  
                                 Joseph Conrad

                                    Nostromo

                             A Tale of the Seaboard

 »so foul a sky
 clears not
 without a storm«
                                                                     Shakespeare
 

                                 Author's Note

»Nostromo« is the most anxiously meditated of the longer novels which belong to
the period following upon the publication of the »Typhoon« volume of short
stories.
    I don't mean to say that I became then conscious of any impending change in
my mentality and in my attitude towards the tasks of my writing life. And
perhaps there was never any change, except in that mysterious, extraneous thing
which has nothing to do with the theories of art; a subtle change in the nature
of the inspiration; a phenomenon for which I can not in any way be held
responsible. What, however, did cause me some concern was that after finishing
the last story of the »Typhoon« volume it seemed somehow that there was nothing
more in the world to write about.
    This so strangely negative but disturbing mood lasted some little time; and
then, as with many of my longer stories, the first hint for »Nostromo« came to
me in the shape of a vagrant anecdote completely destitute of valuable details.
    As a matter of fact in 1875 or '6, when very young, in the West Indies or
rather in the Gulf of Mexico, for my contacts with land were short, few, and
fleeting, I heard the story of some man who was supposed to have stolen
single-handed a whole lighter-full of silver, somewhere on the Tierra Firme
seaboard during the troubles of a revolution.
    On the face of it this was something of a feat. But I heard no details, and
having no particular interest in crime qua crime I was not likely to keep that
one in my my mind. And I forgot it till twenty-six or seven years afterwards I
came upon the very thing in a shabby volume picked up outside a second-hand
book-shop. It was the life story of an American seaman written by himself with
the assistance of a journalist. In the course of his wanderings that American
sailor worked for some months on board a schooner, the master and owner of which
was the thief of whom I had heard in my very young days. I have no doubt of that
because there could hardly have been two exploits of that peculiar kind in the
same part of the world and both connected with a South American revolution.
    The fellow had actually managed to steal a lighter with silver, and this, it
seems, only because he was implicitly trusted by his employers, who must have
been singularly poor judges of character. In the sailor's story he is
represented as an unmitigated rascal, a small cheat, stupidly ferocious, morose,
of mean appearance, and altogether unworthy of the greatness this opportunity
had thrust upon him. What was interesting was that he would boast of it openly.
    He used to say: »People think I make a lot of money in this schooner of
mine. But that is nothing. I don't care for that. Now and then I go away quietly
and lift a bar of silver. I must get rich slowly - you understand.«
    There was also another curious point about the man. Once in the course of
some quarrel the sailor threatened him: »What's to prevent me reporting ashore
what you have told me about that silver?«
    The cynical ruffian was not alarmed in the least. He actually laughed. »You
fool, if you dare talk like that on shore about me you will get a knife stuck in
your back. Every man, woman, and child in that port is my friend. And who's to
prove the lighter wasn't't sunk? I didn't show you where the silver is hidden. Did
I? So you know nothing. And suppose I lied? Eh?«
    Ultimately the sailor, disgusted with the sordid meanness of that impenitent
thief, deserted from the schooner. The whole episode takes about three pages of
his autobiography. Nothing to speak of; but as I looked them over, the curious
confirmation of the few casual words heard in my early youth evoked the memories
of that distant time when everything was so fresh, so surprising, so
venturesome, so interesting; bits of strange coasts under the stars, shadows of
hills in the sunshine, men's passions in the dusk, gossip half-forgotten, faces
grown dim. ... Perhaps, perhaps, there still was in the world something to write
about. Yet I did not see anything at first in the mere story. A rascal steals a
large parcel of a valuable commodity - so people say. It's either true or
untrue; and in any case it has no value in itself. To invent a circumstantial
account of the robbery did not appeal to me, because my talents not running that
way I did not think that the game was worth the candle. It was only when it
dawned upon me that the purloiner of the treasure need not necessarily be a
confirmed rogue, that he could be even a man of character, an actor and possibly
a victim in the changing scenes of a revolution, it was only then that I had the
first vision of a twilight country which was to become the province of Sulaco,
with its high shadowy Sierra and its misty Campo for mute witnesses of events
flowing from the passions of men short-sighted in good and evil.
    Such are in very truth the obscure origins of »Nostromo« - the book. From
that moment, I suppose, it had to be. Yet even then I hesitated, as if warned by
the instinct of self-preservation from venturing on a distant and toilsome
journey into a land full of intrigues and revolutions. But it had to be done.
    It took the best part of the years 1903-4 to do; with many intervals of
renewed hesitation, lest I should lose myself in the ever-enlarging vistas
opening before me as I progressed deeper in my knowledge of the country. Often,
also, when I had thought myself to a standstill over the tangled-up affairs of
the Republic, I would, figuratively speaking, pack my bag, rush away from Sulaco
for a change of air and write a few pages of the »Mirror of the Sea.« But
generally, as I've said before, my sojourn on the Continent of Latin America,
famed for its hospitality, lasted for about two years. On my return I found
(speaking somewhat in the style of Captain Gulliver) my family all well, my wife
heartily glad to learn that the fuss was all over, and our small boy
considerably grown during my absence.
    My principal authority for the history of Costaguana is, of course, my
venerated friend, the late Don José Avellanos, Minister to the Courts of England
and Spain, etc., etc., in his impartial and eloquent »History of Fifty Years of
Misrule.« That work was never published - the reader will discover why - and I
am in fact the only person in the world possessed of its contents. I have
mastered them in not a few hours of earnest meditation, and I hope that my
accuracy will be trusted. In justice to myself, and to allay the fears of
prospective readers, I beg to point out that the few historical allusions are
never dragged in for the sake of parading my unique erudition, but that each of
them is closely related to actuality; either throwing a light on the nature of
current events or affecting directly the fortunes of the people of whom I speak.
    As to their own histories I have tried to set them down, Aristocracy and
People, men and women, Latin and Anglo-Saxon, bandit and politician, with as
cool a hand as was possible in the heat and clash of my own conflicting
emotions. And after all this is also the story of their conflicts. It is for the
reader to say how far they are deserving of interest in their actions and in the
secret purposes of their hearts revealed in the bitter necessities of the time.
I confess that, for me, that time is the time of firm friendships and
unforgotten hospitalities. And in my gratitude I must mention here Mrs. Gould,
the first lady of Sulaco, whom we may safely leave to the secret devotion of Dr.
Monygham, and Charles Gould, the Idealist-creator of Material Interests whom we
must leave to his Mine - from which there is no escape in this world.
    About Nostromo, the second of the two racially and socially contrasted men,
both captured by the silver of the San Tomé Mine, I feel bound to say something
more.
    I did not hesitate to make that central figure an Italian. First of all the
thing is perfectly credible: Italians were swarming into the Occidental Province
at the time, as anybody who will read further can see; and secondly, there was
no one who could stand so well by the side of Giorgio Viola the Garibaldino, the
Idealist of the old, humanitarian revolutions. For myself I needed there a man
of the People as free as possible from his class-conventions and all settled
modes of thinking. This is not a side snarl at conventions. My reasons were not
moral but artistic. Had he been an Anglo-Saxon he would have tried to get into
local politics. But Nostromo does not aspire to be a leader in a personal game.
He does not want to raise himself above the mass. He is content to feel himself
a power - within the People.
    But mainly Nostromo is what he is because I received the inspiration for him
in my early days from a Mediterranean sailor. Those who have read certain pages
of mine will see at once what I mean when I say that Dominic, the padrone of the
Tremolino, might under given circumstances have been a Nostromo. At any rate
Dominic would have understood the younger man perfectly - if scornfully. He and
I were engaged together in a rather absurd adventure, but the absurdity does not
matter. It is a real satisfaction to think that in my very young days there
must, after all, have been something in me worthy to command that man's
half-bitter fidelity, his half-ironic devotion. Many of Nostromo's speeches I
have heard first in Dominic's voice. His hand on the tiller and his fearless
eyes roaming the horizon from within the monkish hood shadowing his face, he
would utter the usual exordium of his remorseless wisdom: »Vous autres
gentilhommes!« in a caustic tone that hangs on my ear yet. Like Nostromo! »You
hombres finos!« Very much like Nostromo. But Dominic the Corsican nursed a
certain pride of ancestry from which my Nostromo is free; for Nostromo's lineage
had to be more ancient still. He is a man with the weight of countless
generations behind him and no parentage to boast of. ... Like the People.
    In his firm grip on the earth he inherits, in his improvidence and
generosity, in his lavishness with his gifts, in his manly vanity, in the
obscure sense of his greatness and in his faithful devotion with something
despairing as well as desperate in its impulses, he is a Man of the People,
their very own unenvious force, disdaining to lead but ruling from within. Years
afterwards, grown older as the famous Captain Fidanza, with a stake in the
country, going about his many affairs followed by respectful glances in the
modernized streets of Sulaco, calling on the widow of the cargador, attending
the Lodge, listening in unmoved silence to anarchist speeches at the meeting,
the enigmatic patron of the new revolutionary agitation, the trusted, the
wealthy comrade Fidanza with the knowledge of his moral ruin locked up in his
breast, he remains essentially a man of the People. In his mingled love and
scorn of life and in the bewildered conviction of having been betrayed, of dying
betrayed he hardly knows by what or by whom, he is still of the People, their
undoubted Great Man - with a private history of his own.
    One more figure of those stirring times I would like to mention: and that is
Antonia Avellanos - the beautiful Antonia. Whether she is a possible variation
of Latin-American girlhood I wouldn't dare to affirm. But, for me, she is.
Always a little in the background by the side of her father (my venerated
friend) I hope she has yet relief enough to make intelligible what I am going to
say. Of all the people who had seen with me the birth of the Occidental
Republic, she is the only one who has kept in my memory the aspect of continued
life. Antonia the Aristocrat and Nostromo the Man of the People are the artisans
of the New Era, the true creators of the New State; he by his legendary and
daring feat, she, like a woman, simply by the force of what she is: the only
being capable of inspiring a sincere passion in the heart of a trifler.
    If anything could induce me to revisit Sulaco (I should hate to see all
these changes) it would be Antonia. And the true reason for that - why not be
frank about it? - the true reason is that I have modelled her on my first love.
How we, a band of tallish schoolboys, the chums of her two brothers, how we used
to look up to that girl just out of the schoolroom herself, as the
standard-bearer of a faith to which we all were born but which she alone knew
how to hold aloft with an unflinching hope! She had perhaps more glow and less
serenity in her soul than Antonia, but she was an uncompromising Puritan of
patriotism with no taint of the slightest worldliness in her thoughts. I was not
the only one in love with her; but it was I who had to hear oftenest her
scathing criticism of my levities - very much like poor Decoud - or stand the
brunt of her austere, unanswerable invective. She did not quite understand - but
never mind. That afternoon when I came in, a shrinking yet defiant sinner, to
say the final good-bye I received a hand-squeeze that made my heart leap and saw
a tear that took my breath away. She was softened at the last as though she had
suddenly perceived (we were such children still!) that I was really going away
for good, going very far away - even as far as Sulaco, lying unknown, hidden
from our eyes in the darkness of the Placid Gulf.
    That's why I long sometimes for another glimpse of the beautiful Antonia (or
can it be the Other?) moving in the dimness of the great cathedral, saying a
short prayer at the tomb of the first and last Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco,
standing absorbed in filial devotion before the monument of Don José Avellanos,
and, with a lingering, tender, faithful glance at the medallion-memorial to
Martin Decoud, going out serenely into the sunshine of the Plaza with her
upright carriage and her white head; a relic of the past disregarded by men
awaiting impatiently the Dawns of other New Eras, the coming of more
Revolutions.
    But this is the idlest of dreams; for I did understand perfectly well at the
time that the moment the breath left the body of the Magnificent Capataz, the
Man of the People, freed at last from the toils of love and wealth, there was
nothing more for me to do in Sulaco.
                                                                            J.C.
    October, 1917.
 

