CHAPTER FOUR
His meditation which resembled slow drifting into suicide was
interrupted by Lingard, who, with a loud "I've got you at last!"
dropped his hand heavily on Willems' shoulder. This time it was
the old seaman himself going out of his way to pick up the
uninteresting waif--all that there was left of that sudden and
sordid shipwreck. To Willems, the rough, friendly voice was a
quick and fleeting relief followed by a sharper pang of anger and
unavailing regret. That voice carried him back to the beginning
of his promising career, the end of which was very visible now
from the jetty where they both stood. He shook himself free from
the friendly grasp, saying with ready bitterness--
"It's all your fault. Give me a push now, do, and send me over.
I have been standing here waiting for help. You are the man--of
all men. You helped at the beginning; you ought to have a hand
in the end."
"I have better use for you than to throw you to the fishes," said
Lingard, seriously, taking Willems by the arm and forcing him
gently to walk up the jetty. "I have been buzzing over this town
like a bluebottle fly, looking for you high and low. I have
heard a lot. I will tell you what, Willems; you are no saint,
that's a fact. And you have not been over-wise either. I am not
throwing stones," he added, hastily, as Willems made an effort to
get away, "but I am not going to mince matters. Never could!
You keep quiet while I talk. Can't you?"
With a gesture of resignation and a half-stifled groan Willems
submitted to the stronger will, and the two men paced slowly up
and down the resounding planks, while Lingard disclosed to
Willems the exact manner of his undoing. After the first shock
Willems lost the faculty of surprise in the over-powering feeling
of indignation. So it was Vinck and Leonard who had served him
so. They had watched him, tracked his misdeeds, reported them to
Hudig. They had bribed obscure Chinamen, wormed out confidences
from tipsy skippers, got at various boatmen, and had pieced out
in that way the story of his irregularities. The blackness of
this dark intrigue filled him with horror. He could understand
Vinck. There was no love lost between them. But Leonard!
Leonard!
"Why, Captain Lingard," he burst out, "the fellow licked my
boots."
"Yes, yes, yes," said Lingard, testily, "we know that, and you
did your best to cram your boot down his throat. No man likes
that, my boy."
"I was always giving money to all that hungry lot," went on
Willems, passionately. "Always my hand in my pocket. They never
had to ask twice."
"Just so. Your generosity frightened them. They asked
themselves where all that came from, and concluded that it was
safer to throw you overboard. After all, Hudig is a much greater
man than you, my friend, and they have a claim on him also."
"What do you mean, Captain Lingard?"
"What do I mean?" repeated Lingard, slowly. "Why, you are not
going to make me believe you did not know your wife was Hudig's
daughter. Come now!"
Willems stopped suddenly and swayed about.
"Ah! I understand," he gasped. "I never heard . . . Lately I
thought there was . . . But no, I never guessed."
"Oh, you simpleton!" said Lingard, pityingly. "'Pon my word," he
muttered to himself, "I don't believe the fellow knew. Well!
well! Steady now. Pull yourself together. What's wrong there.
She is a good wife to you."
"Excellent wife," said Willems, in a dreary voice, looking far
over the black and scintillating water.
"Very well then," went on Lingard, with increasing friendliness.
"Nothing wrong there. But did you really think that Hudig was
marrying you off and giving you a house and I don't know what,
out of love for you?"
"I had served him well," answered Willems. "How well, you know
yourself--through thick and thin. No matter what work and what
risk, I was always there; always ready."
How well he saw the greatness of his work and the immensity of
that injustice which was his reward. She was that man's daughter!
