white men

from “out there” where he did not think himself good enough to live.

This was all that came to him--a menace, a shock, a danger to his

work. I suppose it is this sad, half-resentful, half-resigned feeling,

piercing through the few words Jim said now and then, that puzzled Brown

so much in the reading of his character. Some great men owe most of

their greatness to the ability of detecting in those they destine for

their tools the exact quality of strength that matters for their work;

and Brown, as though he had been really great, had a satanic gift of

finding out the best and the weakest spot in his victims. He admitted

to me that Jim wasn’t of the sort that can be got over by truckling, and

accordingly he took care to show himself as a man confronting without

dismay ill-luck, censure, and disaster. The smuggling of a few guns was

no great crime, he pointed out. As to coming to Patusan, who had the

right to say he hadn’t come to beg? The infernal people here let loose

at him from both banks without staying to ask questions. He made

the point brazenly, for, in truth, Dain Waris’s energetic action had

prevented the greatest calamities; because Brown told me distinctly

that, perceiving the size of the place, he had resolved instantly in his

mind that as soon as he had gained a footing he would set fire right and

left, and begin by shooting down everything living in sight, in order to

cow and terrify the population. The disproportion of forces was so great

that this was the only way giving him the slightest chance of attaining

his ends--he argued in a fit of coughing. But he didn’t tell Jim this.

As to the hardships and starvation they had gone through, these had been

very real; it was enough to look at his band. He made, at the sound of a

shrill whistle, all his men appear standing in a row on the logs in full

view, so that Jim could see them. For the killing of the man, it had

been done--well, it had--but was not this war, bloody war--in a corner?

and the fellow had been killed cleanly, shot through the chest, not like

that poor devil of his lying now in the creek. They had to listen to him

dying for six hours, with his entrails torn with slugs. At any rate this

was a life for a life. . . . And all this was said with the weariness,

with the recklessness of a man spurred on and on by ill-luck till he

cares not where he runs. When he asked Jim, with a sort of brusque

despairing frankness, whether he himself--straight now--didn’t

understand that when “it came to saving one’s life in the dark, one

didn’t care who else went--three, thirty, three hundred people”--it was

as if a demon had been whispering advice in his ear. “I made him wince,”

boasted Brown to me. “He very soon left off coming the righteous over

me. He just stood there with nothing to say, and looking as black as

thunder--not at me--on the ground.” He asked Jim whether he had nothing

fishy in his life to remember that he was so damnedly hard upon a man

trying to get out of a deadly hole by the first means that came to

hand--and so on, and so on. And there ran through the rough talk a

vein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common

experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge

that was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts.

‘At last Brown threw himself down full length and watched Jim out of

the corners of his eyes. Jim on his side of the creek stood thinking and

switching his leg. The houses in view were silent, as if a pestilence

had swept them clean of every breath of life; but many invisible eyes

were turned, from within, upon the two men with the creek between them,

a stranded white boat, and the body of the third man half sunk in the

mud. On the river canoes were moving again, for Patusan was recovering

its belief in the stability of earthly institutions since the return of

the white lord. The right bank, the platforms of the houses, the rafts

moored along the shores, even the roofs of bathing-huts, were covered

with people that, far away out of earshot and almost out of sight, were

straining their eyes towards the knoll beyond the Rajah’s stockade.

Within the wide irregular ring of forests, broken in two places by the

sheen of the river, there was a silence. “Will you promise to leave the

coast?” Jim asked. Brown lifted and let fall his hand, giving everything

up as it were--accepting the inevitable. “And surrender your arms?” Jim

went on. Brown sat up and glared across. “Surrender our arms! Not till

you come to take them out of our stiff hands. You think I am gone crazy

with funk? Oh no! That and the rags I stand in is all I have got in the

world, besides a few more breechloaders on board; and I expect to sell

the lot in Madagascar, if I ever get so far--begging my way from ship to

ship.”

‘Jim said nothing to this. At last, throwing away the switch he held in

his hand, he said, as if speaking to himself, “I don’t know whether I

have the power.” . . . “You don’t know! And you wanted me just now to

give up my arms! That’s good, too,” cried Brown; “Suppose they say one

thing to you, and do the other thing to me.” He calmed down markedly. “I

dare say you have the power, or what’s the meaning of all this talk?” he

continued. “What did you come down here for? To pass the time of day?”

‘“Very well,” said Jim, lifting his head suddenly after a long silence.

“You shall have a clear road or else a clear fight.” He turned on his

heel and walked away.

‘Brown got up at once, but he did not go up the hill till he had seen

Jim disappear between the first houses. He never set his eyes on him

again. On his way back he met Cornelius slouching down with his head

between his shoulders. He stopped before Brown. “Why didn’t you kill

him?” he demanded in a sour, discontented voice. “Because I could do

better than that,” Brown said with an amused smile. “Never! never!”

protested Cornelius with energy. “Couldn’t. I have lived here for many

years.” Brown looked up at him curiously. There were many sides to the

life of that place in arms against him; things he would never find out.

Cornelius slunk past dejectedly in the direction of the river. He was

now leaving his new friends; he accepted the disappointing course of

events with a sulky obstinacy which seemed to draw more together his

little yellow old face; and as he went down he glanced askant here and

there, never giving up his fixed idea.

