________________________________________________
_ There was in the bows of the Emma an elevated grating over the
heel of her bowsprit whence the eye could take in the whole range
of her deck and see every movement of her crew. It was a spot
safe from eaves-droppers, though, of course, exposed to view. The
sun had just set on the supreme content of Carter when Jorgenson
and Jaffir sat down side by side between the knightheads of the
Emma and, public but unapproachable, impressive and secret, began
to converse in low tones.
Every Wajo fugitive who manned the hulk felt the approach of a
decisive moment. Their minds were made up and their hearts beat
steadily. They were all desperate men determined to fight and to
die and troubling not about the manner of living or dying. This
was not the case with Mrs. Travers who, having shut herself up in
the deckhouse, was profoundly troubled about those very things,
though she, too, felt desperate enough to welcome almost any
solution.
Of all the people on board she alone did not know anything of
that conference. In her deep and aimless thinking she had only
become aware of the absence of the slightest sound on board the
Emma. Not a rustle, not a footfall. The public view of Jorgenson
and Jaffir in deep consultation had the effect of taking all wish
to move from every man.
Twilight enveloped the two figures forward while they talked,
looking in the stillness of their pose like carved figures of
European and Asiatic contrasted in intimate contact. The
deepening dusk had nearly effaced them when at last they rose
without warning, as it were, and thrilling the heart of the
beholders by the sudden movement. But they did not separate at
once. They lingered in their high place as if awaiting the fall
of complete darkness, a fit ending to their mysterious communion.
Jaffir had given Jorgenson the whole story of the ring, the
symbol of a friendship matured and confirmed on the night of
defeat, on the night of flight from a far-distant land sleeping
unmoved under the wrath and fire of heaven.
"Yes, Tuan," continued Jaffir, "it was first sent out to the
white man, on a night of mortal danger, a present to remember a
friend by. I was the bearer of it then even as I am now. Then, as
now, it was given to me and I was told to save myself and hand
the ring over in confirmation of my message. I did so and that
white man seemed to still the very storm to save my Rajah. He was
not one to depart and forget him whom he had once called his
friend. My message was but a message of good-bye, but the charm
of the ring was strong enough to draw all the power of that white
man to the help of my master. Now I have no words to say. Rajah
Hassim asks for nothing. But what of that? By the mercy of Allah
all things are the same, the compassion of the Most High, the
power of the ring, the heart of the white man. Nothing is
changed, only the friendship is a little older and love has grown
because of the shared dangers and long companionship. Therefore,
Tuan, I have no fear. But how am I to get the ring to the Rajah
Laut? Just hand it to him. The last breath would be time enough
if they were to spear me at his feet. But alas! the bush is full
of Tengga's men, the beach is open and I could never even hope to
reach the gate."
Jorgenson, with his hands deep in the pockets of his tunic,
listened, looking down. Jaffir showed as much consternation as
his nature was capable of.
"Our refuge is with God," he murmured. "But what is to be done?
Has your wisdom no stratagem, O Tuan?"
Jorgenson did not answer. It appeared as though he had no
stratagem. But God is great and Jaffir waited on the other's
immobility, anxious but patient, perplexed yet hopeful in his
grim way, while the night flowing on from the dark forest near by
hid their two figures from the sight of observing men. Before the
silence of Jorgenson Jaffir began to talk practically. Now that
Tengga had thrown off the mask Jaffir did not think that he could
land on the beach without being attacked, captured, nay killed,
since a man like he, though he could save himself by taking
flight at the order of his master, could not be expected to
surrender without a fight. He mentioned that in the exercise of
his important functions he knew how to glide like a shadow, creep
like a snake, and almost burrow his way underground. He was
Jaffir who had never been foiled. No bog, morass, great river or
jungle could stop him. He would have welcomed them. In many
respects they were the friends of a crafty messenger. But that
was an open beach, and there was no other way, and as things
stood now every bush around, every tree trunk, every deep shadow
of house or fence would conceal Tengga's men or such of Daman's
infuriated partisans as had already made their way to the
Settlement. How could he hope to traverse the distance between
the water's edge and Belarab's gate which now would remain shut
night and day? Not only himself but anybody from the Emma would
be sure to be rushed upon and speared in twenty places.
He reflected for a moment in silence.
"Even you, Tuan, could not accomplish the feat."
"True," muttered Jorgenson.
