Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (833 page)

“Cesar stole the belt?” I stammered out, bewildered.

“And who else?
  Canallia
!  He must have been spying on you for days.  And he did the whole thing.  Absent all day in Barcelona. 
Traditore
!  Sold his jacket — to hire a horse.  Ha! ha!  A good affair!  I tell you it was he who set him at us. . . .”

Dominic pointed at the sea, where the guardacosta was a mere dark speck.  His chin dropped on his breast.

“. . . On information,” he murmured, in a gloomy voice.  “A Cervoni!  Oh! my poor brother! . . .”

“And you drowned him,” I said feebly.

“I struck once, and the wretch went down like a stone — with the gold.  Yes.  But he had time to read in my eyes that nothing could save him while I was alive.  And had I not the right — I, Dominic Cervoni, Padrone, who brought him aboard your fellucca — my nephew, a traitor?”

He pulled the oar out of the ground and helped me carefully down the slope.  All the time he never once looked me in the face.  He punted us over, then shouldered the oar again and waited till our men were at some distance before he offered me his arm.  After we had gone a little way, the fishing hamlet we were making for came into view.  Dominic stopped.

“Do you think you can make your way as far as the houses by yourself?” he asked me quietly.

“Yes, I think so.  But why?  Where are you going, Dominic?”

“Anywhere.  What a question!  Signorino, you are but little more than a boy to ask such a question of a man having this tale in his family. 
Ah
! 
Traditore
!  What made me ever own that spawn of a hungry devil for our own blood!  Thief, cheat, coward, liar — other men can deal with that.  But I was his uncle, and so . . . I wish he had poisoned me —
charogne
!  But this: that I, a confidential man and a Corsican, should have to ask your pardon for bringing on board your vessel, of which I was Padrone, a Cervoni, who has betrayed you — a traitor! — that is too much.  It is too much.  Well, I beg your pardon; and you may spit in Dominic’s face because a traitor of our blood taints us all.  A theft may be made good between men, a lie may be set right, a death avenged, but what can one do to atone for a treachery like this? . . . Nothing.”

He turned and walked away from me along the bank of the stream, flourishing a vengeful arm and repeating to himself slowly, with savage emphasis: “
Ah
! 
Canaille
! 
Canaille
! 
Canaille
!. . .”  He left me there trembling with weakness and mute with awe.  Unable to make a sound, I gazed after the strangely desolate figure of that seaman carrying an oar on his shoulder up a barren, rock-strewn ravine under the dreary leaden sky of
Tremolino’s
last day.  Thus, walking deliberately, with his back to the sea, Dominic vanished from my sight.

With the quality of our desires, thoughts, and wonder proportioned to our infinite littleness, we measure even time itself by our own stature.  Imprisoned in the house of personal illusions, thirty centuries in mankind’s history seem less to look back upon than thirty years of our own life.  And Dominic Cervoni takes his place in my memory by the side of the legendary wanderer on the sea of marvels and terrors, by the side of the fatal and impious adventurer, to whom the evoked shade of the soothsayer predicted a journey inland with an oar on his shoulder, till he met men who had never set eyes on ships and oars.  It seems to me I can see them side by side in the twilight of an arid land, the unfortunate possessors of the secret lore of the sea, bearing the emblem of their hard calling on their shoulders, surrounded by silent and curious men: even as I, too, having turned my back upon the sea, am bearing those few pages in the twilight, with the hope of finding in an inland valley the silent welcome of some patient listener.

XLVI.

“A fellow has now no chance of promotion unless he jumps into the muzzle of a gun and crawls out of the touch-hole.”

He who, a hundred years ago, more or less, pronounced the above words in the uneasiness of his heart, thirsting for professional distinction, was a young naval officer.  Of his life, career, achievements, and end nothing is preserved for the edification of his young successors in the fleet of to-day — nothing but this phrase, which, sailor-like in the simplicity of personal sentiment and strength of graphic expression, embodies the spirit of the epoch.  This obscure but vigorous testimony has its price, its significance, and its lesson.  It comes to us from a worthy ancestor.  We do not know whether he lived long enough for a chance of that promotion whose way was so arduous.  He belongs to the great array of the unknown — who are great, indeed, by the sum total of the devoted effort put out, and the colossal scale of success attained by their insatiable and steadfast ambition.  We do not know his name; we only know of him what is material for us to know — that he was never backward on occasions of desperate service.  We have this on the authority of a distinguished seaman of Nelson’s time.  Departing this life as Admiral of the Fleet on the eve of the Crimean War, Sir Thomas Byam Martin has recorded for us amongst his all too short autobiographical notes these few characteristic words uttered by one young man of the many who must have felt that particular inconvenience of a heroic age.