‘Henceforth events move fast without a check, flowing from the very

hearts of men like a stream from a dark source, and we see Jim amongst

them, mostly through Tamb’ Itam’s eyes. The girl’s eyes had watched him

too, but her life is too much entwined with his: there is her passion,

her wonder, her anger, and, above all, her fear and her unforgiving

love. Of the faithful servant, uncomprehending as the rest of them, it

is the fidelity alone that comes into play; a fidelity and a belief in

his lord so strong that even amazement is subdued to a sort of saddened

acceptance of a mysterious failure. He has eyes only for one figure,

and through all the mazes of bewilderment he preserves his air of

guardianship, of obedience, of care.

‘His master came back from his talk with the white men, walking slowly

towards the stockade in the street. Everybody was rejoiced to see him

return, for while he was away every man had been afraid not only of him

being killed, but also of what would come after. Jim went into one of

the houses, where old Doramin had retired, and remained alone for a

long time with the head of the Bugis settlers. No doubt he discussed

the course to follow with him then, but no man was present at the

conversation. Only Tamb’ Itam, keeping as close to the door as he could,

heard his master say, “Yes. I shall let all the people know that such

is my wish; but I spoke to you, O Doramin, before all the others, and

alone; for you know my heart as well as I know yours and its greatest

desire. And you know well also that I have no thought but for the

people’s good.” Then his master, lifting the sheeting in the doorway,

went out, and he, Tamb’ Itam, had a glimpse of old Doramin within,

sitting in the chair with his hands on his knees, and looking between

his feet. Afterwards he followed his master to the fort, where all the

principal Bugis and Patusan inhabitants had been summoned for a talk.

Tamb’ Itam himself hoped there would be some fighting. “What was it but

the taking of another hill?” he exclaimed regretfully. However, in the

town many hoped that the rapacious strangers would be induced, by the

sight of so many brave men making ready to fight, to go away. It would

be a good thing if they went away. Since Jim’s arrival had been made

known before daylight by the gun fired from the fort and the beating of

the big drum there, the fear that had hung over Patusan had broken and

subsided like a wave on a rock, leaving the seething foam of excitement,

curiosity, and endless speculation. Half of the population had been

ousted out of their homes for purposes of defence, and were living in

the street on the left side of the river, crowding round the fort, and

in momentary expectation of seeing their abandoned dwellings on the

threatened bank burst into flames. The general anxiety was to see the

matter settled quickly. Food, through Jewel’s care, had been served

out to the refugees. Nobody knew what their white man would do. Some

remarked that it was worse than in Sherif Ali’s war. Then many people

did not care; now everybody had something to lose. The movements of

canoes passing to and fro between the two parts of the town were watched

with interest. A couple of Bugis war-boats lay anchored in the middle of

the stream to protect the river, and a thread of smoke stood at the bow

of each; the men in them were cooking their midday rice when Jim, after

his interviews with Brown and Doramin, crossed the river and entered by

the water-gate of his fort. The people inside crowded round him, so that

he could hardly make his way to the house. They had not seen him before,

because on his arrival during the night he had only exchanged a few

words with the girl, who had come down to the landing-stage for the

purpose, and had then gone on at once to join the chiefs and the

fighting men on the other bank. People shouted greetings after him.

One old woman raised a laugh by pushing her way to the front madly and

enjoining him in a scolding voice to see to it that her two sons, who

were with Doramin, did not come to harm at the hands of the robbers.

Several of the bystanders tried to pull her away, but she struggled and

cried, “Let me go. What is this, O Muslims? This laughter is unseemly.

Are they not cruel, bloodthirsty robbers bent on killing?” “Let her be,”

said Jim, and as a silence fell suddenly, he said slowly, “Everybody

shall be safe.” He entered the house before the great sigh, and the loud

murmurs of satisfaction, had died out.

‘There’s no doubt his mind was made up that Brown should have his way

clear back to the sea. His fate, revolted, was forcing his hand. He

had for the first time to affirm his will in the face of outspoken

opposition. “There was much talk, and at first my master was silent,”

Tamb’ Itam said. “Darkness came, and then I lit the candles on the long

table. The chiefs sat on each side, and the lady remained by my master’s

right hand.”

‘When he began to speak, the unaccustomed difficulty seemed only to

fix his resolve more immovably. The white men were now waiting for his

answer on the hill. Their chief had spoken to him in the language of his

own people, making clear many things difficult to explain in any other

speech. They were erring men whom suffering had made blind to right and

wrong. It is true that lives had been lost already, but why lose more?

He declared to his hearers, the assembled heads of the people, that

their welfare was his welfare, their losses his losses, their mourning

his mourning. He looked round at the grave listening faces and told them

to remember that they had fought and worked side by side. They knew his

courage . . . Here a murmur interrupted him . . . And that he had never

deceived them. For many years they had dwelt together. He loved the

land and the people living in it with a very great love. He was ready to

answer with his life for any harm that should come to them if the white

men with beards were allowed to retire. They were evil-doers, but their

destiny had been evil, too. Had he ever advised them ill? Had his words

ever brought suffering to the people? he asked. He believed that it

would be best to let these whites and their followers go with their

lives. It would be a small gift. “I whom you have tried and found always

true ask you to let them go.” He turned to Doramin. The old nakhoda made

no movement. “Then,” said Jim, “call in Dain Waris, your son, my friend,

for in this business I shall not lead.”’