The Rescue (39 page)

During the silence Mrs. Travers with a quick side-glance noticed
d'Alcacer as one sees a man in a mist, his mere dark shape arrested
close to the muslin screen. She had no doubt that he was looking in
their direction and that he could see them much more plainly than she
could see him. Mrs. Travers thought suddenly how anxious he must be; and
she remembered that he had begged her for some sign, for some warning,
beforehand, at the moment of crisis. She had understood very well his
hinted request for time to get prepared. If he was to get more than a
few minutes,
this
was the moment to make him a sign—the sign he had
suggested himself. Mrs. Travers moved back the least bit so as to let
the light fall in front of her and with a slow, distinct movement she
put her left hand to her forehead.

"Well, then," she heard Lingard's forcible murmur, "well, then, Mrs.
Travers, it must be done to-night."

One may be true, fearless, and wise, and yet catch one's breath
before the simple finality of action. Mrs. Travers caught her breath:
"To-night! To-night!" she whispered. D'Alcacer's dark and misty
silhouette became more blurred. He had seen her sign and had retreated
deeper within the Cage.

"Yes, to-night," affirmed Lingard. "Now, at once, within the hour, this
moment," he murmured, fiercely, following Mrs. Travers in her recoiling
movement. She felt her arm being seized swiftly. "Don't you see that
if it is to do any good, that if they are not to be delivered to mere
slaughter, it must be done while all is dark ashore, before an armed mob
in boats comes clamouring alongside? Yes. Before the night is an hour
older, so that I may be hammering at Belarab's gate while all the
Settlement is still asleep."

Mrs. Travers didn't dream of protesting. For the moment she was unable
to speak. This man was very fierce and just as suddenly as it had been
gripped (making her think incongruously in the midst of her agitation
that there would be certainly a bruise there in the morning) she felt
her arm released and a penitential tone come into Lingard's murmuring
voice.

"And even now it's nearly too late! The road was plain, but I saw you on
it and my heart failed me. I was there like an empty man and I dared
not face you. You must forgive me. No, I had no right to doubt you for
a moment. I feel as if I ought to go on my knees and beg your pardon for
forgetting what you are, for daring to forget."

"Why, King Tom, what is it?"

"It seems as if I had sinned," she heard him say. He seized her by the
shoulders, turned her about, moved her forward a step or two. His hands
were heavy, his force irresistible, though he himself imagined he was
handling her gently. "Look straight before you," he growled into her
ear. "Do you see anything?" Mrs. Travers, passive between the rigid
arms, could see nothing but, far off, the massed, featureless shadows of
the shore.

"No, I see nothing," she said.

"You can't be looking the right way," she heard him behind her. And now
she felt her head between Lingard's hands. He moved it the least bit to
the right. "There! See it?"

"No. What am I to look for?"

"A gleam of light," said Lingard, taking away his hands suddenly. "A
gleam that will grow into a blaze before our boat can get half way
across the lagoon."

Even as Lingard spoke Mrs. Travers caught sight of a red spark far
away. She had looked often enough at the Settlement, as on the face of
a painting on a curtain, to have its configuration fixed in her mind,
to know that it was on the beach at its end furthest from Belarab's
stockade.

"The brushwood is catching," murmured Lingard in her ear. "If they had
some dry grass the whole pile would be blazing by now."

"And this means. . . ."

"It means that the news has spread. And it is before Tengga's enclosure
on his end of the beach. That's where all the brains of the Settlement
are. It means talk and excitement and plenty of crafty words. Tengga's
fire! I tell you, Mrs. Travers, that before half an hour has passed
Daman will be there to make friends with the fat Tengga, who is ready to
say to him, 'I told you so'."

"I see," murmured Mrs. Travers. Lingard drew her gently to the rail.

"And now look over there at the other end of the beach where the shadows
are heaviest. That is Belarab's fort, his houses, his treasure, his
dependents. That's where the strength of the Settlement is. I kept it
up. I made it last. But what is it now? It's like a weapon in the hand
of a dead man. And yet it's all we have to look to, if indeed there is
still time. I swear to you I wouldn't dare land them in daylight for
fear they should be slaughtered on the beach."

"There is no time to lose," whispered Mrs. Travers, and Lingard, too,
spoke very low.