In the light of this disclosure the facts of the last five years
of his life stood clearly revealed in their full meaning. He had
spoken first to Joanna at the gate of their dwelling as he went
to his work in the brilliant flush of the early morning, when
women and flowers are charming even to the dullest eyes. A most
respectable family--two women and a young man--were his next-door
neighbours. Nobody ever came to their little house but the
priest, a native from the Spanish islands, now and then. The
young man Leonard he had met in town, and was flattered by the
little fellow's immense respect for the great Willems. He let
him bring chairs, call the waiters, chalk his cues when playing
billiards, express his admiration in choice words. He even
condescended to listen patiently to Leonard's allusions to "our
beloved father," a man of official position, a government agent
in Koti, where he died of cholera, alas! a victim to duty, like a
good Catholic, and a good man. It sounded very respectable, and
Willems approved of those feeling references. Moreover, he
prided himself upon having no colour-prejudices and no racial
antipathies. He consented to drink curacoa one afternoon on the
verandah of Mrs. da Souza's house. He remembered Joanna that
day, swinging in a hammock. She was untidy even then, he
remembered, and that was the only impression he carried away from
that visit. He had no time for love in those glorious days, no
time even for a passing fancy, but gradually he fell into the
habit of calling almost every day at that little house where he
was greeted by Mrs. da Souza's shrill voice screaming for Joanna
to come and entertain the gentleman from Hudig & Co. And then
the sudden and unexpected visit of the priest. He remembered the
man's flat, yellow face, his thin legs, his propitiatory smile,
his beaming black eyes, his conciliating manner, his veiled hints
which he did not understand at the time. How he wondered what
the man wanted, and how unceremoniously he got rid of him. And
then came vividly into his recollection the morning when he met
again that fellow coming out of Hudig's office, and how he was
amused at the incongruous visit. And that morning with Hudig!
Would he ever forget it? Would he ever forget his surprise as
the master, instead of plunging at once into business, looked at
him thoughtfully before turning, with a furtive smile, to the
papers on the desk? He could hear him now, his nose in the paper
before him, dropping astonishing words in the intervals of wheezy
breathing.
"Heard said . . . called there often . . . most respectable
ladies . . . knew the father very well . . . estimable . . . best
thing for a young man . . . settle down. . . . Personally, very
glad to hear . . . thing arranged. . . . Suitable recognition of
valuable services. . . . Best thing--best thing to do."
And he believed! What credulity! What an ass! Hudig knew the
father! Rather. And so did everybody else probably; all except
himself. How proud he had been of Hudig's benevolent interest in
his fate! How proud he was when invited by Hudig to stay with
him at his little house in the country--where he could meet men,
men of official position--as a friend. Vinck had been green with
envy. Oh, yes! He had believed in the best thing, and took the
girl like a gift of fortune. How he boasted to Hudig of being
free from prejudices. The old scoundrel must have been laughing
in his sleeve at his fool of a confidential clerk. He took the
girl, guessing nothing. How could he? There had been a father
of some kind to the common knowledge. Men knew him; spoke about
him. A lank man of hopelessly mixed descent, but
otherwise--apparently--unobjectionable. The shady relations came
out afterward, but--with his freedom from prejudices--he did not
mind them, because, with their humble dependence, they completed
his triumphant life. Taken in! taken in! Hudig had found an
easy way to provide for the begging crowd. He had shifted the
burden of his youthful vagaries on to the shoulders of his
confidential clerk; and while he worked for the master, the
master had cheated him; had stolen his very self from him. He
was married. He belonged to that woman, no matter what she might
do! . . . Had sworn . . . for all life! . . . Thrown himself
away. . . . And that man dared this very morning call him a
thief! Damnation!
"Let go, Lingard!" he shouted, trying to get away by a sudden
jerk from the watchful old seaman. "Let me go and kill that . .
."
"No you don't!" panted Lingard, hanging on manfully. "You want
to kill, do you? You lunatic. Ah!--I've got you now! Be quiet,
I say!"
They struggled violently, Lingard forcing Willems slowly towards
the guard-rail. Under their feet the jetty sounded like a drum
in the quiet night. On the shore end the native caretaker of the
wharf watched the combat, squatting behind the safe shelter of
some big cases. The next day he informed his friends, with calm
satisfaction, that two drunken white men had fought on the jetty.
It had been a great fight. They fought without arms, like wild
beasts, after the manner of white men. No! nobody was killed, or
there would have been trouble and a report to make. How could he
know why they fought? White men have no reason when they are
like that.