                       Part First: The Silver of the Mine

                                  Chapter One

In the time of Spanish rule, and for many years afterwards, the town of Sulaco -
the luxuriant beauty of the orange gardens bears witness to its antiquity - had
never been commercially anything more important than a coasting port with a
fairly large local trade in ox-hides and indigo. The clumsy deep-sea galleons of
the conquerors that, needing a brisk gale to move at all, would lie becalmed,
where your modern ship built on clipper lines forges ahead by the mere flapping
of her sails, had been barred out of Sulaco by the prevailing calms of its vast
gulf. Some harbours of the earth are made difficult of access by the treachery
of sunken rocks and the tempests of their shores. Sulaco had found an inviolable
sanctuary from the temptations of a trading world in the solemn hush of the deep
Golfo Placido as if within an enormous semi-circular and unroofed temple open to
the ocean, with its walls of lofty mountains hung with the mourning draperies of
cloud.
    On one side of this broad curve in the straight seaboard of the Republic of
Costaguana, the last spur of the coast range forms an insignificant cape whose
name is Punta Mala. From the middle of the gulf the point of the land itself is
not visible at all; but the shoulder of a steep hill at the back can be made out
faintly like a shadow on the sky.
    On the other side, what seems to be an isolated patch of blue mist floats
lightly on the glare of the horizon. This is the peninsula of Azuera, a wild
chaos of sharp rocks and stony levels cut about by vertical ravines. It lies far
out to sea like a rough head of stone stretched from a green-clad coast at the
end of a slender neck of sand covered with thickets of thorny scrub. Utterly
waterless, for the rainfall runs off at once on all sides into the sea, it has
not soil enough - it is said - to grow a single blade of grass, as if it were
blighted by a curse. The poor, associating by an obscure instinct of consolation
the ideas of evil and wealth, will tell you that it is deadly because of its
forbidden treasures. The common folk of the neighbourhood, peons of the
estancias, vaqueros of the seaboard plains, tame Indians coming miles to market
with a bundle of sugar-cane or a basket of maize worth about threepence, are
well aware that heaps of shining gold lie in the gloom of the deep precipices
cleaving the stony levels of Azuera. Tradition has it that many adventurers of
olden time had perished in the search. The story goes also that within men's
memory two wandering sailors - Americanos, perhaps, but gringos of some sort for
certain - talked over a gambling, good-for-nothing mozo, and the three stole a
donkey to carry for them a bundle of dry sticks, a water-skin, and provisions
enough to last a few days. Thus accompanied, and with revolvers at their belts,
they had started to chop their way with machetes through the thorny scrub on the
neck of the peninsula.
    On the second evening an upright spiral of smoke (it could only have been
from their camp-fire) was seen for the first time within memory of man standing
up faintly upon the sky above a razor-backed ridge on the stony head. The crew
of a coasting schooner, lying becalmed three miles off the shore, stared at it
with amazement till dark. A negro fisherman, living in a lonely hut in a little
bay near by, had seen the start and was on the lookout for some sign. He called
to his wife just as the sun was about to set. They had watched the strange
portent with envy, incredulity, and awe.
    The impious adventurers gave no other sign. The sailors, the Indian, and the
stolen burro were never seen again. As to the mozo, a Sulaco man - his wife paid
for some masses, and the poor four-footed beast, being without sin, had been
probably permitted to die; but the two gringos, spectral and alive, are believed
to be dwelling to this day amongst the rocks, under the fatal spell of their
success. Their souls cannot tear themselves away from their bodies mounting
guard over the discovered treasure. They are now rich and hungry and thirsty - a
strange theory of tenacious gringo ghosts suffering in their starved and parched
flesh of defiant heretics, where a Christian would have renounced and been
released.
    These, then, are the legendary inhabitants of Azuera guarding its forbidden
wealth; and the shadow on the sky on one side with the round patch of blue haze
blurring the bright skirt of the horizon on the other, mark the two outermost
points of the bend which bears the name of Golfo Placido, because never a strong
wind had been known to blow upon its waters.
    On crossing the imaginary line drawn from Punta Mala to Azuera the ships
from Europe bound to Sulaco lose at once the strong breezes of the ocean. They
become the prey of capricious airs that play with them for thirty hours at a
stretch sometimes. Before them the head of the calm gulf is filled on most days
of the year by a great body of motionless and opaque clouds. On the rare clear
mornings another shadow is cast upon the sweep of the gulf. The dawn breaks high
behind the towering and serrated wall of the Cordillera, a clear-cut vision of
dark peaks rearing their steep slopes on a lofty pedestal of forest rising from
the very edge of the shore. Amongst them the white head of Higuerota rises
majestically upon the blue. Bare clusters of enormous rocks sprinkle with tiny
black dots the smooth dome of snow.
    Then, as the midday sun withdraws from the gulf the shadow of the mountains,
the clouds begin to roll out of the lower valleys. They swathe in sombre tatters
the naked crags of precipices above the wooded slopes, hide the peaks, smoke in
stormy trails across the snows of Higuerota. The Cordillera is gone from you as
if it had dissolved itself into great piles of grey and black vapours that
travel out slowly to seaward and vanish into thin air all along the front before
the blazing heat of the day. The wasting edge of the cloud-bank always strives
for, but seldom wins, the middle of the gulf. The sun - as the sailors say - is
eating it up. Unless perchance a sombre thunder-head breaks away from the main
body to career all over the gulf till it escapes into the offing beyond Azuera,
where it bursts suddenly into flame and crashes like a sinister pirate-ship of
the air, hove-to above the horizon, engaging the sea.
    At night the body of clouds advancing higher up the sky smothers the whole
quiet gulf below with an impenetrable darkness, in which the sound of the
falling showers can be heard beginning and ceasing abruptly - now here, now
there. Indeed, these cloudy nights are proverbial with the seamen along the
whole west coast of a great continent. Sky, land, and sea disappear together out
of the world when the Placido - as the saying is - goes to sleep under its black
poncho. The few stars left below the seaward frown of the vault shine feebly as
into the mouth of a black cavern. In its vastness your ship floats unseen under
your feet, her sails flutter invisible above your head. The eye of God
Himself-they add with grim profanity - could not find out what work a man's hand
is doing in there; and you would be free to call the devil to your aid with
impunity if even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness.
    The shores on the gulf are steep-to all round; three uninhabited islets
basking in the sunshine just outside the cloud veil, and opposite the entrance
to the harbour of Sulaco, bear the name of »The Isabels.«
    There is the Great Isabel; the Little Isabel, which is round; and Hermosa,
which is the smallest.
    That last is no more than a foot high, and about seven paces across, a mere
flat top of a grey rock which smokes like a hot cinder after a shower, and where
no man would care to venture a naked sole before sunset. On the Little Isabel an
old ragged palm, with a thick bulging trunk rough with spines, a very witch
amongst palm trees, rustles a dismal bunch of dead leaves above the coarse sand.
The Great Isabel has a spring of fresh water issuing from the overgrown side of
a ravine. Resembling an emerald green wedge of land a mile long, and laid flat
upon the sea, it bears two forest trees standing close together, with a wide
spread of shade at the foot of their smooth trunks. A ravine extending the whole
length of the island is full of bushes; and presenting a deep tangled cleft on
the high side spreads itself out on the other into a shallow depression abutting
on a small strip of sandy shore.
    From that low end of the Great Isabel the eye plunges through an opening two
miles away, as abrupt as if chopped with an axe out of the regular sweep of the
coast, right into the harbour of Sulaco. It is an oblong, lake-like piece of
water. On one side the short wooded spurs and valleys of the Cordillera come
down at right angles to the very strand; on the other the open view of the great
Sulaco plain passes into the opal mystery of great distances overhung by dry
haze. The town of Sulaco itself - tops of walls, a great cupola, gleams of white
miradors in a vast grove of orange trees - lies between the mountains and the
plain, at some little distance from its harbour and out of the direct line of
sight from the sea.
 

                                  Chapter Two

The only sign of commercial activity within the harbour, visible from the beach
of the Great Isabel, is the square blunt end of the wooden jetty which the
Oceanic Steam Navigation Company (the O.S.N. of familiar speech) had thrown over
the shallow part of the bay soon after they had resolved to make of Sulaco one
of their ports of call for the Republic of Costaguana. The State possesses
several harbours on its long seaboard, but except Cayta, an important place, all
are either small and inconvenient inlets in an iron-bound coast - like
Esmeralda, for instance, sixty miles to the south - or else mere open roadsteads
exposed to the winds and fretted by the surf.
    Perhaps the very atmospheric conditions which had kept away the merchant
fleets of bygone ages induced the O.S.N. Company to violate the sanctuary of
peace sheltering the calm existence of Sulaco. The variable airs sporting
lightly with the vast semicircle of waters within the head of Azuera could not
baffle the steam power of their excellent fleet. Year after year the black hulls
of their ships had gone up and down the coast, in and out, past Azuera, past the
Isabels, past Punta Mala - disregarding everything but the tyranny of time.
Their names, the names of all mythology, became the household words of a coast
that had never been ruled by the gods of Olympus. The Juno was known only for
her comfortable cabins amid-ships, the Saturn for the geniality of her captain
and the painted and gilt luxuriousness of her saloon, whereas the Ganymede was
fitted out mainly for cattle transport, and to be avoided by coastwise
passengers. The humblest Indian in the obscurest village on the coast was
familiar with the Cerberus, a little black puffer without charm or living
accommodation to speak of, whose mission was to creep inshore along the wooded
beaches close to mighty ugly rocks, stopping obligingly before every cluster of
huts to collect produce, down to three-pound parcels of indiarubber bound in a
wrapper of dry grass.
    And as they seldom failed to account for the smallest package, rarely lost a
bullock, and had never drowned a single passenger, the name of the O.S.N. stood
very high for trustworthiness. People declared that under the Company's care
their lives and property were safer on the water than in their own houses on
shore.
    The O.S.N.'s superintendent in Sulaco for the whole Costaguana section of
the service was very proud of his Company's standing. He resumed it in a saying
which was very often on his lips, »We never make mistakes.« To the Company's
officers it took the form of a severe injunction, »We must make no mistakes.
I'll have no mistakes here, no matter what Smith may do at his end.«
    Smith, on whom he had never set eyes in his life, was the other
superintendent of the service, quartered some fifteen hundred miles away from
Sulaco. »Don't talk to me of your Smith.«
    Then, calming down suddenly, he would dismiss the subject with studied
negligence.
    »Smith knows no more of this continent than a baby.«
    »Our excellent Señor Mitchell« for the business and official world of
Sulaco; »Fussy Joe« for the commanders of the Company's ships, Captain Joseph
Mitchell prided himself on his profound knowledge of men and things in the
country - cosas de Costaguana. Amongst these last he accounted as most
unfavourable to the orderly working of his Company the frequent changes of
government brought about by revolutions of the military type.
    The political atmosphere of the Republic was generally stormy in these days.
The fugitive patriots of the defeated party had the knack of turning up again on
the coast with half a steamer's load of small arms and ammunition. Such
resourcefulness Captain Mitchell considered as perfectly wonderful in view of
their utter destitution at the time of flight. He had observed that »they never
seemed to have enough change about them to pay for their passage ticket out of
the country.« And he could speak with knowledge; for on a memorable occasion he
had been called upon to save the life of a dictator, together with the lives of
a few Sulaco officials - the political chief, the director of the customs, and
the head of police - belonging to an overturned government. Poor Señor Ribiera
(such was the dictator's name) had come pelting eighty miles over mountain
tracks after the lost battle of Socorro, in the hope of out-distancing the fatal
news - which, of course, he could not manage to do on a lame mule. The animal,
moreover, expired under him at the end of the Alameda, where the military band
plays sometimes in the evenings between the revolutions. »Sir,« Captain Mitchell
would pursue with portentous gravity, »the ill-timed end of that mule attracted
attention to the unfortunate rider. His features were recognized by several
deserters from the Dictatorial army amongst the rascally mob already engaged in
smashing the windows of the Intendencia.«
    Early on the morning of that day the local authorities of Sulaco had fled
for refuge to the O.S.N. Company's offices, a strong building near the shore end
of the jetty, leaving the town to the mercies of a revolutionary rabble; and as
the Dictator was execrated by the populace on account of the severe recruitment
law his necessities had compelled him to enforce during the struggle, he stood a
good chance of being torn to pieces. Providentially, Nostromo - invaluable
fellow - with some Italian workmen, imported to work upon the National Central
Railway, was at hand, and managed to snatch him away - for the time at least.
Ultimately, Captain Mitchell succeeded in taking everybody off in his own gig to
one of the Company's steamers - it was the Minerva - just then, as luck would
have it, entering the harbour.
    He had to lower these gentlemen at the end of a rope out of a hole in the
wall at the back, while the mob which, pouring out of the town, had spread
itself all along the shore, howled and foamed at the foot of the building in
front. He had to hurry them then the whole length of the jetty; it had been a
desperate dash, neck or nothing - and again it was Nostromo, a fellow in a
thousand, who, at the head, this time, of the Company's body of lightermen, held
the jetty against the rushes of the rabble, thus giving the fugitives time to
reach the gig lying ready for them at the other end with the Company's flag at
the stern. Sticks, stones, shots flew; knives, too, were thrown. Captain
Mitchell exhibited willingly the long cicatrice of a cut over his left ear and
temple, made by a razor-blade fastened to a stick - a weapon, he explained, very
much in favour with the worst kind of nigger out here.
    Captain Mitchell was a thick, elderly man, wearing high, pointed collars and
short side-whiskers, partial to white waistcoats, and really very communicative
under his air of pompous reserve.
    »These gentlemen,« he would say, staring with great solemnity, »had to run
like rabbits, sir. I ran like a rabbit myself. Certain forms of death are - er -
distasteful to a - a - er - respectable man. They would have pounded me to
death, too. A crazy mob, sir, does not discriminate. Under providence we owed
our preservation to my Capataz de Cargadores, as they called him in the town, a
man who, when I discovered his value, sir, was just the bos'n of an Italian
ship, a big Genoese ship, one of the few European ships that ever came to Sulaco
with a general cargo before the building of the National Central. He left her on
account of some very respectable friends he made here, his own countrymen, but
also, I suppose, to better himself. Sir, I am a pretty good judge of character.
I engaged him to be the foreman of our lightermen, and caretaker of our jetty.
That's all that he was. But without him Señor Ribiera would have been a dead
man. This Nostromo, sir, a man absolutely above reproach, became the terror of
all the thieves in the town. We were infested, infested, overrun, sir, here at
that time by ladrones and matreros, thieves and murderers from the whole
province. On this occasion they had been flocking into Sulaco for a week past.
They had scented the end, sir. Fifty per cent. of that murdering mob were
professional bandits from the Campo, sir, but there wasn't't one that hadn't heard
of Nostromo. As to the town leperos, sir, the sight of his black whiskers and
white teeth was enough for them. They quailed before him, sir. That's what the
force of character will do for you.«
    It could very well be said that it was Nostromo alone who saved the lives of
these gentlemen. Captain Mitchell, on his part, never left them till he had seen
them collapse, panting, terrified, and exasperated, but safe, on the luxuriant
velvet sofas in the first-class saloon of the Minerva. To the very last he had
been careful to address the ex-Dictator as »Your Excellency.«
    »Sir, I could do no other. The man was down - ghastly, livid, one mass of
scratches.«
    The Minerva never let go her anchor that call. The superintendent ordered
her out of the harbour at once. No cargo could be landed, of course, and the
passengers for Sulaco naturally refused to go ashore. They could hear the firing
and see plainly the fight going on at the edge of the water. The repulsed mob
devoted its energies to an attack upon the Custom House, a dreary,
unfinished-looking structure with many windows two hundred yards away from the
O.S.N. Offices, and the only other building near the harbour. Captain Mitchell,
after directing the commander of the Minerva to land these gentlemen in the
first port of call outside Costaguana, went back in his gig to see what could be
done for the protection of the Company's property. That and the property of the
railway were preserved by the European residents; that is, by Captain Mitchell
himself and the staff of engineers building the road, aided by the Italian and
Basque workmen who rallied faithfully round their English chiefs. The Company's
lightermen, too, natives of the Republic, behaved very well under their Capataz.
An outcast lot of very mixed blood, mainly Negroes, everlastingly at feud with
the other customers of low grog shops in the town, they embraced with delight
this opportunity to settle their personal scores under such favourable auspices.
There was not one of them that had not, at some time or other, looked with
terror at Nostromo's revolver poked very close at his face, or been otherwise
daunted by Nostromo's resolution. He was much of a man, their Capataz was, they
said, too scornful in his temper ever to utter abuse, a tireless taskmaster, and
the more to be feared because of his aloofness. And behold! there he was that
day, at their head, condescending to make jocular remarks to this man or the
other.
    Such leadership was inspiriting, and in truth all the harm the mob managed
to achieve was to set fire to one - only one - stack of railway-sleepers, which,
being creosoted, burned well. The main attack on the railway yards, on the
O.S.N. Offices, and especially on the Custom House, whose strong room, it was
well known, contained a large treasure in silver ingots, failed completely. Even
the little hotel kept by old Giorgio, standing alone halfway between the harbour
and the town, escaped looting and destruction, not by a miracle, but because
with the safes in view they had neglected it at first, and afterwards found no
leisure to stop. Nostromo, with his Cargadores, was pressing them too hard then.
 