When, after a period of meditation, he looked round, Jaffir was
no longer by his side. He had descended from the high place and
was probably squatting on his heels in some dark nook on the fore
deck. Jorgenson knew Jaffir too well to suppose that he would go
to sleep. He would sit there thinking himself into a state of
fury, then get away from the Emma in some way or other, go ashore
and perish fighting. He would, in fact, run amok; for it looked
as if there could be no way out of the situation. Then, of
course, Lingard would know nothing of Hassim and Immada's
captivity for the ring would never reach him--the ring that could
tell its own tale. No, Lingard would know nothing. He would know
nothing about anybody outside Belarab's stockade till the end
came, whatever the end might be, for all those people that lived
the life of men. Whether to know or not to know would be good for
Lingard Jorgenson could not tell. He admitted to himself that
here there was something that he, Jorgenson, could not tell. All
the possibilities were wrapped up in doubt, uncertain, like all
things pertaining to the life of men. It was only when giving a
short thought to himself that Jorgenson had no doubt. He, of
course, would know what to do.
On the thin face of that old adventurer hidden in the night not a
feature moved, not a muscle twitched, as he descended in his turn
and walked aft along the decks of the Emma. His faded eyes, which
had seen so much, did not attempt to explore the night, they
never gave a glance to the silent watchers against whom he
brushed. Had a light been flashed on him suddenly he would have
appeared like a man walking in his sleep: the somnambulist of an
eternal dream. Mrs. Travers heard his footsteps pass along the
side of the deckhouse. She heard them--and let her head fall
again on her bare arms thrown over the little desk before which
she sat.
Jorgenson, standing by the taffrail, noted the faint reddish glow
in the massive blackness of the further shore. Jorgenson noted
things quickly, cursorily, perfunctorily, as phenomena unrelated
to his own apparitional existence of a visiting ghost. They were
but passages in the game of men who were still playing at life.
He knew too well how much that game was worth to be concerned
about its course. He had given up the habit of thinking for so
long that the sudden resumption of it irked him exceedingly,
especially as he had to think on toward a conclusion. In that
world of eternal oblivion, of which he had tasted before Lingard
made him step back into the life of men, all things were settled
once for all. He was irritated by his own perplexity which was
like a reminder of that mortality made up of questions and
passions from which he had fancied he had freed himself forever.
By a natural association his contemptuous annoyance embraced the
existence of Mrs. Travers, too, for how could he think of Tom
Lingard, of what was good or bad for King Tom, without thinking
also of that woman who had managed to put the ghost of a spark
even into his own extinguished eyes? She was of no account; but
Tom's integrity was. It was of Tom that he had to think, of what
was good or bad for Tom in that absurd and deadly game of his
life. Finally he reached the conclusion that to be given the ring
would be good for Tom Lingard. Just to be given the ring and no
more. The ring and no more.
"It will help him to make up his mind," muttered Jorgenson in his
moustache, as if compelled by an obscure conviction. It was only
then that he stirred slightly and turned away from the loom of
the fires on the distant shore. Mrs. Travers heard his footsteps
passing again along the side of the deckhouse--and this time
never raised her head. That man was sleepless, mad, childish, and
inflexible. He was impossible. He haunted the decks of that hulk
aimlessly. . . .
It was, however, in pursuance of a very distinct aim that
Jorgenson had gone forward again to seek Jaffir.
The first remark he had to offer to Jaffir's consideration was
that the only person in the world who had the remotest chance of
reaching Belarab's gate on that night was that tall white woman
the Rajah Laut had brought on board, the wife of one of the
captive white chiefs. Surprise made Jaffir exclaim, but he wasn't
prepared to deny that. It was possible that for many reasons,
some quite simple and others very subtle, those sons of the Evil
One belonging to Tengga and Daman would refrain from killing a
white woman walking alone from the water's edge to Belarab's
gate. Yes, it was just possible that she might walk unharmed.
"Especially if she carried a blazing torch," muttered Jorgenson
in his moustache. He told Jaffir that she was sitting now in the
dark, mourning silently in the manner of white women. She had
made a great outcry in the morning to be allowed to join the
white men on shore. He, Jorgenson, had refused her the canoe.
Ever since she had secluded herself in the deckhouse in great
distress.
Jaffir listened to it all without particular sympathy. And when
Jorgenson added, "It is in my mind, O Jaffir, to let her have her
will now," he answered by a "Yes, by Allah! let her go. What does
it matter?" of the greatest unconcern, till Jorgenson added:
"Yes. And she may carry the ring to the Rajah Laut."
Jorgenson saw Jaffir, the grim and impassive Jaffir, give a
perceptible start. It seemed at first an impossible task to
persuade Jaffir to part with the ring. The notion was too
monstrous to enter his mind, to move his heart. But at last he
surrendered in an awed whisper, "God is great. Perhaps it is her
destiny."
Being a Wajo man he did not regard women as untrustworthy or
unequal to a task requiring courage and judgment. Once he got
over the personal feeling he handed the ring to Jorgenson with
only one reservation, "You know, Tuan, that she must on no
account put it on her finger."
"Let her hang it round her neck," suggested Jorgenson, readily.