Just as Lingard was beginning to fear that he would be unable to
restrain much longer the violence of the younger man, he felt
Willems' muscles relaxing, and took advantage of this opportunity
to pin him, by a last effort, to the rail. They both panted
heavily, speechless, their faces very close.
"All right," muttered Willems at last. "Don't break my back over
this infernal rail. I will be quiet."
"Now you are reasonable," said Lingard, much relieved. "What
made you fly into that passion?" he asked, leading him back to
the end of the jetty, and, still holding him prudently with one
hand, he fumbled with the other for his whistle and blew a shrill
and prolonged blast. Over the smooth water of the roadstead came
in answer a faint cry from one of the ships at anchor.
"My boat will be here directly," said Lingard. "Think of what
you are going to do. I sail to-night."
"What is there for me to do, except one thing?" said Willems,
gloomily.
"Look here," said Lingard; "I picked you up as a boy, and
consider myself responsible for you in a way. You took your life
into your own hands many years ago--but still . . ."
He paused, listening, till he heard the regular grind of the oars
in the rowlocks of the approaching boat then went on again.
"I have made it all right with Hudig. You owe him nothing now.
Go back to your wife. She is a good woman. Go back to her."
"Why, Captain Lingard," exclaimed Willems, "she . . ."
"It was most affecting," went on Lingard, without heeding him.
"I went to your house to look for you and there I saw her
despair. It was heart-breaking. She called for you; she
entreated me to find you. She spoke wildly, poor woman, as if
all this was her fault."
Willems listened amazed. The blind old idiot! How queerly he
misunderstood! But if it was true, if it was even true, the very
idea of seeing her filled his soul with intense loathing. He did
not break his oath, but he would not go back to her. Let hers be
the sin of that separation; of the sacred bond broken. He
revelled in the extreme purity of his heart, and he would not go
back to her. Let her come back to him. He had the comfortable
conviction that he would never see her again, and that through
her own fault only. In this conviction he told himself solemnly
that if she would come to him he would receive her with generous
forgiveness, because such was the praiseworthy solidity of his
principles. But he hesitated whether he would or would not
disclose to Lingard the revolting completeness of his
humiliation. Turned out of his house--and by his wife; that
woman who hardly dared to breathe in his presence, yesterday. He
remained perplexed and silent. No. He lacked the courage to
tell the ignoble story.
As the boat of the brig appeared suddenly on the black water
close to the jetty, Lingard broke the painful silence.
"I always thought," he said, sadly, "I always thought you were
somewhat heartless, Willems, and apt to cast adrift those that
thought most of you. I appeal to what is best in you; do not
abandon that woman."
"I have not abandoned her," answered Willems, quickly, with
conscious truthfulness. "Why should I? As you so justly
observed, she has been a good wife to me. A very good, quiet,
obedient, loving wife, and I love her as much as she loves me.
Every bit. But as to going back now, to that place where I . . .
To walk again amongst those men who yesterday were ready to crawl
before me, and then feel on my back the sting of their pitying or
satisfied smiles--no! I can't. I would rather hide from them at
the bottom of the sea," he went on, with resolute energy. "I
don't think, Captain Lingard," he added, more quietly, "I don't
think that you realize what my position was there."
In a wide sweep of his hand he took in the sleeping shore from
north to south, as if wishing it a proud and threatening
good-bye. For a short moment he forgot his downfall in the
recollection of his brilliant triumphs. Amongst the men of his
class and occupation who slept in those dark houses he had been
indeed the first.
"It is hard," muttered Lingard, pensively. "But whose the fault?
Whose the fault?"
"Captain Lingard!" cried Willems, under the sudden impulse of a
felicitous inspiration, "if you leave me here on this jetty--it's
murder. I shall never return to that place alive, wife or no
wife. You may just as well cut my throat at once."
The old seaman started.
"Don't try to frighten me, Willems," he said, with great
severity, and paused.
Above the accents of Willems' brazen despair he heard, with
considerable uneasiness, the whisper of his own absurd
conscience. He meditated for awhile with an irresolute air.