                                 Chapter Three

It might have been said that there he was only protecting his own. From the
first he had been admitted to live in the intimacy of the family of the
hotel-keeper who was a countryman of his. Old Giorgio Viola, a Genoese with a
shaggy white leonine head - often called simply »the Garibaldino« (as
Mohammedans are called after their prophet) - was, to use Captain Mitchell's own
words, the »respectable married friend« by whose advice Nostromo had left his
ship to try for a run of shore luck in Costaguana.
    The old man, full of scorn for the populace, as your austere republican so
often is, had disregarded the preliminary sounds of trouble. He went on that day
as usual pottering about the casa in his slippers, muttering angrily to himself
his contempt of the nonpolitical nature of the riot, and shrugging his
shoulders. In the end he was taken unawares by the out-rush of the rabble. It
was too late then to remove his family, and, indeed, where could he have run to
with the portly Signora Teresa and two little girls on that great plain? So,
barricading every opening, the old man sat down sternly in the middle of the
darkened café with an old shot-gun on his knees. His wife sat on another chair
by his side, muttering pious invocations to all the saints of the calendar.
    The old republican did not believe in saints, or in prayers, or in what he
called »priest's religion.« Liberty and Garibaldi were his divinities; but he
tolerated superstition in women, preserving in these matters a lofty and silent
attitude.
    His two girls, the eldest fourteen, and the other two years younger,
crouched on the sanded floor, on each side of the Signora Teresa, with their
heads on their mother's lap, both scared, but each in her own way, the
dark-haired Linda indignant and angry, the fair Giselle, the younger, bewildered
and resigned. The Patrona removed her arms, which embraced her daughters, for a
moment to cross herself and wring her hands hurriedly. She moaned a little
louder.
    »Oh! Gian' Battista, why art thou not here? Oh! why art thou not here?«
    She was not then invoking the saint himself, but calling upon Nostromo,
whose patron he was. And Giorgio, motionless on the chair by her side, would be
provoked by these reproachful and distracted appeals.
    »Peace, woman! Where's the sense of it? There's his duty,« he murmured in
the dark; and she would retort, panting -
    »Eh! I have no patience. Duty! What of the woman who has been like a mother
to him? I bent my knee to him this morning; don't you go out, Gian' Battista -
stop in the house, Battistino - look at those two little innocent children!«
    Mrs. Viola was an Italian, too, a native of Spezzia, and though considerably
younger than her husband, already middle-aged. She had a handsome face, whose
complexion had turned yellow because the climate of Sulaco did not suit her at
all. Her voice was a rich contralto. When, with her arms folded tight under her
ample bosom, she scolded the squat, thick-legged China girls handling linen,
plucking fowls, pounding corn in wooden mortars amongst the mud outbuildings at
the back of the house, she could bring out such an impassioned, vibrating,
sepulchral note that the chained watch-dog bolted into his kennel with a great
rattle. Luis, a cinnamon-coloured mulatto with a sprouting moustache and thick,
dark lips, would stop sweeping the café with a broom of palm-leaves to let a
gentle shudder run down his spine. His languishing almond eyes would remain
closed for a long time.
    This was the staff of the Casa Viola, but all these people had fled early
that morning at the first sounds of the riot, preferring to hide on the plain
rather than trust themselves in the house; a preference for which they were in
no way to blame, since, whether true or not, it was generally believed in the
town that the Garibaldino had some money buried under the clay floor of the
kitchen. The dog, an irritable, shaggy brute, barked violently and whined
plaintively in turns at the back, running in and out of his kennel as rage or
fear prompted him.
    Bursts of great shouting rose and died away, like wild gusts of wind on the
plain round the barricaded house; the fitful popping of shots grew louder above
the yelling. Sometimes there were intervals of unaccountable stillness outside,
and nothing could have been more gaily peaceful than the narrow bright lines of
sunlight from the cracks in the shutters, ruled straight across the café over
the disarranged chairs and tables to the wall opposite. Old Giorgio had chosen
that bare, whitewashed room for a retreat. It had only one window, and its only
door swung out upon the track of thick dust fenced by aloe hedges between the
harbour and the town, where clumsy carts used to creak along behind slow yokes
of oxen guided by boys on horseback.
    In a pause of stillness Giorgio cocked his gun. The ominous sound wrung a
low moan from the rigid figure of the woman sitting by his side. A sudden
outbreak of defiant yelling quite near the house sank all at once to a confused
murmur of growls. Somebody ran along; the loud catching of his breath was heard
for an instant passing the door; there were hoarse mutters and footsteps near
the wall; a shoulder rubbed against the shutter, effacing the bright lines of
sunshine pencilled across the whole breadth of the room. Signora Teresa's arms
thrown about the kneeling forms of her daughters embraced them closer with a
convulsive pressure.
    The mob, driven away from the Custom House, had broken up into several
bands, retreating across the plain in the direction of the town. The subdued
crash of irregular volleys fired in the distance was answered by faint yells far
away. In the intervals the single shots rang feebly, and the low, long, white
building blinded in every window seemed to be the centre of a turmoil widening
in a great circle about its closed-up silence. But the cautious movements and
whispers of a routed party seeking a momentary shelter behind the wall made the
darkness of the room, striped by threads of quiet sunlight, alight with evil,
stealthy sounds. The Violas had them in their ears as though invisible ghosts
hovering about their chairs had consulted in mutters as to the advisability of
setting fire to this foreigner's casa.
    It was trying to the nerves. Old Viola had risen slowly, gun in hand,
irresolute, for he did not see how he could prevent them. Already voices could
be heard talking at the back. Signora Teresa was beside herself with terror.
    »Ah! the traitor! the traitor!« she mumbled, almost inaudibly. »Now we are
going to be burnt; and I bent my knee to him. No! he must run at the heels of
his English.«
    She seemed to think that Nostromo's mere presence in the house would have
made it perfectly safe. So far, she, too, was under the spell of that reputation
the Capataz de Cargadores had made for himself by the waterside, along the
railway line, with the English and with the populace of Sulaco. To his face, and
even against her husband, she invariably affected to laugh it to scorn,
sometimes good-naturedly, more often with a curious bitterness. But then women
are unreasonable in their opinions, as Giorgio used to remark calmly on fitting
occasions. On this occasion, with his gun held at ready before him, he stooped
down to his wife's head, and, keeping his eyes steadfastly on the barricaded
door, he breathed out into her ear that Nostromo would have been powerless to
help. What could two men shut up in a house do against twenty or more bent upon
setting fire to the roof? Gian' Battista was thinking of the casa all the time,
he was sure.
    »He think of the casa! He!« gasped Signora Viola, crazily. She struck her
breast with her open hands. »I know him. He thinks of nobody but himself.«
    A discharge of firearms near by made her throw her head back and close her
eyes. Old Giorgio set his teeth hard under his white moustache, and his eyes
began to roll fiercely. Several bullets struck the end of the wall together;
pieces of plaster could be heard falling outside; a voice screamed »Here they
come!« and after a moment of uneasy silence there was a rush of running feet
along the front.
    Then the tension of old Giorgio's attitude relaxed, and a smile of
contemptuous relief came upon his lips of an old fighter with a leonine face.
These were not a people striving for justice, but thieves. Even to defend his
life against them was a sort of degradation for a man who had been one of
Garibaldi's immortal thousand in the conquest of Sicily. He had an immense scorn
for this outbreak of scoundrels and leperos, who did not know the meaning of the
word liberty.
    He grounded his old gun, and, turning his head, glanced at the coloured
lithograph of Garibaldi in a black frame on the white wall; a thread of strong
sunshine cut it perpendicularly. His eyes, accustomed to the luminous twilight,
made out the high colouring of the face, the red of the shirt, the outlines of
the square shoulders, the black patch of the Bersagliere hat with cock's
feathers curling over the crown. An immortal hero! This was your liberty; it
gave you not only life, but immortality as well!
    For that one man his fanaticism had suffered no diminution. In the moment of
relief from the apprehension of the greatest danger, perhaps, his family had
been exposed to in all their wanderings, he had turned to the picture of his old
chief, first and only, then laid his hand on his wife's shoulder.
    The children kneeling on the floor had not moved. Signora Teresa opened her
eyes a little, as though he had awakened her from a very deep and dreamless
slumber. Before he had time in his deliberate way to say a reassuring word she
jumped up, with the children clinging to her, one on each side, gasped for
breath, and let out a hoarse shriek.
    It was simultaneous with the bang of a violent blow struck on the outside of
the shutter. They could hear suddenly the snorting of a horse, the restive
tramping of hoofs on the narrow, hard path in front of the house; the toe of a
boot struck at the shutter again; a spur jingled at every blow, and an excited
voice shouted, »Hola! hola, in there!«
 