"No, not if I, too, am to keep what is my right. It's you who have said
it."

"Yes, I have said it," she whispered, without lifting her head. Lingard
made a brusque movement at her elbow and bent his head close to her
shoulder.

"And I who mistrusted you! Like Arabs do to their great men, I ought to
kiss the hem of your robe in repentance for having doubted the greatness
of your heart."

"Oh! my heart!" said Mrs. Travers, lightly, still gazing at the fire,
which had suddenly shot up to a tall blaze. "I can assure you it has
been of very little account in the world." She paused for a moment to
steady her voice, then said, firmly, "Let's get this over."

"To tell you the truth the boat has been ready for some time."

"Well, then. . . ."

"Mrs. Travers," said Lingard with an effort, "they are people of your
own kind." And suddenly he burst out: "I cannot take them ashore bound
hand and foot."

"Mr. d'Alcacer knows. You will find him ready. Ever since the beginning
he has been prepared for whatever might happen."

"He is a man," said Lingard with conviction. "But it's of the other that
I am thinking."

"Ah, the other," she repeated. "Then, what about my thoughts? Luckily we
have Mr. d'Alcacer. I shall speak to him first."

She turned away from the rail and moved toward the Cage.

"Jorgenson," the voice of Lingard resounded all along the deck, "get a
light on the gangway." Then he followed Mrs. Travers slowly.

D'Alcacer, after receiving his warning, stepped back and leaned against
the edge of the table. He could not ignore in himself a certain emotion.
And indeed, when he had asked Mrs. Travers for a sign he expected to
be moved—but he had not expected the sign to come so soon. He expected
this night to pass like other nights, in broken slumbers, bodily
discomfort, and the unrest of disconnected thinking. At the same time
he was surprised at his own emotion. He had flattered himself on the
possession of more philosophy. He thought that this famous sense of
self-preservation was a queer thing, a purely animal thing. "For, as
a thinking man," he reflected, "I really ought not to care." It was
probably the unusual that affected him. Clearly. If he had been lying
seriously ill in a room in a hotel and had overheard some ominous
whispers he would not have cared in the least. Ah, but then he would
have been ill—and in illness one grows so indifferent. Illness is a
great help to unemotional behaviour, which of course is the correct
behaviour for a man of the world. He almost regretted he was not very
ill. But, then, Mr. Travers was obviously ill and it did not seem to
help him much. D'Alcacer glanced at the bedstead where Mr. Travers
preserved an immobility which struck d'Alcacer as obviously affected.
He mistrusted it. Generally he mistrusted Mr. Travers. One couldn't tell
what he would do next. Not that he could do much one way or another, but
that somehow he threatened to rob the situation of whatever dignity it
may have had as a stroke of fate, as a call on courage. Mr. d'Alcacer,
acutely observant and alert for the slightest hints, preferred to look
upon himself as the victim not of a swindle but of a rough man naively
engaged in a contest with heaven's injustice. D'Alcacer did not examine
his heart, but some lines of a French poet came into his mind, to the
effect that in all times those who fought with an unjust heaven had
possessed the secret admiration and love of men. He didn't go so far as
love but he could not deny to himself that his feeling toward Lingard
was secretly friendly and—well, appreciative. Mr. Travers sat up
suddenly. What a horrible nuisance, thought d'Alcacer, fixing his eyes
on the tips of his shoes with the hope that perhaps the other would lie
down again. Mr. Travers spoke.

"Still up, d'Alcacer?"

"I assure you it isn't late. It's dark at six, we dined before seven,
that makes the night long and I am not a very good sleeper; that is, I
cannot go to sleep till late in the night."

"I envy you," said Mr. Travers, speaking with a sort of drowsy apathy.
"I am always dropping off and the awakenings are horrible."

D'Alcacer, raising his eyes, noticed that Mrs. Travers and Lingard had
vanished from the light. They had gone to the rail where d'Alcacer
could not see them. Some pity mingled with his vexation at Mr. Travers'
snatchy wakefulness. There was something weird about the man, he
reflected. "Jorgenson," he began aloud.

"What's that?" snapped Mr. Travers.

"It's the name of that lanky old store-keeper who is always about the
decks."