"I could tell you to go and drown yourself, and be damned to
you," he said, with an unsuccessful assumption of brutality in
his manner, "but I won't. We are responsible for one
another--worse luck. I am almost ashamed of myself, but I can
understand your dirty pride. I can! By . . ."
He broke off with a loud sigh and walked briskly to the steps, at
the bottom of which lay his boat, rising and falling gently on
the slight and invisible swell.
"Below there! Got a lamp in the boat? Well, light it and bring
it up, one of you. Hurry now!"
He tore out a page of his pocketbook, moistened his pencil with
great energy and waited, stamping his feet impatiently.
"I will see this thing through," he muttered to himself. "And I
will have it all square and ship-shape; see if I don't! Are you
going to bring that lamp, you son of a crippled mud-turtle? I am
waiting."
The gleam of the light on the paper placated his professional
anger, and he wrote rapidly, the final dash of his signature
curling the paper up in a triangular tear.
"Take that to this white Tuan's house. I will send the boat back
for you in half an hour."
The coxswain raised his lamp deliberately to Willem's face.
"This Tuan? Tau! I know."
"Quick then!" said Lingard, taking the lamp from him--and the man
went off at a run.
"Kassi mem! To the lady herself," called Lingard after him.
Then, when the man disappeared, he turned to Willems.
"I have written to your wife," he said. "If you do not return
for good, you do not go back to that house only for another
parting. You must come as you stand. I won't have that poor
woman tormented. I will see to it that you are not separated for
long. Trust me!"
Willems shivered, then smiled in the darkness.
"No fear of that," he muttered, enigmatically. "I trust you
implicitly, Captain Lingard," he added, in a louder tone.
Lingard led the way down the steps, swinging the lamp and
speaking over his shoulder.
"It is the second time, Willems, I take you in hand. Mind it is
the last. The second time; and the only difference between then
and now is that you were bare-footed then and have boots now. In
fourteen years. With all your smartness! A poor result that. A
very poor result."
He stood for awhile on the lowest platform of the steps, the
light of the lamp falling on the upturned face of the stroke oar,
who held the gunwale of the boat close alongside, ready for the
captain to step in.
"You see," he went on, argumentatively, fumbling about the top of
the lamp, "you got yourself so crooked amongst those 'longshore
quill-drivers that you could not run clear in any way. That's
what comes of such talk as yours, and of such a life. A man sees
so much falsehood that he begins to lie to himself. Pah!" he
said, in disgust, "there's only one place for an honest man. The
sea, my boy, the sea! But you never would; didn't think there
was enough money in it; and now--look!"
He blew the light out, and, stepping into the boat, stretched
quickly his hand towards Willems, with friendly care. Willems
sat by him in silence, and the boat shoved off, sweeping in a
wide circle towards the brig.
"Your compassion is all for my wife, Captain Lingard," said
Willems, moodily. "Do you think I am so very happy?"
"No! no!" said Lingard, heartily. "Not a word more shall pass my
lips. I had to speak my mind once, seeing that I knew you from a
child, so to speak. And now I shall forget; but you are young
yet. Life is very long," he went on, with unconscious sadness;
"let this be a lesson to you."
He laid his hand affectionately on Willems' shoulder, and they
both sat silent till the boat came alongside the ship's ladder.
When on board Lingard gave orders to his mate, and leading
Willems on the poop, sat on the breech of one of the brass
six-pounders with which his vessel was armed. The boat went off
again to bring back the messenger. As soon as it was seen
returning dark forms appeared on the brig's spars; then the sails
fell in festoons with a swish of their heavy folds, and hung
motionless under the yards in the dead calm of the clear and dewy
night. From the forward end came the clink of the windlass, and
soon afterwards the hail of the chief mate informing Lingard that
the cable was hove short.
"Hold on everything," hailed back Lingard; "we must wait for the
land-breeze before we let go our hold of the ground."
He approached Willems, who sat on the skylight, his body bent
down, his head low, and his hands hanging listlessly between his
knees.