                                  Chapter Four

All the morning Nostromo had kept his eye from afar on the Casa Viola, even in
the thick of the hottest scrimmage near the Custom House. »If I see smoke rising
over there,« he thought to himself, »they are lost.« Directly the mob had broken
he pressed with a small band of Italian workmen in that direction, which,
indeed, was the shortest line towards the town. That part of the rabble he was
pursuing seemed to think of making a stand under the house; a volley fired by
his followers from behind an aloe hedge made the rascals fly. In a gap chopped
out for the rails of the harbour branch line Nostromo appeared, mounted on his
silver-grey mare. He shouted, sent after them one shot from his revolver, and
galloped up to the café window. He had an idea that old Giorgio would choose
that part of the house for a refuge.
    His voice had penetrated to them, sounding breathlessly hurried: »Hola!
Vecchio! O, Vecchio! Is it all well with you in there?«
    »You see -« murmured old Viola to his wife.
    Signora Teresa was silent now. Outside Nostromo laughed.
    »I can hear the padrona is not dead.«
    »You have done your best to kill me with fear,« cried Signora Teresa. She
wanted to say something more, but her voice failed her.
    Linda raised her eyes to her face for a moment, but old Giorgio shouted
apologetically -
    »She is a little upset.«
    Outside Nostromo shouted back with another laugh -
    »She cannot upset me.«
    Signora Teresa found her voice.
    »It is what I say. You have no heart - and you have no conscience, Gian'
Battista -«
    They heard him wheel his horse away from the shutters. The party he led were
babbling excitedly in Italian and Spanish, inciting each other to the pursuit.
He put himself at their head, crying, »Avanti!«
    »He has not stopped very long with us. There is no praise from strangers to
be got here,« Signora Teresa said, tragically. »Avanti! Yes! That is all he
cares for. To be first somewhere - somehow - to be first with these English.
They will be showing him to everybody. This is our Nostromo« She laughed
ominously. »What a name! What is that? Nostromo? He would take a name that is
properly no word from them.«
    Meantime Giorgio, with tranquil movements, had been unfastening the door;
the flood of light fell on Signora Teresa, with her two girls gathered to her
side, a picturesque woman in a pose of maternal exaltation. Behind her the wall
was dazzlingly white, and the crude colours of the Garibaldi lithograph paled in
the sunshine.
    Old Viola, at the door, moved his arm upwards as if referring all his quick,
fleeting thoughts to the picture of his old chief on the wall. Even when he was
cooking for the Signori Inglesi - the engineers (he was a famous cook, though
the kitchen was a dark place) - he was, as it were, under the eye of the great
man who had led him in a glorious struggle where, under the walls of Gaeta,
tyranny would have expired for ever had it not been for that accursed
Piedmontese race of kings and ministers. When sometimes a frying-pan caught fire
during a delicate operation with some shredded onions, and the old man was seen
backing out of the doorway, swearing and coughing violently in an acrid cloud of
smoke, the name of Cavour - the arch intriguer sold to kings and tyrants - could
be heard involved in imprecations against the China girls, cooking in general,
and the brute of a country where he was reduced to live for the love of liberty
that traitor had strangled.
    Then Signora Teresa, all in black, issuing from another door, advanced,
portly and anxious, inclining her fine, black-browed head, opening her arms, and
crying in a profound tone -
    »Giorgio! thou passionate man! Misericordia Divina! In the sun like this! He
will make himself ill.«
    At her feet the hens made off in all directions, with immense strides; if
there were any engineers from up the line staying in Sulaco, a young English
face or two would appear at the billiard-room occupying one end of the house;
but at the other end, in the café, Luis, the mulatto, took good care not to show
himself. The Indian girls, with hair like flowing black manes, and dressed only
in a shift and short petticoat, stared dully from under the square-cut fringes
on their foreheads; the noisy frizzling of fat had stopped, the fumes floated
upwards in sunshine, a strong smell of burnt onions hung in the drowsy heat,
enveloping the house; and the eye lost itself in a vast flat expanse of grass to
the west, as if the plain between the Sierra overtopping Sulaco and the coast
range away there towards Esmeralda had been as big as half the world.
    Signora Teresa, after an impressive pause, remonstrated -
    »Eh, Giorgio! Leave Cavour alone and take care of yourself now we are lost
in this country all alone with the two children, because you cannot live under a
king.«
    And while she looked at him she would sometimes put her hand hastily to her
side with a short twitch of her fine lips and a knitting of her black, straight
eyebrows like a flicker of angry pain or an angry thought on her handsome,
regular features.
    It was pain; she suppressed the twinge. It had come to her first a few years
after they had left Italy to emigrate to America and settle at last in Sulaco
after wandering from town to town, trying shopkeeping in a small way here and
there; and once an organized enterprise of fishing - in Maldonado - for Giorgio,
like the great Garibaldi, had been a sailor in his time.
    Sometimes she had no patience with pain. For years its gnawing had been part
of the landscape embracing the glitter of the harbour under the wooded spurs of
the range; and the sunshine itself was heavy and dull - heavy with pain - not
like the sunshine of her girlhood, in which middle-aged Giorgio had wooed her
gravely and passionately on the shores of the gulf of Spezzia.
    »You go in at once, Giorgio,« she directed. »One would think you do not wish
to have any pity on me - with four Signori Inglesi staying in the house.«
    »Va been, va been,« Giorgio would mutter.
    He obeyed. The Signori Inglesi would require their midday meal presently. He
had been one of the immortal and invincible band of liberators who had made the
mercenaries of tyranny fly like chaff before a hurricane, un uragano terribile.
But that was before he was married and had children; and before tyranny had
reared its head again amongst the traitors who had imprisoned Garibaldi, his
hero.
    There were three doors in the front of the house, and each afternoon the
Garibaldino could be seen at one or another of them with his big bush of white
hair, his arms folded, his legs crossed, leaning back his leonine head against
the lintel, and looking up the wooded slopes of the foothills at the snowy dome
of Higuerota. The front of his house threw off a black long rectangle of shade,
broadening slowly over the soft ox-cart track. Through the gaps, chopped out in
the oleander hedges, the harbour branch railway, laid out temporarily on the
level of the plain, curved away its shining parallel ribbons on a belt of
scorched and withered grass within sixty yards of the end of the house. In the
evening the empty material trains of flat cars circled round the dark green
grove of Sulaco, and ran, undulating slightly with white jets of steam, over the
plain towards the Casa Viola, on their way to the railway yards by the harbour.
The Italian drivers saluted him from the foot-plate with raised hand, while the
negro brakesmen sat carelessly on the brakes, looking straight forward, with the
rims of their big hats flapping in the wind. In return Giorgio would give a
slight sideways jerk of the head, without unfolding his arms.
    On this memorable day of the riot his arms were not folded on his chest. His
hand grasped the barrel of the gun grounded on the threshold; he did not look up
once at the white dome of Higuerota, whose cool purity seemed to hold itself
aloof from a hot earth. His eyes examined the plain curiously. Tall trails of
dust subsided here and there. In a speckless sky the sun hung clear and
blinding. Knots of men ran headlong; others made a stand; and the irregular
rattle of firearms came rippling to his ears in the fiery, still air. Single
figures on foot raced desperately. Horsemen galloped towards each other, wheeled
round together, separated at speed. Giorgio saw one fall, rider and horse
disappearing as if they had galloped into a chasm, and the movements of the
animated scene were like the passages of a violent game played upon the plain by
dwarfs mounted and on foot, yelling with tiny throats, under the mountain that
seemed a colossal embodiment of silence. Never before had Giorgio seen this bit
of plain so full of active life; his gaze could not take in all its details at
once; he shaded his eyes with his hand, till suddenly the thundering of many
hoofs near by startled him.
    A troop of horses had broken out of the fenced paddock of the Railway
Company. They came on like a whirlwind, and dashed over the line snorting,
kicking, squealing in a compact, piebald, tossing mob of bay, brown, grey backs,
eyes staring, necks extended, nostrils red, long tails streaming. As soon as
they had leaped upon the road the thick dust flew upwards from under their
hoofs, and within six yards of Giorgio only a brown cloud with vague forms of
necks and cruppers rolled by, making the soil tremble on its passage.
    Viola coughed, turning his face away from the dust, and shaking his head
slightly.
    »There will be some horse-catching to be done before to-night,« he muttered.
    In the square of sunlight falling through the door Signora Teresa, kneeling
before the chair, had bowed her head, heavy with a twisted mass of ebony hair
streaked with silver, into the palm of her hands. The black lace shawl she used
to drape about her face had dropped to the ground by her side. The two girls had
got up, hand-in-hand, in short skirts, their loose hair falling in disorder. The
younger had thrown her arm across her eyes, as if afraid to face the light.
Linda, with her hand on the other's shoulder, stared fearlessly. Viola looked at
his children.
    The sun brought out the deep lines on his face, and, energetic in
expression, it had the immobility of a carving. It was impossible to discover
what he thought. Bushy grey eyebrows shaded his dark glance.
    »Well! And do you not pray like your mother?«
    Linda pouted, advancing her red lips, which were almost too red; but she had
admirable eyes, brown, with a sparkle of gold in the irises, full of
intelligence and meaning, and so clear that they seemed to throw a glow upon her
thin, colourless face. There were bronze glints in the sombre clusters of her
hair, and the eyelashes, long and coal black, made her complexion appear still
more pale.
    »Mother is going to offer up a lot of candles in the church. She always does
when Nostromo has been away fighting. I shall have some to carry up to the
Chapel of the Madonna in the Cathedral.«
    She said all this quickly, with great assurance, in an animated, penetrating
voice. Then, giving her sister's shoulder a slight shake, she added -
    »And she will be made to carry one, too!«
    »Why made?« inquired Giorgio, gravely. »Does she not want to?«
    »She is timid,« said Linda, with a little burst of laughter. »People notice
her fair hair as she goes along with us. They call out after her, Look at the
Rubia! Look at the Rubiacita! They call out in the streets. She is timid.«
    »And you? You are not timid - eh?« the father pronounced, slowly.
    She tossed back all her dark hair.
    »Nobody calls out after me.«
    Old Giorgio contemplated his children thoughtfully. There was two years
difference between them. They had been born to him late, years after the boy had
died. Had he lived he would have been nearly as old as Gian' Battista - he whom
the English called Nostromo; but as to his daughters, the severity of his
temper, his advancing age, his absorption in his memories, had prevented his
taking much notice of them. He loved his children, but girls belong more to the
mother, and much of his affection had been expended in the worship and service
of liberty.
    When quite a youth he had deserted from a ship trading to La Plata, to
enlist in the navy of Montevideo, then under the command of Garibaldi.
Afterwards, in the Italian legion of the Republic struggling against the
encroaching tyranny of Rosas, he had taken part, on great plains, on the banks
of immense rivers, in the fiercest fighting perhaps the world had ever known. He
had lived amongst men who had declaimed about liberty, suffered for liberty,
died for liberty, with a desperate exaltation, and with their eyes turned
towards an oppressed Italy. His own enthusiasm had been fed on scenes of
carnage, on the examples of lofty devotion, on the din of armed struggle, on the
inflamed language of proclamations. He had never parted from the chief of his
choice - the fiery apostle of independence - keeping by his side in America and
in Italy till after the fatal day of Aspromonte, when the treachery of kings,
emperors, and ministers had been revealed to the world in the wounding and
imprisonment of his hero - a catastrophe that had instilled into him a gloomy
doubt of ever being able to understand the ways of Divine justice.
    He did not deny it, however. It required patience, he would say. Though he
disliked priests, and would not put his foot inside a church for anything, he
believed in God. Were not the proclamations against tyrants addressed to the
peoples in the name of God and liberty? »God for men - religions for women,« he
muttered sometimes. In Sicily, an Englishman who had turned up in Palermo after
its evacuation by the army of the king, had given him a Bible in Italian - the
publication of the British and Foreign Bible Society, bound in a dark leather
cover. In periods of political adversity, in the pauses of silence when the
revolutionists issued no proclamations, Giorgio earned his living with the first
work that came to hand - as sailor, as dock labourer on the quays of Genoa, once
as a hand on a farm in the hills above Spezzia - and in his spare time he
studied the thick volume. He carried it with him into battles. Now it was his
only reading, and in order not to be deprived of it (the print was small) he had
consented to accept the present of a pair of silver-mounted spectacles from
Señora Emilia Gould, the wife of the Englishman who managed the silver mine in
the mountains three leagues from the town. She was the only Englishwoman in
Sulaco.
    Giorgio Viola had a great consideration for the English. This feeling, born
on the battlefields of Uruguay, was forty years old at the very least. Several
of them had poured their blood for the cause of freedom in America, and the
first he had ever known he remembered by the name of Samuel; he commanded a
negro company under Garibaldi, during the famous siege of Montevideo, and died
heroically with his Negroes at the fording of the Boyana. He, Giorgio, had
reached the rank of ensign - alferez - and cooked for the general. Later, in
Italy, he, with the rank of lieutenant, rode with the staff and still cooked for
the general. He had cooked for him in Lombardy through the whole campaign; on
the march to Rome he had lassoed his beef in the Campagna after the American
manner; he had been wounded in the defence of the Roman Republic; he was one of
the four fugitives who, with the general, carried out of the woods the inanimate
body of the general's wife into the farmhouse where she died, exhausted by the
hardships of that terrible retreat. He had survived that disastrous time to
attend his general in Palermo when the Neapolitan shells from the castle crashed
upon the town. He had cooked for him on the field of Volturno after fighting all
day. And everywhere he had seen Englishmen in the front rank of the army of
freedom. He respected their nation because they loved Garibaldi. Their very
countesses and princesses had kissed the general's hands in London, it was said.
He could well believe it; for the nation was noble, and the man was a saint. It
was enough to look once at his face to see the divine force of faith in him and
his great pity for all that was poor, suffering, and oppressed in this world.
    The spirit of self-forgetfulness, the simple devotion to a vast humanitarian
idea which inspired the thought and stress of that revolutionary time, had left
its mark upon Giorgio in a sort of austere contempt for all personal advantage.
This man, whom the lowest class in Sulaco suspected of having a buried hoard in
his kitchen, had all his life despised money. The leaders of his youth had lived
poor, had died poor. It had been a habit of his mind to disregard to-morrow. It
was engendered partly by an existence of excitement, adventure, and wild
warfare. But mostly it was a matter of principle. It did not resemble the
carelessness of a condottiere, it was a puritanism of conduct, born of stern
enthusiasm like the puritanism of religion.
    This stern devotion to a cause had cast a gloom upon Giorgio's old age. It
cast a gloom because the cause seemed lost. Too many kings and emperors
flourished yet in the world which God had meant for the people. He was sad
because of his simplicity. Though always ready to help his countrymen, and
greatly respected by the Italian emigrants wherever he lived (in his exile he
called it), he could not conceal from himself that they cared nothing for the
wrongs of down-trodden nations. They listened to his tales of war readily, but
seemed to ask themselves what he had got out of it after all. There was nothing
that they could see. »We wanted nothing, we suffered for the love of all
humanity!« he cried out furiously sometimes, and the powerful voice, the blazing
eyes, the shaking of the white mane, the brown, sinewy hand pointing upwards as
if to call heaven to witness, impressed his hearers. After the old man had
broken off abruptly with a jerk of the head and a movement of the arm, meaning
clearly, »But what's the good of talking to you?« they nudged each other. There
was in old Giorgio an energy of feeling, a personal quality of conviction,
something they called terribilità - an old lion, they used to say of him. Some
slight incident, a chance word would set him off talking on the beach to the
Italian fishermen of Maldonado, in the little shop he kept afterwards (in
Valparaiso) to his countrymen customers; of an evening, suddenly, in the café at
one end of the Casa Viola (the other was reserved for the English engineers) to
the select clientèle of engine-drivers and foremen of the railway shops.
    With their handsome, bronzed, lean faces, shiny black ringlets, glistening
eyes, broad-chested, bearded, sometimes a tiny gold ring in the lobe of the ear,
the aristocracy of the railway works listened to him, turning away from their
cards or dominoes. Here and there a fair-haired Basque studied his hand
meantime, waiting without protest. No native of Costaguana intruded there. This
was the Italian stronghold. Even the Sulaco policemen on a night patrol let
their horses pace softly by, bending low in the saddle to glance through the
window at the heads in a fog of smoke; and the drone of old Giorgio's
declamatory narrative seemed to sink behind them into the plain. Only now and
then the assistant of the chief of police, some broad-faced, brown little
gentleman, with a great deal of Indian in him, would put in an appearance.
Leaving his man outside with the horses he advanced with a confident, sly smile,
and without a word up to the long trestle table. He pointed to one of the
bottles on the shelf; Giorgio, thrusting his pipe into his mouth abruptly,
served him in person. Nothing would be heard but the slight jingle of the spurs.
His glass emptied, he would take a leisurely, scrutinizing look all round the
room, go out, and ride away slowly, circling towards the town.
 