As Jorgenson moved toward the deckhouse it occurred to him that
perhaps now that woman Tom Lingard had taken in tow might take it
into her head to refuse to leave the Emma. This did not disturb
him very much. All those people moved in the dark. He himself at
that particular moment was moving in the dark. Beyond the simple
wish to guide Lingard's thought in the direction of Hassim and
Immada, to help him to make up his mind at last to a ruthless
fidelity to his purpose Jorgenson had no other aim. The existence
of those whites had no meaning on earth. They were the sort of
people that pass without leaving footprints. That woman would
have to act in ignorance. And if she refused to go then in
ignorance she would have to stay on board. He would tell her
nothing.
As a matter of fact, he discovered that Mrs. Travers would simply
have nothing to do with him. She would not listen to what he had
to say. She desired him, a mere weary voice confined in the
darkness of the deck cabin, to go away and trouble her no more.
But the ghost of Jorgenson was not easily exorcised. He, too, was
a mere voice in the outer darkness, inexorable, insisting that
she should come out on deck and listen. At last he found the
right words to say.
"It is something about Tom that I want to tell you. You wish him
well, don't you?"
After this she could not refuse to come out on deck, and once
there she listened patiently to that white ghost muttering and
mumbling above her drooping head.
"It seems to me, Captain Jorgenson," she said after he had
ceased, "that you are simply trifling with me. After your
behaviour to me this morning, I can have nothing to say to you."
"I have a canoe for you now," mumbled Jorgenson.
"You have some new purpose in view now," retorted Mrs. Travers
with spirit. "But you won't make it clear to me. What is it that
you have in your mind?"
"Tom's interest."
"Are you really his friend?"
"He brought me here. You know it. He has talked a lot to you."
"He did. But I ask myself whether you are capable of being
anybody's friend."
"You ask yourself!" repeated Jorgenson, very quiet and morose.
"If I am not his friend I should like to know who is."
Mrs. Travers asked, quickly: "What's all this about a ring? What
ring?"
"Tom's property. He has had it for years."
"And he gave it to you? Doesn't he care for it?"
"Don't know. It's just a thing."
"But it has a meaning as between you and him. Is that so?"
"Yes. It has. He will know what it means."
"What does it mean?"
"I am too much his friend not to hold my tongue."
"What! To me!"
"And who are you?" was Jorgenson's unexpected remark. "He has
told you too much already."
"Perhaps he has," whispered Mrs. Travers, as if to herself. "And
you want that ring to be taken to him?" she asked, in a louder
tone.
"Yes. At once. For his good."
"Are you certain it is for his good? Why can't you. . . ."
She checked herself. That man was hopeless. He would never tell
anything and there was no means of compelling him. He was
invulnerable, unapproachable. . . . He was dead.
"Just give it to him," mumbled Jorgenson as though pursuing a
mere fixed idea. "Just slip it quietly into his hand. He will
understand."
"What is it? Advice, warning, signal for action?"
"It may be anything," uttered Jorgenson, morosely, but as it were
in a mollified tone. "It's meant for his good."
"Oh, if I only could trust that man!" mused Mrs. Travers, half
aloud.
Jorgenson's slight noise in the throat might have been taken for
an expression of sympathy. But he remained silent.
"Really, this is most extraordinary!" cried Mrs. Travers,
suddenly aroused. "Why did you come to me? Why should it be my
task? Why should you want me specially to take it to him?"
"I will tell you why," said Jorgenson's blank voice. "It's
because there is no one on board this hulk that can hope to get
alive inside that stockade. This morning you told me yourself
that you were ready to die--for Tom--or with Tom. Well, risk it
then. You are the only one that has half a chance to get through-
-and Tom, maybe, is waiting."
"The only one," repeated Mrs. Travers with an abrupt movement
forward and an extended hand before which Jorgenson stepped back
a pace. "Risk it! Certainly! Where's that mysterious ring?"
"I have got it in my pocket," said Jorgenson, readily; yet nearly
half a minute elapsed before Mrs. Travers felt the characteristic
shape being pressed into her half-open palm. "Don't let anybody
see it," Jorgenson admonished her in a murmur. "Hide it somewhere
about you. Why not hang it round your neck?"
Mrs. Travers' hand remained firmly closed on the ring. "Yes, that
will do," she murmured, hastily. "I'll be back in a moment. Get
everything ready." With those words she disappeared inside the
deckhouse and presently threads of light appeared in the
interstices of the boards. Mrs. Travers had lighted a candle in
there. She was busy hanging that ring round her neck. She was
going. Yes--taking the risk for Tom's sake.
"Nobody can resist that man," Jorgenson muttered to himself with
increasing moroseness. "_I_ couldn't." _
Read next: PART VI. THE CLAIM OF LIFE AND THE TOLL OF DEATH: CHAPTER IV
Read previous: PART VI. THE CLAIM OF LIFE AND THE TOLL OF DEATH: CHAPTER II
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