"I am going to take you to Sambir," he said. "You've never heard
of the place, have you? Well, it's up that river of mine about
which people talk so much and know so little. I've found out the
entrance for a ship of Flash's size. It isn't easy. You'll see.
I will show you. You have been at sea long enough to take an
interest. . . . Pity you didn't stick to it. Well, I am going
there. I have my own trading post in the place. Almayer is my
partner. You knew him when he was at Hudig's. Oh, he lives
there as happy as a king. D'ye see, I have them all in my
pocket. The rajah is an old friend of mine. My word is law--and
I am the only trader. No other white man but Almayer had ever
been in that settlement. You will live quietly there till I come
back from my next cruise to the westward. We shall see then what
can be done for you. Never fear. I have no doubt my secret will
be safe with you. Keep mum about my river when you get amongst
the traders again. There's many would give their ears for the
knowledge of it. I'll tell you something: that's where I get all
my guttah and rattans. Simply inexhaustible, my boy."
While Lingard spoke Willems looked up quickly, but soon his head
fell on his breast in the discouraging certitude that the
knowledge he and Hudig had wished for so much had come to him too
late. He sat in a listless attitude.
"You will help Almayer in his trading if you have a heart for
it," continued Lingard, "just to kill time till I come back for
you. Only six weeks or so."
Over their heads the damp sails fluttered noisily in the first
faint puff of the breeze; then, as the airs freshened, the brig
tended to the wind, and the silenced canvas lay quietly aback.
The mate spoke with low distinctness from the shadows of the
quarter-deck.
"There's the breeze. Which way do you want to cast her, Captain
Lingard?"
Lingard's eyes, that had been fixed aloft, glanced down at the
dejected figure of the man sitting on the skylight. He seemed to
hesitate for a minute.
"To the northward, to the northward," he answered, testily, as if
annoyed at his own fleeting thought, "and bear a hand there.
Every puff of wind is worth money in these seas."
He remained motionless, listening to the rattle of blocks and the
creaking of trusses as the head-yards were hauled round. Sail
was made on the ship and the windlass manned again while he stood
still, lost in thought. He only roused himself when a barefooted
seacannie glided past him silently on his way to the wheel.
"Put the helm aport! Hard over!" he said, in his harsh
sea-voice, to the man whose face appeared suddenly out of the
darkness in the circle of light thrown upwards from the binnacle
lamps.
The anchor was secured, the yards trimmed, and the brig began to
move out of the roadstead. The sea woke up under the push of the
sharp cutwater, and whispered softly to the gliding craft in that
tender and rippling murmur in which it speaks sometimes to those
it nurses and loves. Lingard stood by the taff-rail listening,
with a pleased smile till the Flash began to draw close to the
only other vessel in the anchorage.
"Here, Willems," he said, calling him to his side, "d'ye see that
barque here? That's an Arab vessel. White men have mostly given
up the game, but this fellow drops in my wake often, and lives in
hopes of cutting me out in that settlement. Not while I live, I
trust. You see, Willems, I brought prosperity to that place. I
composed their quarrels, and saw them grow under my eyes.
There's peace and happiness there. I am more master there than
his Dutch Excellency down in Batavia ever will be when some day a
lazy man-of-war blunders at last against the river. I mean to
keep the Arabs out of it, with their lies and their intrigues. I
shall keep the venomous breed out, if it costs me my fortune."
The Flash drew quietly abreast of the barque, and was beginning
to drop it astern when a white figure started up on the poop of
the Arab vessel, and a voice called out--
"Greeting to the Rajah Laut!"
"To you greeting!" answered Lingard, after a moment of hesitating
surprise. Then he turned to Willems with a grim smile. "That's
Abdulla's voice," he said. "Mighty civil all of a sudden, isn't
he? I wonder what it means. Just like his impudence! No
matter! His civility or his impudence are all one to me. I know
that this fellow will be under way and after me like a shot. I
don't care! I have the heels of anything that floats in these
seas," he added, while his proud and loving glance ran over and
rested fondly amongst the brig's lofty and graceful spars.