                                  Chapter Five

In this way only was the power of the local authorities vindicated amongst the
great body of strong-limbed foreigners who dug the earth, blasted the rocks,
drove the engines for the progressive and patriotic undertaking. In these very
words eighteen months before the Excellentissimo Señor don Vincente Ribiera, the
Dictator of Costaguana, had described the National Central Railway in his great
speech at the turning of the first sod.
    He had come on purpose to Sulaco, and there was a one-o'clock dinner-party,
a convité offered by the O.S.N. Company on board the Juno after the function on
shore. Captain Mitchell had himself steered the cargo lighter, all draped with
flags, which, in tow of the Juno's steam launch, took the Excellentissimo from
the jetty to the ship. Everybody of note in Sulaco had been invited - the one or
two foreign merchants, all the representatives of the old Spanish families then
in town, the great owners of estates on the plain, grave, courteous, simple men,
caballeros of pure descent, with small hands and feet, conservative, hospitable,
and kind. The Occidental Province was their stronghold; their Blanco party had
triumphed now; it was their President-Dictator, a Blanco of the Blancos, who sat
smiling urbanely between the representatives of two friendly foreign powers.
They had come with him from Sta. Marta to countenance by their presence the
enterprise in which the capital of their countries was engaged.
    The only lady of that company was Mrs. Gould, the wife of Don Carlos, the
administrator of the San Tomé silver mine. The ladies of Sulaco were not
advanced enough to take part in the public life to that extent. They had come
out strongly at the great ball at the Intendencia the evening before, but Mrs.
Gould alone had appeared, a bright spot in the group of black coats behind the
President-Dictator, on the crimson cloth-covered stage erected under a shady
tree on the shore of the harbour, where the ceremony of turning the first sod
had taken place. She had come off in the cargo lighter, full of notabilities,
sitting under the flutter of gay flags, in the place of honour by the side of
Captain Mitchell, who steered, and her clear dress gave the only truly festive
note to the sombre gathering in the long, gorgeous saloon of the Juno.
    The head of the chairman of the railway board (from London), handsome and
pale in a silvery mist of white hair and clipped beard, hovered near her
shoulder attentive, smiling, and fatigued. The journey from London to Sta. Marta
in mail boats and the special carriages of the Sta. Marta coast-line (the only
railway so far) had been tolerable - even pleasant - quite tolerable. But the
trip over the mountains to Sulaco was another sort of experience, in an old
diligencia over impassable roads skirting awful precipices.
    »We have been upset twice in one day on the brink of very deep ravines,« he
was telling Mrs. Gould in an undertone. »And when we arrived here at last I
don't know what we should have done without your hospitality. What an
out-of-the-way place Sulaco is! - and for a harbour, too! Astonishing!«
    »Ah, but we are very proud of it. It used to be historically important. The
highest ecclesiastical court, for two viceroyalties, sat here in the olden
time,« she instructed him with animation.
    »I am impressed. I didn't mean to be disparaging. You seem very patriotic.«
    »The place is lovable, if only by its situation. Perhaps you don't know what
an old resident I am.«
    »How old, I wonder,« he murmured, looking at her with a slight smile. Mrs.
Gould's appearance was made youthful by the mobile intelligence of her face. »We
can't give you your ecclesiastical court back again; but you shall have more
steamers, a railway, a telegraph-cable - a future in the great world which is
worth infinitely more than any amount of ecclesiastical past. You shall be
brought in touch with something greater than two viceroyalties. But I had no
notion that a place on a sea-coast could remain so isolated from the world. If
it had been a thousand miles inland now - most remarkable! Has anything ever
happened here for a hundred years before to-day?«
    While he talked in a slow, humorous tone, she kept her little smile.
Agreeing ironically, she assured him that certainly not - nothing ever happened
in Sulaco. Even the revolutions, of which there had been two in her time, had
respected the repose of the place. Their course ran in more populous southern
parts of the Republic, and the great valley of Sta. Marta, which was like one
great battlefield of the parties, with the possession of the capital for a prize
and an outlet to another ocean. They were more advanced over there. Here in
Sulaco they heard only the echoes of these great questions, and, of course,
their official world changed each time, coming to them over their rampart of
mountains which he himself had traversed in an old diligencia, with such a risk
to life and limb.
    The chairman of the railway had been enjoying her hospitality for several
days, and he was really grateful for it. It was only since he had left Sta.
Marta that he had utterly lost touch with the feeling of European life on the
background of his exotic surroundings. In the capital he had been the guest of
the Legation, and had been kept busy negotiating with the members of Don
Vincente's Government - cultured men, men to whom the conditions of civilized
business were not unknown.
    What concerned him most at the time was the acquisition of land for the
railway. In the Sta. Marta Valley, where there was already one line in
existence, the people were tractable, and it was only a matter of price. A
commission had been nominated to fix the values, and the difficulty resolved
itself into the judicious influencing of the Commissioners. But in Sulaco - the
Occidental Province for whose very development the railway was intended - there
had been trouble. It had been lying for ages ensconced behind its natural
barriers, repelling modern enterprise by the precipices of its mountain range,
by its shallow harbour opening into the everlasting calms of a gulf full of
clouds, by the benighted state of mind of the owners of its fertile territory -
all these aristocratic old Spanish families, all those Don Ambrosios this and
Don Fernandos that, who seemed actually to dislike and distrust the coming of
the railway over their lands. It had happened that some of the surveying parties
scattered all over the province had been warned off with threats of violence. In
other cases outrageous pretensions as to price had been raised. But the man of
railways prided himself on being equal to every emergency. Since he was met by
the inimical sentiment of blind conservatism in Sulaco he would meet it by
sentiment, too, before taking his stand on his right alone. The Government was
bound to carry out its part of the contract with the board of the new railway
company, even if it had to use force for the purpose. But he desired nothing
less than an armed disturbance in the smooth working of his plans. They were
much too vast and far-reaching, and too promising to leave a stone unturned; and
so he imagined to get the President-Dictator over there on a tour of ceremonies
and speeches, culminating in a great function at the turning of the first sod by
the harbour shore. After all he was their own creature - that Don Vincente. He
was the embodied triumph of the best elements in the State. These were facts,
and, unless facts meant nothing, Sir John argued to himself, such a man's
influence must be real, and his personal action would produce the conciliatory
effect he required. He had succeeded in arranging the trip with the help of a
very clever advocate, who was known in Sta. Marta as the agent of the Gould
silver mine, the biggest thing in Sulaco, and even in the whole Republic. It was
indeed a fabulously rich mine. Its so-called agent, evidently a man of culture
and ability, seemed, without official position, to possess an extraordinary
influence in the highest Government spheres. He was able to assure Sir John that
the President-Dictator would make the journey. He regretted, however, in the
course of the same conversation, that General Montero insisted upon going, too.
    General Montero, whom the beginning of the struggle had found an obscure
army captain employed on the wild eastern frontier of the State, had thrown in
his lot with the Ribiera party at a moment when special circumstances had given
that small adhesion a fortuitous importance. The fortunes of war served him
marvellously, and the victory of Rio Seco (after a day of desperate fighting)
put a seal to his success. At the end he emerged General, Minister of War, and
the military head of the Blanco party, although there was nothing aristocratic
in his descent. Indeed, it was said that he and his brother, orphans, had been
brought up by the munificence of a famous European traveller, in whose service
their father had lost his life. Another story was that their father had been
nothing but a charcoal burner in the woods, and their mother a baptised Indian
woman from the far interior.
    However that might be, the Costaguana Press was in the habit of styling
Montero's forest march from his commandancia to join the Blanco forces at the
beginning of the troubles, the most heroic military exploit of modern times.
About the same time, too, his brother had turned up from Europe, where he had
gone apparently as secretary to a consul. Having, however, collected a small
band of outlaws, he showed some talent as guerilla chief and had been rewarded
at the pacification by the post of Military Commandant of the capital.
    The Minister of War, then, accompanied the Dictator. The board of the O.S.N.
Company, working hand-in-hand with the railway people for the good of the
Republic, had on this important occasion instructed Captain Mitchell to put the
mail-boat Juno at the disposal of the distinguished party. Don Vincente,
journeying south from Sta. Marta, had embarked at Cayta, the principal port of
Costaguana, and came to Sulaco by sea. But the chairman of the railway company
had courageously crossed the mountains in a ramshackle diligencia, mainly for
the purpose of meeting his engineer-in-chief engaged in the final survey of the
road.
    For all the indifference of a man of affairs to nature, whose hostility can
always be overcome by the resources of finance, he could not help being
impressed by his surroundings during his halt at the surveying camp established
at the highest point his railway was to reach. He spent the night there,
arriving just too late to see the last dying glow of sunlight upon the snowy
flank of Higuerota. Pillared masses of black basalt framed like an open portal a
portion of the white field lying aslant against the west. In the transparent air
of the high altitudes everything seemed very near, steeped in a clear stillness
as in an imponderable liquid; and with his ear ready to catch the first sound of
the expected diligencia the engineer-in-chief, at the door of a hut of rough
stones, had contemplated the changing hues on the enormous side of the mountain,
thinking that in this sight, as in a piece of inspired music, there could be
found together the utmost delicacy of shaded expression and a stupendous
magnificence of effect.
    Sir John arrived too late to hear the magnificent and inaudible strain sung
by the sunset amongst the high peaks of the Sierra. It had sung itself out into
the breathless pause of deep dusk before, climbing down the fore wheel of the
diligencia with stiff limbs, he shook hands with the engineer.
    They gave him his dinner in a stone hut like a cubical boulder, with no door
or windows in its two openings; a bright fire of sticks (brought on muleback
from the first valley below) burning outside, sent in a wavering glare; and two
candles in tin candlesticks - lighted, it was explained to him, in his honour -
stood on a sort of rough camp table, at which he sat on the right hand of the
chief. He knew how to be amiable; and the young men of the engineering staff,
for whom the surveying of the railway track had the glamour of the first steps
on the path of life, sat there, too, listening modestly, with their smooth faces
tanned by the weather, and very pleased to witness so much affability in so
great a man.
    Afterwards, late at night, pacing to and fro outside, he had a long talk
with his chief engineer. He knew him well of old. This was not the first
undertaking in which their gifts, as elementally different as fire and water,
had worked in conjunction. From the contact of these two personalities, who had
not the same vision of the world, there was generated a power for the world's
service - a subtle force that could set in motion mighty machines, men's
muscles, and awaken also in human breasts an unbounded devotion to the task. Of
the young fellows at the table, to whom the survey of the track was like the
tracing of the path of life, more than one would be called to meet death before
the work was done. But the work would be done: the force would be almost as
strong as a faith. Not quite, however. In the silence of the sleeping camp upon
the moonlit plateau forming the top of the pass like the floor of a vast arena
surrounded by the basalt walls of precipices, two strolling figures in thick
ulsters stood still, and the voice of the engineer pronounced distinctly the
words -
    »We can't move mountains!«
    Sir John, raising his head to follow the pointing gesture, felt the full
force of the words. The white Higuerota soared out of the shadows of rock and
earth like a frozen bubble under the moon. All was still, till near by, behind
the wall of a corral for the camp animals, built roughly of loose stones in the
form of a circle, a pack mule stamped his forefoot and blew heavily twice.
    The engineer-in-chief had used the phrase in answer to the chairman's
tentative suggestion that the tracing of the line could, perhaps, be altered in
deference to the prejudices of the Sulaco landowners. The chief engineer
believed that the obstinacy of men was the lesser obstacle. Moreover, to combat
that they had the great influence of Charles Gould, whereas tunnelling under
Higuerota would have been a colossal undertaking.
    »Ah, yes! Gould. What sort of a man is he?«
    Sir John had heard much of Charles Gould in Sta. Marta, and wanted to know
more. The engineer-in-chief assured him that the administrator of the San Tomé
silver mine had an immense influence over all these Spanish Dons. He had also
one of the best houses in Sulaco, and the Gould hospitality was beyond all
praise.
    »They received me as if they had known me for years,« he said. »The little
lady is kindness personified. I stayed with them for a month. He helped me to
organize the surveying parties. His practical ownership of the San Tomé silver
mine gives him a special position. He seems to have the ear of every provincial
authority apparently, and, as I said, he can wind all the hidalgos of the
province round his little finger. If you follow his advice the difficulties will
fall away, because he wants the railway. Of course, you must be careful in what
you say. He's English, and besides he must be immensely wealthy. The Holroyd
house is in with him in that mine, so you may imagine -«
    He interrupted himself as, from before one of the little fires burning
outside the low wall of the corral, arose the figure of a man wrapped in a
poncho up to the neck. The saddle which he had been using for a pillow made a
dark patch on the ground against the red glow of embers.
    »I shall see Holroyd himself on my way back through the States,« said Sir
John. »I've ascertained that he, too, wants the railway.«
    The man who, perhaps disturbed by the proximity of the voices, had arisen
from the ground, struck a match to light a cigarette. The flame showed a
bronzed, black-whiskered face, a pair of eyes gazing straight; then, rearranging
his wrappings, he sank full length and laid his head again on the saddle.
    »That's our camp-master, whom I must send back to Sulaco now we are going to
carry our survey into the Sta. Marta Valley,« said the engineer. »A most useful
fellow, lent me by Captain Mitchell of the O.S.N. Company. It was very good of
Mitchell. Charles Gould told me I couldn't do better than take advantage of the
offer. He seems to know how to rule all these muleteers and peons. We had not
the slightest trouble with our people. He shall escort your diligencia right
into Sulaco with some of our railway peons. The road is bad. To have him at hand
may save you an upset or two. He promised me to take care of your person all the
way down as if you were his father.«
    This camp-master was the Italian sailor whom all the Europeans in Sulaco,
following Captain Mitchell's mispronunciation, were in the habit of calling
Nostromo. And indeed, taciturn and ready, he did take excellent care of his
charge at the bad parts of the road, as Sir John himself acknowledged to Mrs.
Gould afterwards.
 