"I haven't seen him. I don't see anybody. I don't know anybody. I prefer
not to notice."

"I was only going to say that he gave me a pack of cards; would you like
a game of piquet?"

"I don't think I could keep my eyes open," said Mr. Travers in an
unexpectedly confidential tone. "Isn't it funny, d'Alcacer? And then I
wake up. It's too awful."

D'Alcacer made no remark and Mr. Travers seemed not to have expected
any.

"When I said my wife was mad," he began, suddenly, causing d'Alcacer
to start, "I didn't mean it literally, of course." His tone sounded
slightly dogmatic and he didn't seem to be aware of any interval during
which he had appeared to sleep. D'Alcacer was convinced more than ever
that he had been shamming, and resigned himself wearily to listen,
folding his arms across his chest. "What I meant, really," continued Mr.
Travers, "was that she is the victim of a craze. Society is subject to
crazes, as you know very well. They are not reprehensible in themselves,
but the worst of my wife is that her crazes are never like those of the
people with whom she naturally associates. They generally run counter to
them. This peculiarity has given me some anxiety, you understand, in the
position we occupy. People will begin to say that she is eccentric. Do
you see her anywhere, d'Alcacer?"

D'Alcacer was thankful to be able to say that he didn't see Mrs.
Travers. He didn't even hear any murmurs, though he had no doubt that
everybody on board the Emma was wide awake by now. But Mr. Travers
inspired him with invincible mistrust and he thought it prudent to add:

"You forget that your wife has a room in the deckhouse."

This was as far as he would go, for he knew very well that she was not
in the deckhouse. Mr. Travers, completely convinced by the statement,
made no sound. But neither did he lie down again. D'Alcacer gave himself
up to meditation. The night seemed extremely oppressive. At Lingard's
shout for Jorgenson, that in the profound silence struck his ears
ominously, he raised his eyes and saw Mrs. Travers outside the door of
the Cage. He started forward but she was already within. He saw she was
moved. She seemed out of breath and as if unable to speak at first.

"Hadn't we better shut the door?" suggested d'Alcacer.

"Captain Lingard's coming in," she whispered to him. "He has made up his
mind."

"That's an excellent thing," commented d'Alcacer, quietly. "I conclude
from this that we shall hear something."

"You shall hear it all from me," breathed out Mrs. Travers.

"Ah!" exclaimed d'Alcacer very low.

By that time Lingard had entered, too, and the decks of the Emma were
all astir with moving figures. Jorgenson's voice was also heard giving
directions. For nearly a minute the four persons within the Cage
remained motionless. A shadowy Malay in the gangway said suddenly:
"Sudah, Tuan," and Lingard murmured, "Ready, Mrs. Travers."

She seized d'Alcacer's arm and led him to the side of the Cage furthest
from the corner in which Mr. Travers' bed was placed, while Lingard
busied himself in pricking up the wick of the Cage lantern as if it had
suddenly occurred to him that this, whatever happened, should not be a
deed of darkness. Mr. Travers did nothing but turn his head to look over
his shoulder.

"One moment," said d'Alcacer, in a low tone and smiling at Mrs. Travers'
agitation. "Before you tell me anything let me ask you: 'Have
you
made
up your mind?'" He saw with much surprise a widening of her eyes. Was it
indignation? A pause as of suspicion fell between those two people. Then
d'Alcacer said apologetically: "Perhaps I ought not to have asked that
question," and Lingard caught Mrs. Travers' words, "Oh, I am not afraid
to answer that question."

Then their voices sank. Lingard hung the lamp up again and stood idle in
the revived light; but almost immediately he heard d'Alcacer calling him
discreetly.

"Captain Lingard!"

He moved toward them at once. At the same instant Mr. Travers' head
pivoted away from the group to its frontal position.

D'Alcacer, very serious, spoke in a familiar undertone.

"Mrs. Travers tells me that we must be delivered up to those Moors on
shore."

"Yes, there is nothing else for it," said Lingard.

"I confess I am a bit startled," said d'Alcacer; but except for a
slightly hurried utterance nobody could have guessed at anything
resembling emotion.

"I have a right to my good name," said Lingard, also very calm, while
Mrs. Travers near him, with half-veiled eyes, listened impassive like a
presiding genius.