The distinguished Admiral had lived through it himself, and was a good judge of what was expected in those days from men and ships.  A brilliant frigate captain, a man of sound judgment, of dashing bravery and of serene mind, scrupulously concerned for the welfare and honour of the navy, he missed a larger fame only by the chances of the service.  We may well quote on this day the words written of Nelson, in the decline of a well-spent life, by Sir T. B. Martin, who died just fifty years ago on the very anniversary of Trafalgar.

“Nelson’s nobleness of mind was a prominent and beautiful part of his character.  His foibles — faults if you like — will never be dwelt upon in any memorandum of mine,” he declares, and goes on — ”he whose splendid and matchless achievements will be remembered with admiration while there is gratitude in the hearts of Britons, or while a ship floats upon the ocean; he whose example on the breaking out of the war gave so chivalrous an impulse to the younger men of the service that all rushed into rivalry of daring which disdained every warning of prudence, and led to acts of heroic enterprise which tended greatly to exalt the glory of our nation.”

These are his words, and they are true.  The dashing young frigate captain, the man who in middle age was nothing loth to give chase single-handed in his seventy-four to a whole fleet, the man of enterprise and consummate judgment, the old Admiral of the Fleet, the good and trusted servant of his country under two kings and a queen, had felt correctly Nelson’s influence, and expressed himself with precision out of the fulness of his seaman’s heart.

“Exalted,” he wrote, not “augmented.”  And therein his feeling and his pen captured the very truth.  Other men there were ready and able to add to the treasure of victories the British navy has given to the nation.  It was the lot of Lord Nelson to exalt all this glory.  Exalt! the word seems to be created for the man.

XLVII.

The British navy may well have ceased to count its victories.  It is rich beyond the wildest dreams of success and fame.  It may well, rather, on a culminating day of its history, cast about for the memory of some reverses to appease the jealous fates which attend the prosperity and triumphs of a nation.  It holds, indeed, the heaviest inheritance that has ever been entrusted to the courage and fidelity of armed men.

It is too great for mere pride.  It should make the seamen of to-day humble in the secret of their hearts, and indomitable in their unspoken resolution.  In all the records of history there has never been a time when a victorious fortune has been so faithful to men making war upon the sea.  And it must be confessed that on their part they knew how to be faithful to their victorious fortune.  They were exalted.  They were always watching for her smile; night or day, fair weather or foul, they waited for her slightest sign with the offering of their stout hearts in their hands.  And for the inspiration of this high constancy they were indebted to Lord Nelson alone.  Whatever earthly affection he abandoned or grasped, the great Admiral was always, before all, beyond all, a lover of Fame.  He loved her jealously, with an inextinguishable ardour and an insatiable desire — he loved her with a masterful devotion and an infinite trustfulness.  In the plenitude of his passion he was an exacting lover.  And she never betrayed the greatness of his trust!  She attended him to the end of his life, and he died pressing her last gift (nineteen prizes) to his heart.  “Anchor, Hardy — anchor!” was as much the cry of an ardent lover as of a consummate seaman.  Thus he would hug to his breast the last gift of Fame.

It was this ardour which made him great.  He was a flaming example to the wooers of glorious fortune.  There have been great officers before — Lord Hood, for instance, whom he himself regarded as the greatest sea officer England ever had.  A long succession of great commanders opened the sea to the vast range of Nelson’s genius.  His time had come; and, after the great sea officers, the great naval tradition passed into the keeping of a great man.  Not the least glory of the navy is that it understood Nelson.  Lord Hood trusted him.  Admiral Keith told him: “We can’t spare you either as Captain or Admiral.”  Earl St. Vincent put into his hands, untrammelled by orders, a division of his fleet, and Sir Hyde Parker gave him two more ships at Copenhagen than he had asked for.  So much for the chiefs; the rest of the navy surrendered to him their devoted affection, trust, and admiration.  In return he gave them no less than his own exalted soul.  He breathed into them his own ardour and his own ambition.  In a few short years he revolutionized, not the strategy or tactics of sea-warfare, but the very conception of victory itself.  And this is genius.  In that alone, through the fidelity of his fortune and the power of his inspiration, he stands unique amongst the leaders of fleets and sailors.  He brought heroism into the line of duty.  Verily he is a terrible ancestor.