                                  Chapter Six

At that time Nostromo had been already long enough in the country to raise to
the highest pitch Captain Mitchell's opinion of the extraordinary value of his
discovery. Clearly he was one of those invaluable subordinates whom to possess
is a legitimate cause of boasting. Captain Mitchell plumed himself upon his eye
for men - but he was not selfish - and in the innocence of his pride was already
developing that mania for lending you my Capataz de Cargadores which was to
bring Nostromo into personal contact, sooner or later, with every European in
Sulaco, as a sort of universal factotum - a prodigy of efficiency in his own
sphere of life.
    »The fellow is devoted to me, body and soul!« Captain Mitchell was given to
affirm; and though nobody, perhaps, could have explained why it should be so, it
was impossible on a survey of their relation to throw doubt on that statement,
unless, indeed, one were a bitter, eccentric character like Dr. Monygham - for
instance - whose short, hopeless laugh expressed somehow an immense mistrust of
mankind. Not that Dr. Monygham was a prodigal either of laughter or of words. He
was bitterly taciturn when at his best. At his worst people feared the open
scornfulness of his tongue. Only Mrs. Gould could keep his unbelief in men's
motives within due bounds; but even to her (on an occasion not connected with
Nostromo, and in a tone which for him was gentle), even to her, he had said
once, »Really, it is most unreasonable to demand that a man should think of
other people so much better than he is able to think of himself.«
    And Mrs. Gould had hastened to drop the subject. There were strange rumours
of the English doctor. Years ago, in the time of Guzman Bento, he had been mixed
up, it was whispered, in a conspiracy which was betrayed and, as people
expressed it, drowned in blood. His hair had turned grey, his hairless, seamed
face was of a brick-dust colour; the large check pattern of his flannel shirt
and his old stained Panama hat were an established defiance to the
conventionalities of Sulaco. Had it not been for the immaculate cleanliness of
his apparel he might have been taken for one of those shiftless Europeans that
are a moral eyesore to the respectability of a foreign colony in almost every
exotic part of the world. The young ladies of Sulaco, adorning with clusters of
pretty faces the balconies along the Street of the Constitution, when they saw
him pass, with his limping gait and bowed head, a short linen jacket drawn on
carelessly over the flannel check shirt, would remark to each other, »Here is
the Señor doctor going to call on Doña Emilia. He has got his little coat on.«
The inference was true. Its deeper meaning was hidden from their simple
intelligence. Moreover, they expended no store of thought on the doctor. He was
old, ugly, learned - and a little loco - mad, if not a bit of a sorcerer, as the
common people suspected him of being. The little white jacket was in reality a
concession to Mrs. Gould's humanizing influence. The doctor, with his habit of
sceptical, bitter speech, had no other means of showing his profound respect for
the character of the woman who was known in the country as the English Señora.
He presented this tribute very seriously indeed; it was no trifle for a man of
his habits. Mrs. Gould felt that, too, perfectly. She would never have thought
of imposing upon him this marked show of deference.
    She kept her old Spanish house (one of the finest specimens in Sulaco) open
for the dispensation of the small graces of existence. She dispensed them with
simplicity and charm because she was guided by an alert perception of values.
She was highly gifted in the art of human intercourse which consists in delicate
shades of self-forgetfulness and in the suggestion of universal comprehension.
Charles Gould (the Gould family, established in Costaguana for three
generations, always went to England for their education and for their wives)
imagined that he had fallen in love with a girl's sound common sense like any
other man, but these were not exactly the reasons why, for instance, the whole
surveying camp, from the youngest of the young men to their mature chief, should
have found occasion to allude to Mrs. Gould's house so frequently amongst the
high peaks of the Sierra. She would have protested that she had done nothing for
them, with a low laugh and a surprised widening of her grey eyes, had anybody
told her how convincingly she was remembered on the edge of the snow-line above
Sulaco. But directly, with a little capable air of setting her wits to work, she
would have found an explanation. »Of course, it was such a surprise for these
boys to find any sort of welcome here. And I suppose they are homesick. I
suppose everybody must be always just a little homesick.«
    She was always sorry for homesick people.
    Born in the country, as his father before him, spare and tall, with a
flaming moustache, a neat chin, clear blue eyes, auburn hair, and a thin, fresh,
red face, Charles Gould looked like a new arrival from over the sea. His
grandfather had fought in the cause of independence under Bolivar, in that
famous English legion which on the battlefield of Carabobo had been saluted by
the great Liberator as Saviours of his country. One of Charles Gould's uncles
had been the elected President of that very province of Sulaco (then called a
State) in the days of Federation, and afterwards had been put up against the
wall of a church and shot by the order of the barbarous Unionist general, Guzman
Bento. It was the same Guzman Bento who, becoming later Perpetual President,
famed for his ruthless and cruel tyranny, reached his apotheosis in the popular
legend of a sanguinary land-haunting spectre whose body had been carried off by
the devil in person from the brick mausoleum in the nave of the Church of
Assumption in Sta. Marta. Thus, at least, the priests explained its
disappearance to the barefooted multitude that streamed in, awestruck, to gaze
at the hole in the side of the ugly box of bricks before the great altar.
    Guzman Bento of cruel memory had put to death great numbers of people
besides Charles Gould's uncle; but with a relative martyred in the cause of
aristocracy, the Sulaco Oligarchs (this was the phraseology of Guzman Bento's
time; now they were called Blancos, and had given up the federal idea), which
meant the families of pure Spanish descent, considered Charles as one of
themselves. With such a family record, no one could be more of a Costaguanero
than Don Carlos Gould; but his aspect was so characteristic that in the talk of
common people he was just the Inglez - the Englishman of Sulaco. He looked more
English than a casual tourist, a sort of heretic pilgrim, however, quite unknown
in Sulaco. He looked more English than the last arrived batch of young railway
engineers, than anybody out of the hunting-field pictures in the numbers of
Punch reaching his wife's drawing-room two months or so after date. It
astonished you to hear him talk Spanish (Castillan, as the natives say) or the
Indian dialect of the country-people so naturally. His accent had never been
English; but there was something so indelible in all these ancestral Goulds -
liberators, explorers, coffee planters, merchants, revolutionists - of
Costaguana, that he, the only representative of the third generation in a
continent possessing its own style of horsemanship, went on looking thoroughly
English even on horseback. This is not said of him in the mocking spirit of the
Llaneros - men of the great plains - who think that no one in the world knows
how to sit a horse but themselves. Charles Gould, to use the suitably lofty
phrase, rode like a centaur. Riding for him was not a special form of exercise;
it was a natural faculty, as walking straight is to all men sound of mind and
limb; but, all the same, when cantering beside the rutty ox-cart track to the
mine he looked in his English clothes and with his imported saddlery as though
he had come this moment to Costaguana at his easy swift pasotrote, straight out
of some green meadow at the other side of the world.
    His way would lie along the old Spanish road - the Camino Real of popular
speech - the only remaining vestige of a fact and name left by that royalty old
Giorgio Viola hated, and whose very shadow had departed from the land; for the
big equestrian statue of Charles IV at the entrance of the Alameda, towering
white against the trees, was only known to the folk from the country and to the
beggars of the town that slept on the steps around the pedestal, as the Horse of
Stone. The other Carlos, turning off to the left with a rapid clatter of hoofs
on the disjointed pavement - Don Carlos Gould, in his English clothes, looked as
incongruous, but much more at home than the kingly cavalier reining in his steed
on the pedestal above the sleeping leperos, with his marble arm raised towards
the marble rim of a plumed hat.
    The weather-stained effigy of the mounted king, with its vague suggestion of
a saluting gesture, seemed to present an inscrutable breast to the political
changes which had robbed it of its very name; but neither did the other
horseman, well known to the people, keen and alive on his well-shaped,
slate-coloured beast with a white eye, wear his heart on the sleeve of his
English coat. His mind preserved its steady poise as if sheltered in the
passionless stability of private and public decencies at home in Europe. He
accepted with a like calm the shocking manner in which the Sulaco ladies
smothered their faces with pearl powder till they looked like white plaster
casts with beautiful living eyes, the peculiar gossip of the town, and the
continuous political changes, the constant saving of the country, which to his
wife seemed a puerile and bloodthirsty game of murder and rapine played with
terrible earnestness by depraved children. In the early days of her Costaguana
life, the little lady used to clench her hands with exasperation at not being
able to take the public affairs of the country as seriously as the incidental
atrocity of methods deserved. She saw in them a comedy of naive pretences, but
hardly anything genuine except her own appalled indignation. Charles, very quiet
and twisting his long moustaches, would decline to discuss them at all. Once,
however, he observed to her gently -
    »My dear, you seem to forget that I was born here.«
    These few words made her pause as if they had been a sudden revelation.
Perhaps the mere fact of being born in the country did make a difference. She
had a great confidence in her husband; it had always been very great. He had
struck her imagination from the first by his unsentimentalism, by that very
quietude of mind which she had erected in her thought for a sign of perfect
competency in the business of living. Don José Avellanos, their neighbour across
the street, a statesman, a poet, a man of culture, who had represented his
country at several European Courts (and had suffered untold indignities as a
state prisoner in the time of the tyrant Guzman Bento), used to declare in Doña
Emilia's drawing-room that Carlos had all the English qualities of character
with a truly patriotic heart.
    Mrs. Gould, raising her eyes to her husband's thin, red and tan face, could
not detect the slightest quiver of a feature at what he must have heard said of
his patriotism. Perhaps he had just dismounted on his return from the mine; he
was English enough to disregard the hottest hours of the day. Basilio, in a
livery of white linen and a red sash, had squatted for a moment behind his heels
to unstrap the heavy, blunt spurs in the patio; and then the Señor Administrator
would go up the staircase into the gallery. Rows of plants in pots, ranged on
the balustrade between the pilasters of the arches, screened the corrédor with
their leaves and flowers from the quadrangle below, whose paved space is the
true hearthstone of a South American house, where the quiet hours of domestic
life are marked by the shifting of light and shadow on the flagstones.
    Señor Avellanos was in the habit of crossing the patio at five o'clock
almost every day. Don José chose to come over at tea-time because the English
rite at Doña Emilia's house reminded him of the time he lived in London as
Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James. He did not like tea; and,
usually, rocking his American chair, his neat little shiny boots crossed on the
foot-rest, he would talk on and on with a sort of complacent virtuosity
wonderful in a man of his age, while he held the cup in his hands for a long
time. His close-cropped head was perfectly white; his eyes coal-black.
    On seeing Charles Gould step into the sala he would nod provisionally and go
on to the end of the oratorial period. Only then he would say -
    »Carlos, my friend, you have ridden from San Tomé in the heat of the day.
Always the true English activity. No? What?«
    He drank up all the tea at once in one draught. This performance was
invariably followed by a slight shudder and a low, involuntary »br-r-r-r,« which
was not covered by the hasty exclamation, »Excellent!«
    Then giving up the empty cup into his young friend's hand, extended with a
smile, he continued to expatiate upon the patriotic nature of the San Tomé mine
for the simple pleasure of talking fluently, it seemed, while his reclining body
jerked backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair of the sort exported from the
United States. The ceiling of the largest drawing-room of the Casa Gould
extended its white level far above his head. The loftiness dwarfed the mixture
of heavy, straight-backed Spanish chairs of brown wood with leathern seats, and
European furniture, low, and cushioned all over, like squat little monsters
gorged to bursting with steel springs and horsehair. There were knick-knacks on
little tables, mirrors let into the wall above marble consoles, square spaces of
carpet under the two groups of armchairs, each presided over by a deep sofa;
smaller rugs scattered all over the floor of red tiles; three windows from
ceiling down to the ground, opening on a balcony, and flanked by the
perpendicular folds of the dark hangings. The stateliness of ancient days
lingered between the four high, smooth walls, tinted a delicate primrose-colour;
and Mrs. Gould, with her little head and shining coils of hair, sitting in a
cloud of muslin and lace before a slender mahogany table, resembled a fairy
posed lightly before dainty philtres dispensed out of vessels of silver and
porcelain.
    Mrs. Gould knew the history of the San Tomé mine. Worked in the early days
mostly by means of lashes on the backs of slaves, its yield had been paid for in
its own weight of human bones. Whole tribes of Indians had perished in the
exploitation; and then the mine was abandoned, since with this primitive method
it had ceased to make a profitable return, no matter how many corpses were
thrown into its maw. Then it became forgotten. It was rediscovered after the War
of Independence. An English company obtained the right to work it, and found so
rich a vein that neither the exactions of successive governments, nor the
periodical raids of recruiting officers upon the population of paid miners they
had created, could discourage their perseverance. But in the end, during the
long turmoil of pronunciamentos that followed the death of the famous Guzman
Bento, the native miners, incited to revolt by the emissaries sent out from the
capital, had risen upon their English chiefs and murdered them to a man. The
decree of confiscation which appeared immediately afterwards in the Diario
Official, published in Sta. Marta, began with the words: »Justly incensed at the
grinding oppression of foreigners, actuated by sordid motives of gain rather
than by love for a country where they come impoverished to seek their fortunes,
the mining population of San Tomé, etc. ...« and ended with the declaration:
»The chief of the State has resolved to exercise to the full his power of
clemency. The mine, which by every law, international, human, and divine,
reverts now to the Government as national property, shall remain closed till the
sword drawn for the sacred defence of liberal principles has accomplished its
mission of securing the happiness of our beloved country.«
    And for many years this was the last of the San Tomé mine. What advantage
that Government had expected from the spoliation, it is impossible to tell now.
Costaguana was made with difficulty to pay a beggarly money compensation to the
families of the victims, and then the matter dropped out of diplomatic
despatches. But afterwards another Government bethought itself of that valuable
asset. It was an ordinary Costaguana Government - the fourth in six years - but
it judged of its opportunities sanely. It remembered the San Tomé mine with a
secret conviction of its worthlessness in their own hands, but with an ingenious
insight into the various uses a silver mine can be put to, apart from the sordid
process of extracting the metal from under the ground. The father of Charles
Gould, for a long time one of the most wealthy merchants of Costaguana, had
already lost a considerable part of his fortune in forced loans to the
successive Governments. He was a man of calm judgment, who never dreamed of
pressing his claims; and when, suddenly, the perpetual concession of the San
Tomé mine was offered to him in full settlement, his alarm became extreme. He
was versed in the ways of Governments. Indeed, the intention of this affair,
though no doubt deeply meditated in the closet, lay open on the surface of the
document presented urgently for his signature. The third and most important
clause stipulated that the concession-holder should pay at once to the
Government five years' royalties on the estimated output of the mine.
    Mr. Gould, senior, defended himself from this fatal favour with many
arguments and entreaties, but without success. He knew nothing of mining; he had
no means to put his concession on the European market; the mine as a working
concern did not exist. The buildings had been burnt down, the mining plant had
been destroyed, the mining population had disappeared from the neighbourhood
years and years ago; the very road had vanished under a flood of tropical
vegetation as effectually as if swallowed by the sea; and the main gallery had
fallen in within a hundred yards from the entrance. It was no longer an
abandoned mine; it was a wild, inaccessible, and rocky gorge of the Sierra,
where vestiges of charred timber, some heaps of smashed bricks, and a few
shapeless pieces of rusty iron could have been found under the matted mass of
thorny creepers covering the ground. Mr. Gould, senior, did not desire the
perpetual possession of that desolate locality; in fact, the mere vision of it
arising before his mind in the still watches of the night had the power to
exasperate him into hours of hot and agitated insomnia.
    It so happened, however, that the Finance Minister of the time was a man to
whom, in years gone by, Mr. Gould had, unfortunately, declined to grant some
small pecuniary assistance, basing his refusal on the ground that the applicant
was a notorious gambler and cheat, besides being more than half suspected of a
robbery with violence on a wealthy ranchero in a remote country district, where
he was actually exercising the function of a judge. Now, after reaching his
exalted position, that politician had proclaimed his intention to repay evil
with good to Señor Gould - the poor man. He affirmed and reaffirmed this
resolution in the drawing-rooms of Sta. Marta, in a soft and implacable voice,
and with such malicious glances that Mr. Gould's best friends advised him
earnestly to attempt no bribery to get the matter dropped. It would have been
useless. Indeed, it would not have been a very safe proceeding. Such was also
the opinion of a stout, loud-voiced lady of French extraction, the daughter, she
said, of an officer of high rank (officier supérieur de l'armée), who was
accommodated with lodgings within the walls of a secularized convent next door
to the Ministry of Finance. That florid person, when approached on behalf of Mr.
Gould in a proper manner, and with a suitable present, shook her head
despondently. She was good-natured, and her despondency was genuine. She
imagined she could not take money in consideration of something she could not
accomplish. The friend of Mr. Gould, charged with the delicate mission, used to
say afterwards that she was the only honest person closely or remotely connected
with the Government he had ever met. »No go,« she had said with a cavalier,
husky intonation which was natural to her, and using turns of expression more
suitable to a child of parents unknown than to the orphaned daughter of a
general officer. »No; it's no go. Pas moyen, mon garçon. C'est dommage, tout de
même. Ah! zut! Je ne vole pas mon monde. Je ne suis pas ministre - moi! Vous
pouvez emporter votre petit sac.«
    For a moment, biting her carmine lip, she deplored inwardly the tyranny of
the rigid principles governing the sale of her influence in high places. Then,
significantly, and with a touch of impatience, »Allez,« she added, »et dites
bien à votre bonhomme - entendez-vous? - qu'il faut avaler la pilule.«
    After such a warning there was nothing for it but to sign and pay. Mr. Gould
had swallowed the pill, and it was as though it had been compounded of some
subtle poison that acted directly on his brain. He became at once mine-ridden,
and as he was well read in light literature it took to his mind the form of the
Old Man of the Sea fastened upon his shoulders. He also began to dream of
vampires. Mr. Gould exaggerated to himself the disadvantages of his new
position, because he viewed it emotionally. His position in Costaguana was no
worse than before. But man is a desperately conservative creature, and the
extravagant novelty of this outrage upon his purse distressed his sensibilities.
Everybody around him was being robbed by the grotesque and murderous bands that
played their game of governments and revolutions after the death of Guzman
Bento. His experience had taught him that, however short the plunder might fall
of their legitimate expectations, no gang in possession of the Presidential
Palace would be so incompetent as to suffer itself to be baffled by the want of
a pretext. The first casual colonel of the barefooted army of scarecrows that
came along was able to expose with force and precision to any mere civilian his
titles to a sum of 10,000 dollars; the while his hope would be immutably fixed
upon a gratuity, at any rate, of no less than a thousand. Mr. Gould knew that
very well, and, armed with resignation, had waited for better times. But to be
robbed under the forms of legality and business was intolerable to his
imagination. Mr. Gould, the father, had one fault in his sagacious and
honourable character: he attached too much importance to form. It is a failing
common to mankind, whose views are tinged by prejudices. There was for him in
that affair a malignancy of perverted justice which, by means of a moral shock,
attacked his vigorous physique. »It will end by killing me,« he used to affirm
many times a day. And, in fact, since that time he began to suffer from fever,
from liver pains, and mostly from a worrying inability to think of anything
else. The Finance Minister could have formed no conception of the profound
subtlety of his revenge. Even Mr. Gould's letters to his fourteen-year-old boy
Charles, then away in England for his education, came at last to talk of
practically nothing but the mine. He groaned over the injustice, the
persecution, the outrage of that mine; he occupied whole pages in the exposition
of the fatal consequences attaching to the possession of that mine from every
point of view, with every dismal inference, with words of horror at the
apparently eternal character of that curse. For the Concession had been granted
to him and his descendants for ever. He implored his son never to return to
Costaguana, never to claim any part of his inheritance there, because it was
tainted by the infamous Concession; never to touch it, never to approach it, to
forget that America existed, and pursue a mercantile career in Europe. And each
letter ended with bitter self-reproaches for having stayed too long in that
cavern of thieves, intriguers, and brigands.
    To be told repeatedly that one's future is blighted because of the
possession of a silver mine is not, at the age of fourteen, a matter of prime
importance as to its main statement; but in its form it is calculated to excite
a certain amount of wonder and attention. In course of time the boy, at first
only puzzled by the angry jeremiads, but rather sorry for his dad, began to turn
the matter over in his mind in such moments as he could spare from play and
study. In about a year he had evolved from the lecture of the letters a definite
conviction that there was a silver mine in the Sulaco province of the Republic
of Costaguana, where poor Uncle Harry had been shot by soldiers a great many
years before. There was also connected closely with that mine a thing called the
iniquitous Gould Concession, apparently written on a paper which his father
desired ardently to tear and fling into the faces of presidents, members of
judicature, and ministers of State. And this desire persisted, though the names
of these people, he noticed, seldom remained the same for a whole year together.
This desire (since the thing was iniquitous) seemed quite natural to the boy,
though why the affair was iniquitous he did not know. Afterwards, with advancing
wisdom, he managed to clear the plain truth of the business from the fantastic
intrusions of the Old Man of the Sea, vampires, and ghouls, which had lent to
his father's correspondence the flavour of a gruesome Arabian Nights tale. In
the end, the growing youth attained to as close an intimacy with the San Tomé
mine as the old man who wrote these plaintive and enraged letters on the other
side of the sea. He had been made several times already to pay heavy fines for
neglecting to work the mine, he reported, besides other sums extracted from him
on account of future royalties, on the ground that a man with such a valuable
concession in his pocket could not refuse his financial assistance to the
Government of the Republic. The last of his fortune was passing away from him
against worthless receipts, he wrote, in a rage, whilst he was being pointed out
as an individual who had known how to secure enormous advantages from the
necessities of his country. And the young man in Europe grew more and more
interested in that thing which could provoke such a tumult of words and passion.
    He thought of it every day; but he thought of it without bitterness. It
might have been an unfortunate affair for his poor dad, and the whole story
threw a queer light upon the social and political life of Costaguana. The view
he took of it was sympathetic to his father, yet calm and reflective. His
personal feelings had not been outraged, and it is difficult to resent with
proper and durable indignation the physical or mental anguish of another
organism, even if that other organism is one's own father. By the time he was
twenty Charles Gould had, in his turn, fallen under the spell of the San Tomé
mine. But it was another form of enchantment, more suitable to his youth, into
whose magic formula there entered hope, vigour, and self-confidence, instead of
weary indignation and despair. Left after he was twenty to his own guidance
(except for the severe injunction not to return to Costaguana), he had pursued
his studies in Belgium and France with the idea of qualifying for a mining
engineer. But this scientific aspect of his labours remained vague and imperfect
in his mind. Mines had acquired for him a dramatic interest. He studied their
peculiarities from a personal point of view, too, as one would study the varied
characters of men. He visited them as one goes with curiosity to call upon
remarkable persons. He visited mines in Germany, in Spain, in Cornwall.
Abandoned workings had for him strong fascination. Their desolation appealed to
him like the sight of human misery, whose causes are varied and profound. They
might have been worthless, but also they might have been misunderstood. His
future wife was the first, and perhaps the only person to detect this secret
mood which governed the profoundly sensible, almost voiceless attitude of this
man towards the world of material things. And at once her delight in him,
lingering with half-open wings like those birds that cannot rise easily from a
flat level, found a pinnacle from which to soar up into the skies.
    They had become acquainted in Italy, where the future Mrs. Gould was staying
with an old and pale aunt who, years before, had married a middle-aged,
impoverished Italian marquis. She now mourned that man, who had known how to
give up his life to the independence and unity of his country, who had known how
to be as enthusiastic in his generosity as the youngest of those who fell for
that very cause of which old Giorgio Viola was a drifting relic, as a broken
spar is suffered to float away disregarded after a naval victory. The Marchesa
led a still, whispering existence, nun-like in her black robes and a white band
over the forehead, in a corner of the first floor of an ancient and ruinous
palace, whose big, empty halls downstairs sheltered under their painted ceilings
the harvests, the fowls, and even the cattle, together with the whole family of
the tenant farmer.
    The two young people had met in Lucca. After that meeting Charles Gould
visited no mines, though they went together in a carriage, once, to see some
marble quarries, where the work resembled mining in so far that it also was the
tearing of the raw material of treasure from the earth. Charles Gould did not
open his heart to her in any set speeches. He simply went on acting and thinking
in her sight. This is the true method of sincerity. One of his frequent remarks
was, »I think sometimes that poor father takes a wrong view of that San Tomé
business.« And they discussed that opinion long and earnestly, as if they could
influence a mind across half the globe; but in reality they discussed it because
the sentiment of love can enter into any subject and live ardently in remote
phrases. For this natural reason these discussions were precious to Mrs. Gould
in her engaged state. Charles feared that Mr. Gould, senior, was wasting his
strength and making himself ill by his efforts to get rid of the Concession. »I
fancy that this is not the kind of handling it requires,« he mused aloud, as if
to himself. And when she wondered frankly that a man of character should devote
his energies to plotting and intrigues, Charles would remark, with a gentle
concern that understood her wonder, »You must not forget that he was born
there.«
    She would set her quick mind to work upon that, and then make the
inconsequent retort, which he accepted as perfectly sagacious, because, in fact,
it was so -
    »Well, and you? You were born there, too.«
    He knew his answer.
    »That's different. I've been away ten years. Dad never had such a long
spell; and it was more than thirty years ago.«
    She was the first person to whom he opened his lips after receiving the news
of his father's death.
    »It has killed him!« he said.
    He had walked straight out of town with the news, straight out before him in
the noonday sun on the white road, and his feet had brought him face to face
with her in the hall of the ruined palazzo, a room magnificent and naked, with
here and there a long strip of damask, black with damp and age, hanging down on
a bare panel of the wall. It was furnished with exactly one gilt armchair, with
a broken back, and an octagon columnar stand bearing a heavy marble vase
ornamented with sculptured masks and garlands of flowers, and cracked from top
to bottom. Charles Gould was dusty with the white dust of the road lying on his
boots, on his shoulders, on his cap with two peaks. Water dripped from under it
all over his face, and he grasped a thick oaken cudgel in his bare right hand.
    She went very pale under the roses of her big straw hat, gloved, swinging a
clear sunshade, caught just as she was going out to meet him at the bottom of
the hill, where three poplars stand near the wall of a vineyard.
    »It has killed him!« he repeated. »He ought to have had many years yet. We
are a long-lived family.«
    She was too startled to say anything; he was contemplating with a
penetrating and motionless stare the cracked marble urn as though he had
resolved to fix its shape for ever in his memory. It was only when, turning
suddenly to her, he blurted out twice, »I've come to you - I've come straight to
you -,« without being able to finish his phrase, that the great pitifulness of
that lonely and tormented death in Costaguana came to her with the full force of
its misery. He caught hold of her hand, raised it to his lips, and at that she
dropped her parasol to pat him on the cheek, murmured »Poor boy,« and began to
dry her eyes under the downward curve of her hat-brim, very small in her simple,
white frock, almost like a lost child crying in the degraded grandeur of the
noble hall, while he stood by her, again perfectly motionless in the
contemplation of the marble urn.
    Afterwards they went out for a long walk, which was silent till he exclaimed
suddenly -
    »Yes. But if he had only grappled with it in a proper way!«
    And then they stopped. Everywhere there were long shadows lying on the
hills, on the roads, on the enclosed fields of olive trees; the shadows of
poplars, of wide chestnuts, of farm buildings, of stone walls; and in mid-air
the sound of a bell, thin and alert, was like the throbbing pulse of the sunset
glow. Her lips were slightly parted as though in surprise that he should not be
looking at her with his usual expression. His usual expression was
unconditionally approving and attentive. He was in his talks with her the most
anxious and deferential of dictators, an attitude that pleased her immensely. It
affirmed her power without detracting from his dignity. That slight girl, with
her little feet, little hands, little face attractively overweighted by great
coils of hair; with a rather large mouth, whose mere parting seemed to breathe
upon you the fragrance of frankness and generosity, had the fastidious soul of
an experienced woman. She was, before all things and all flatteries, careful of
her pride in the object of her choice. But now he was actually not looking at
her at all; and his expression was tense and irrational, as is natural in a man
who elects to stare at nothing past a young girl's head.
    »Well, yes. It was iniquitous. They corrupted him thoroughly, the poor old
boy. Oh! why wouldn't he let me go back to him? But now I shall know how to
grapple with this.«
    After pronouncing these words with immense assurance, he glanced down at
her, and at once fell a prey to distress, incertitude, and fear.
    The only thing he wanted to know now, he said, was whether she did love him
enough - whether she would have the courage to go with him so far away? He put
these questions to her in a voice that trembled with anxiety - for he was a
determined man.
    She did. She would. And immediately the future hostess of all the Europeans
in Sulaco had the physical experience of the earth falling away from under her.
It vanished completely, even to the very sound of the bell. When her feet
touched the ground again, the bell was still ringing in the valley; she put her
hands up to her hair, breathing quickly, and glanced up and down the stony lane.
It was reassuringly empty. Meantime, Charles, stepping with one foot into a dry
and dusty ditch, picked up the open parasol, which had bounded away from them
with a martial sound of drum taps. He handed it to her soberly, a little
crestfallen.
    They turned back, and after she had slipped her hand on his arm, the first
words he pronounced were -
    »It's lucky that we shall be able to settle in a coast town. You've heard
its name. It is Sulaco. I am so glad poor father did get that house. He bought a
big house there years ago, in order that there should always be a Casa Gould in
the principal town of what used to be called the Occidental Province. I lived
there once, as a small boy, with my dear mother, for a whole year, while poor
father was away in the United States on business. You shall be the new mistress
of the Casa Gould.«
    And later, in the inhabited corner of the Palazzo above the vineyards, the
marble hills, the pines and olives of Lucca, he also said -
    »The name of Gould has been always highly respected in Sulaco. My uncle
Harry was chief of the State for some time, and has left a great name amongst
the first families. By this I mean the pure Creole families, who take no part in
the miserable farce of governments. Uncle Harry was no adventurer. In Costaguana
we Goulds are no adventurers. He was of the country, and he loved it, but he
remained essentially an Englishman in his ideas. He made use of the political
cry of his time. It was Federation. But he was no politician. He simply stood up
for social order out of pure love for rational liberty and from his hate of
oppression. There was no nonsense about him. He went to work in his own way
because it seemed right, just as I feel I must lay hold of that mine.«
    In such words he talked to her because his memory was very full of the
country of his childhood, his heart of his life with that girl, and his mind of
the San Tomé Concession. He added that he would have to leave her for a few days
to find an American, a man from San Francisco, who was still somewhere in
Europe. A few months before he had made his acquaintance in an old historic
German town, situated in a mining district. The American had his womankind with
him, but seemed lonely while they were sketching all day long the old doorways
and the turreted corners of the medieval houses. Charles Gould had with him the
inseparable companionship of the mine. The other man was interested in mining
enterprises, knew something of Costaguana, and was no stranger to the name of
Gould. They had talked together with some intimacy which was made possible by
the difference of their ages. Charles wanted now to find that capitalist of
shrewd mind and accessible character. His father's fortune in Costaguana, which
he had supposed to be still considerable, seemed to have melted in the rascally
crucible of revolutions. Apart from some ten thousand pounds deposited in
England, there appeared to be nothing left except the house in Sulaco, a vague
right of forest exploitation in a remote and savage district, and the San Tomé
Concession, which had attended his poor father to the very brink of the grave.
    He explained those things. It was late when they parted. She had never
before given him such a fascinating vision of herself. All the eagerness of
youth for a strange life, for great distances, for a future in which there was
an air of adventure, of combat - a subtle thought of redress and conquest, had
filled her with an intense excitement, which she returned to the giver with a
more open and exquisite display of tenderness.
    He left her to walk down the hill, and directly he found himself alone he
became sober. That irreparable change a death makes in the course of our daily
thoughts can be felt in a vague and poignant discomfort of mind. It hurt Charles
Gould to feel that never more, by no effort of will, would he be able to think
of his father in the same way he used to think of him when the poor man was
alive. His breathing image was no longer in his power. This consideration,
closely affecting his own identity, filled his breast with a mournful and angry
desire for action. In this his instinct was unerring. Action is consolatory. It
is the enemy of thought and the friend of flattering illusions. Only in the
conduct of our action can we find the sense of mastery over the Fates. For his
action, the mine was obviously the only field. It was imperative sometimes to
know how to disobey the solemn wishes of the dead. He resolved firmly to make
his disobedience as thorough (by way of atonement) as it well could be. The mine
had been the cause of an absurd moral disaster; its working must be made a
serious and moral success. He owed it to the dead man's memory. Such were the -
properly speaking - emotions of Charles Gould. His thoughts ran upon the means
of raising a large amount of capital in San Francisco or elsewhere; and
incidentally there occurred to him also the general reflection that the counsel
of the departed must be an unsound guide. Not one of them could be aware
beforehand what enormous changes the death of any given individual may produce
in the very aspect of the world.
    The latest phase in the history of the mine Mrs. Gould knew from personal
experience. It was in essence the history of her married life. The mantle of the
Goulds' hereditary position in Sulaco had descended amply upon her little
person; but she would not allow the peculiarities of the strange garment to
weigh down the vivacity of her character, which was the sign of no mere
mechanical sprightliness, but of an eager intelligence. It must not be supposed
that Mrs. Gould's mind was masculine. A woman with a masculine mind is not a
being of superior efficiency; she is simply a phenomenon of imperfect
differentiation - interestingly barren and without importance. Doña Emilia's
intelligence being feminine led her to achieve the conquest of Sulaco, simply by
lighting the way for her unselfishness and sympathy. She could converse
charmingly, but she was not talkative. The wisdom of the heart having no concern
with the erection or demolition of theories any more than with the defence of
prejudices, has no random words at its command. The words it pronounces have the
value of acts of integrity, tolerance, and compassion. A woman's true
tenderness, like the true virility of man, is expressed in action of a
conquering kind. The ladies of Sulaco adored Mrs. Gould. »They still look upon
me as something of a monster,« Mrs. Gould had said pleasantly to one of the
three gentlemen from San Francisco she had to entertain in her new Sulaco house
just about a year after her marriage.
    They were her first visitors from abroad, and they had come to look at the
San Tomé mine. She jested most agreeably, they thought; and Charles Gould,
besides knowing thoroughly what he was about, had shown himself a real hustler.
These facts caused them to be well disposed towards his wife. An unmistakable
enthusiasm, pointed by a slight flavour of irony, made her talk of the mine
absolutely fascinating to her visitors, and provoked them to grave and indulgent
smiles in which there was a good deal of deference. Perhaps had they known how
much she was inspired by an idealistic view of success they would have been
amazed at the state of her mind as the Spanish-American ladies had been amazed
at the tireless activity of her body. She would - in her own words - have been
for them something of a monster. However, the Goulds were in essentials a
reticent couple, and their guests departed without the suspicion of any other
purpose but simple profit in the working of a silver mine. Mrs. Gould had out
her own carriage, with two white mules, to drive them down to the harbour,