And the men of his day loved him.  They loved him not only as victorious armies have loved great commanders; they loved him with a more intimate feeling as one of themselves.  In the words of a contemporary, he had “a most happy way of gaining the affectionate respect of all who had the felicity to serve under his command.”

To be so great and to remain so accessible to the affection of one’s fellow-men is the mark of exceptional humanity.  Lord Nelson’s greatness was very human.  It had a moral basis; it needed to feel itself surrounded by the warm devotion of a band of brothers.  He was vain and tender.  The love and admiration which the navy gave him so unreservedly soothed the restlessness of his professional pride.  He trusted them as much as they trusted him.  He was a seaman of seamen.  Sir T. B. Martin states that he never conversed with any officer who had served under Nelson “without hearing the heartiest expressions of attachment to his person and admiration of his frank and conciliatory manner to his subordinates.”  And Sir Robert Stopford, who commanded one of the ships with which Nelson chased to the West Indies a fleet nearly double in number, says in a letter: “We are half-starved and otherwise inconvenienced by being so long out of port, but our reward is that we are with Nelson.”

This heroic spirit of daring and endurance, in which all public and private differences were sunk throughout the whole fleet, is Lord Nelson’s great legacy, triply sealed by the victorious impress of the Nile, Copenhagen, and Trafalgar.  This is a legacy whose value the changes of time cannot affect.  The men and the ships he knew how to lead lovingly to the work of courage and the reward of glory have passed away, but Nelson’s uplifting touch remains in the standard of achievement he has set for all time.  The principles of strategy may be immutable.  It is certain they have been, and shall be again, disregarded from timidity, from blindness, through infirmity of purpose.  The tactics of great captains on land and sea can be infinitely discussed.  The first object of tactics is to close with the adversary on terms of the greatest possible advantage; yet no hard-and-fast rules can be drawn from experience, for this capital reason, amongst others — that the quality of the adversary is a variable element in the problem.  The tactics of Lord Nelson have been amply discussed, with much pride and some profit.  And yet, truly, they are already of but archaic interest.  A very few years more and the hazardous difficulties of handling a fleet under canvas shall have passed beyond the conception of seamen who hold in trust for their country Lord Nelson’s legacy of heroic spirit.  The change in the character of the ships is too great and too radical.  It is good and proper to study the acts of great men with thoughtful reverence, but already the precise intention of Lord Nelson’s famous memorandum seems to lie under that veil which Time throws over the clearest conceptions of every great art.  It must not be forgotten that this was the first time when Nelson, commanding in chief, had his opponents under way — the first time and the last.  Had he lived, had there been other fleets left to oppose him, we would, perhaps, have learned something more of his greatness as a sea officer.  Nothing could have been added to his greatness as a leader.  All that can be affirmed is, that on no other day of his short and glorious career was Lord Nelson more splendidly true to his genius and to his country’s fortune.

XLVIII.

And yet the fact remains that, had the wind failed and the fleet lost steerage way, or, worse still, had it been taken aback from the eastward, with its leaders within short range of the enemy’s guns, nothing, it seems, could have saved the headmost ships from capture or destruction.  No skill of a great sea officer would have availed in such a contingency.  Lord Nelson was more than that, and his genius would have remained undiminished by defeat.  But obviously tactics, which are so much at the mercy of irremediable accident, must seem to a modern seaman a poor matter of study.  The Commander-in-Chief in the great fleet action that will take its place next to the Battle of Trafalgar in the history of the British navy will have no such anxiety, and will feel the weight of no such dependence.  For a hundred years now no British fleet has engaged the enemy in line of battle.  A hundred years is a long time, but the difference of modern conditions is enormous.  The gulf is great.  Had the last great fight of the English navy been that of the First of June, for instance, had there been no Nelson’s victories, it would have been wellnigh impassable.  The great Admiral’s slight and passion-worn figure stands at the parting of the ways.  He had the audacity of genius, and a prophetic inspiration.