whence the Ceres was to carry them off into the Olympus of plutocrats. Captain
Mitchell had snatched at the occasion of leave-taking to remark to Mrs. Gould,
in a low, confidential mutter, »This marks an epoch.«
    Mrs. Gould loved the patio of her Spanish house. A broad flight of stone
steps was overlooked silently from a niche in the wall by a Madonna in blue
robes with the crowned child sitting on her arm. Subdued voices ascended in the
early mornings from the paved well of the quadrangle, with the stamping of
horses and mules led out in pairs to drink at the cistern. A tangle of slender
bamboo stems drooped its narrow, blade-like leaves over the square pool of
water, and the fat coachman sat muffled up on the edge, holding lazily the ends
of halters in his hand. Barefooted servants passed to and fro, issuing from
dark, low doorways below; two laundry girls with baskets of washed linen; the
baker with the tray of bread made for the day; Leonarda - her own camerista -
bearing high up, swung from her hand raised above her raven black head, a bunch
of starched under-skirts dazzlingly white in the slant of sunshine. Then the old
porter would hobble in, sweeping the flagstones, and the house was ready for the
day. All the lofty rooms on three sides of the quadrangle opened into each other
and into the corrédor, with its wrought-iron railings and a border of flowers,
whence, like the lady of the medieval castle, she could witness from above all
the departures and arrivals of the Casa, to which the sonorous arched gateway
lent an air of stately importance.
    She had watched her carriage roll away with the three guests from the north.
She smiled. Their three arms went up simultaneously to their three hats. Captain
Mitchell, the fourth, in attendance, had already begun a pompous discourse. Then
she lingered. She lingered, approaching her face to the clusters of flowers here
and there as if to give time to her thoughts to catch up with her slow footsteps
along the straight vista of the corridor.
    A fringed Indian hammock from Aroa, gay with coloured featherwork, had been
swung judiciously in a corner that caught the early sun; for the mornings are
cool in Sulaco. The cluster of flor de noche buena blazed in great masses before
the open glass doors of the reception rooms. A big green parrot, brilliant like
an emerald in a cage that flashed like gold, screamed out ferociously, »Vive
Costaguana!« then called twice mellifluously, »Leonarda! Leonarda!« in imitation
of Mrs. Gould's voice, and suddenly took refuge in immobility and silence. Mrs.
Gould reached the end of the gallery and put her head through the door of her
husband's room.
    Charles Gould, with one foot on a low wooden stool, was already strapping
his spurs. He wanted to hurry back to the mine. Mrs. Gould, without coming in,
glanced about the room. One tall, broad bookcase, with glass doors, was full of
books; but in the other, without shelves, and lined with red baize, were
arranged firearms: Winchester carbines, revolvers, a couple of shot-guns, and
even two pairs of double-barrelled holster pistols. Between them, by itself,
upon a strip of scarlet velvet, hung an old cavalry sabre, once the property of
Don Enrique Gould, the hero of the Occidental Province, presented by Don José
Avellanos, the hereditary friend of the family.
    Otherwise, the plastered white walls were completely bare, except for a
water-colour sketch of the San Tomé mountain - the work of Doña Emilia herself.
In the middle of the red-tiled floor stood two long tables littered with plans
and papers, a few chairs, and a glass show-case containing specimens of ore from
the mine. Mrs. Gould, looking at all these things in turn, wondered aloud why
the talk of these wealthy and enterprising men discussing the prospects, the
working, and the safety of the mine rendered her so impatient and uneasy,
whereas she could talk of the mine by the hour with her husband with unwearied
interest and satisfaction.
    And dropping her eyelids expressively, she added -
    »What do you feel about it, Charley?«
    Then, surprised at her husband's silence, she raised her eyes, opened wide,
as pretty as pale flowers. He had done with the spurs, and, twisting his
moustache with both hands, horizontally, he contemplated her from the height of
his long legs with a visible appreciation of her appearance. The consciousness
of being thus contemplated pleased Mrs. Gould.
    »They are considerable men,« he said.
    »I know. But have you listened to their conversation? They don't seem to
have understood anything they have seen here.«
    »They have seen the mine. They have understood that to some purpose,«
Charles Gould interjected, in defence of the visitors; and then his wife
mentioned the name of the most considerable of the three. He was considerable in
finance and in industry. His name was familiar to many millions of people. He
was so considerable that he would never have travelled so far away from the
centre of his activity if the doctors had not insisted, with veiled menaces, on
his taking a long holiday.
    »Mr. Holroyd's sense of religion,« Mrs. Gould pursued, »was shocked and
disgusted at the tawdriness of the dressed-up saints in the cathedral - the
worship, he called it, of wood and tinsel. But it seemed to me that he looked
upon his own God as a sort of influential partner, who gets his share of profits
in the endowment of churches. That's a sort of idolatry. He told me he endowed
churches every year, Charley.«
    »No end of them,« said Mr. Gould, marvelling inwardly at the mobility of her
physiognomy. »All over the country. He's famous for that sort of munificence.«
    »Oh, he didn't boast,« Mrs. Gould declared, scrupulously. »I believe he's
really a good man, but so stupid! A poor Chulo who offers a little silver arm or
leg to thank his god for a cure is as rational and more touching.«
    »He's at the head of immense silver and iron interests,« Charles Gould
observed.
    »Ah, yes! The religion of silver and iron. He's a very civil man, though he
looked awfully solemn when he first saw the Madonna on the staircase, who's only
wood and paint; but he said nothing to me. My dear Charley, I heard those men
talk among themselves. Can it be that they really wish to become, for an immense
consideration, drawers of water and hewers of wood to all the countries and
nations of the earth?«
    »A man must work to some end,« Charles Gould said, vaguely.
    Mrs. Gould, frowning, surveyed him from head to foot. With his riding
breeches, leather leggings (an article of apparel never before seen in
Costaguana), a Norfolk coat of grey flannel, and those great flaming moustaches,
he suggested an officer of cavalry turned gentleman farmer. This combination was
gratifying to Mrs. Gould's tastes. »How thin the poor boy is!« she thought. »He
overworks himself.« But there was no denying that his fine-drawn, keen red face,
and his whole, long-limbed, lank person had an air of breeding and distinction.
And Mrs. Gould relented.
    »I only wondered what you felt,« she murmured, gently.
    During the last few days, as it happened, Charles Gould had been kept too
busy thinking twice before he spoke to have paid much attention to the state of
his feelings. But theirs was a successful match, and he had no difficulty in
finding his answer.
    »The best of my feelings are in your keeping, my dear,« he said, lightly;
and there was so much truth in that obscure phrase that he experienced towards
her at the moment a great increase of gratitude and tenderness.
    Mrs. Gould, however, did not seem to find this answer in the least obscure.
She brightened up delicately; already he had changed his tone.
    »But there are facts. The worth of the mine - as a mine - is beyond doubt.
It shall make us very wealthy. The mere working of it is a matter of technical
knowledge, which I have - which ten thousand other men in the world have. But
its safety, its continued existence as an enterprise, giving a return to men -
to strangers, comparative strangers - who invest money in it, is left altogether
in my hands. I have inspired confidence in a man of wealth and position. You
seem to think this perfectly natural - do you? Well, I don't know. I don't know
why I have; but it is a fact. This fact makes everything possible, because
without it I would never have thought of disregarding my father's wishes. I
would never have disposed of the Concession as a speculator disposes of a
valuable right to a company - for cash and shares, to grow rich eventually if
possible, but at any rate to put some money at once in his pocket. No. Even if
it had been feasible - which I doubt - I would not have done so. Poor father did
not understand. He was afraid I would hang on to the ruinous thing, waiting for
just some such chance, and waste my life miserably. That was the true sense of
his prohibition, which we have deliberately set aside.«
    They were walking up and down the corridor. Her head just reached to his
shoulder. His arm, extended downwards, was about her waist. His spurs jingled
slightly.
    »He had not seen me for ten years. He did not know me. He parted from me for
my sake, and he would never let me come back. He was always talking in his
letters of leaving Costaguana, of abandoning everything and making his escape.
But he was too valuable a prey. They would have thrown him into one of their
prisons at the first suspicion.«
    His spurred feet clinked slowly. He was bending over his wife as they
walked. The big parrot, turning its head askew, followed their pacing figures
with a round, unblinking eye.
    »He was a lonely man. Ever since I was ten years old he used to talk to me
as if I had been grown up. When I was in Europe he wrote to me every month. Ten,
twelve pages every month of my life for ten years. And, after all, he did not
know me! Just think of it - ten whole years away; the years I was growing up
into a man. He could not know me. Do you think he could?«
    Mrs. Gould shook her head negatively; which was just what her husband had
expected from the strength of the argument. But she shook her head negatively
only because she thought that no one could know her Charles - really know him
for what he was but herself. The thing was obvious. It could be felt. It
required no argument. And poor Mr. Gould, senior, who had died too soon to ever
hear of their engagement, remained too shadowy a figure for her to be credited
with knowledge of any sort whatever.
    »No, he did not understand. In my view this mine could never have been a
thing to sell. Never! After all his misery I simply could not have touched it
for money alone,« Charles Gould pursued: and she pressed her head to his
shoulder approvingly.
    These two young people remembered the life which had ended wretchedly just
when their own lives had come together in that splendour of hopeful love, which
to the most sensible minds appears like a triumph of good over all the evils of
the earth. A vague idea of rehabilitation had entered the plan of their life.
That it was so vague as to elude the support of argument made it only the
stronger. It had presented itself to them at the instant when the woman's
instinct of devotion and the man's instinct of activity receive from the
strongest of illusions their most powerful impulse. The very prohibition imposed
the necessity of success. It was as if they had been morally bound to make good
their vigorous view of life against the unnatural error of weariness and
despair. It the idea of wealth was present to them it was only so far as it was
bound with that other success. Mrs. Gould, an orphan from early childhood and
without fortune, brought up in an atmosphere of intellectual interests, had
never considered the aspects of great wealth. They were too remote, and she had
not learned that they were desirable. On the other hand, she had not known
anything of absolute want. Even the very poverty of her aunt, the Marchesa, had
nothing intolerable to a refined mind; it seemed in accord with a great grief;
it had the austerity of a sacrifice offered to a noble ideal. Thus even the most
legitimate touch of materialism was wanting in Mrs. Gould's character. The dead
man of whom she thought with tenderness (because he was Charley's father) and
with some impatience (because he had been weak), must be put completely in the
wrong. Nothing else would do to keep their prosperity without a stain on its
only real, on its immaterial side!
    Charles Gould, on his part, had been obliged to keep the idea of wealth well
to the fore; but he brought it forward as a means, not as an end. Unless the
mine was good business it could not be touched. He had to insist on that aspect
of the enterprise. It was his lever to move men who had capital. And Charles
Gould believed in the mine. He knew everything that could be known of it. His
faith in the mine was contagious, though it was not served by a great eloquence;
but business men are frequently as sanguine and imaginative as lovers. They are
affected by a personality much oftener than people would suppose; and Charles
Gould, in his unshaken assurance, was absolutely convincing. Besides, it was a
matter of common knowledge to the men to whom he addressed himself that mining
in Costaguana was a game that could be made considably more than worth the
candle. The men of affairs knew that very well. The real difficulty in touching
it was elsewhere. Against that there was an implication of calm and implacable
resolution in Charles Gould's very voice. Men of affairs venture sometimes on
acts that the common judgment of the world would pronounce absurd; they make
their decisions on apparently impulsive and human grounds. »Very well,« had said
the considerable personage to whom Charles Gould on his way out through San
Francisco had lucidly exposed his point of view. »Let us suppose that the mining
affairs of Sulaco are taken in hand. There would then be in it: first, the house
of Holroyd, which is all right; then, Mr. Charles Gould, a citizen of
Costaguana, who is also all right; and, lastly, the Government of the Republic.
So far this resembles the first start of the Atacama nitrate fields, where there
was a financing house, a gentleman of the name of Edwards, and - a Government;
or, rather, two Governments - two South American Governments. And you know what
came of it. War came of it; devastating and prolonged war came of it, Mr. Gould.
However, here we possess the advantage of having only one South American
Government hanging around for plunder out of the deal. It is an advantage; but
then there are degrees of badness, and that Government is the Costaguana
Government.«
    Thus spoke the considerable personage, the millionaire endower of churches
on a scale befitting the greatness of his native land - the same to whom the
doctors used the language of horrid and veiled menaces. He was a big-limbed,
deliberate man, whose quiet burliness lent to an ample silk-faced frock-coat a
superfine dignity. His hair was iron grey, his eyebrows were still black, and
his massive profile was the profile of a Cæsar's head on an old Roman coin. But
his parentage was German and Scotch and English, with remote strains of Danish
and French blood, giving him the temperament of a Puritan and an insatiable
imagination of conquest. He was completely unbending to his visitor, because of
the warm introduction the visitor had brought from Europe, and because of an
irrational liking for earnestness and determination wherever met, to whatever
end directed.
    »The Costaguana Government shall play its hand for all it's worth - and
don't you forget it, Mr. Gould. Now, what is Costaguana? It is the bottomless
pit of 10 per cent. loans and other fool investments. European capital had been
flung into it with both hands for years. Not ours, though. We in this country
know just about enough to keep indoors when it rains. We can sit and watch. Of
course, some day we shall step in. We are bound to. But there's no hurry. Time
itself has got to wait on the greatest country in the whole of God's Universe.
We shall be giving the word for everything: industry, trade, law, journalism,
art, politics, and religion, from Cape Horn clear over to Smith's Sound, and
beyond, too, if anything worth taking hold of turns up at the North Pole. And
then we shall have the leisure to take in hand the outlying islands and
continents of the earth. We shall run the world's business whether the world
likes it or not. The world can't help it - and neither can we, I guess.«
    By this he meant to express his faith in destiny in words suitable to his
intelligence, which was unskilled in the presentation of general ideas. His
intelligence was nourished on facts; and Charles Gould, whose imagination had
been permanently affected by the one great fact of a silver mine, had no
objection to this theory of the world's future. If it had seemed distasteful for
a moment it was because the sudden statement of such vast eventualities dwarfed
almost to nothingness the actual matter in hand. He and his plans and all the
mineral wealth of the Occidental Province appeared suddenly robbed of every
vestige of magnitude. The sensation was disagreeable; but Charles Gould was not
dull. Already he felt that he was producing a favourable impression; the
consciousness of that flattering fact helped him to a vague smile, which his big
interlocutor took for a smile of discreet and admiring assent. He smiled
quietly, too; and immediately Charles Gould with that mental agility mankind
will display in defence of a cherished hope, reflected that the very apparent
insignificance of his aim would help him to success. His personality and his
mine would be taken up because it was a matter of no great consequence, one way
or another, to a man who referred his action to such a prodigious destiny. And
Charles Gould was not humiliated by this consideration, because the thing
remained as big as ever for him. Nobody else's vast conceptions of destiny could
diminish the aspect of his desire for the redemption of the San Tomé mine. In
comparison to the correctness of his aim, definite in space and absolutely
attainable within a limited time, the other man appeared for an instant as a
dreamy idealist of no importance.
    The great man, massive and benignant, had been looking at him thoughtfully;
when he broke the short silence it was to remark that concessions flew about
thick in the air of Costaguana. Any simple soul that just yearned to be taken in
could bring down a concession at the first shot.
    »Our consuls get their mouths stopped with them,« he continued, with a
twinkle of genial scorn in his eyes. But in a moment he became grave. »A
conscientious, upright man, that cares nothing for boodle, and keeps clear of
their intrigues, conspiracies, and factions, soon gets his passports. See that,
Mr. Gould? Persona non grata. That's the reason our Government is never properly
informed. On the other hand, Europe must be kept out of this continent, and for
proper interference on our part the time is not yet ripe, I dare say. But we
here - we are not this country's Government, neither are we simple souls. Your
affair is all right. The main question for us is whether the second partner, and
that's you, is the right sort to hold his own against the third and unwelcome
partner, which is one or another of the high and mighty robber gangs that run
the Costaguana Government. What do you think, Mr. Gould, eh?«
    He bent forward to look steadily into the unflinching eyes of Charles Gould,
who, remembering the large box full of his father's letters, put the accumulated
scorn and bitterness of many years into the tone of his answer -
    »As far as the knowledge of these men and their methods and their politics
is concerned, I can answer for myself. I have been fed on that sort of knowledge
since I was a boy. I am not likely to fall into mistake from excess of
optimism.«
    »Not likely, eh? That's all right. Tact and a stiff upper lip is what you'll
want; and you could bluff a little on the strength of your backing. Not too
much, though. We will go with you as long as the thing runs straight. But we
won't be drawn into any large trouble. This is the experiment which I am willing
to make. There is some risk, and we will take it; but if you can't keep up your
end, we will stand our loss, of course, and then - we'll let the thing go. This
mine can wait; it has been shut up before, as you know. You must understand that
under no circumstances will we consent to throw good money after bad.«
    Thus the great personage had spoken then, in his own private office, in a
great city where other men (very considerable in the eyes of a vain populace)
waited with alacrity upon a wave of his hand. And rather more than a year later,
during his unexpected appearance in Sulaco, he had emphasized his uncompromising
attitude with a freedom of sincerity permitted to his wealth and influence. He
did this with the less reserve, perhaps, because the inspection of what had been
done, and more still the way in which successive steps had been taken, had
impressed him with the conviction that Charles Gould was perfectly capable of
keeping up his end.
    »This young fellow,« he thought to himself, »may yet become a power in the
land.«
    This thought flattered him, for hitherto the only account of this young man
he could give to his intimates was -
    »My brother-in-law met him in one of these one-horse old German towns, near
some mines, and sent him on to me with a letter. He's one of the Costaguana
Goulds, pure-bred Englishmen, but all born in the country. His uncle went into
politics, was the last Provincial President of Sulaco, and got shot after a
battle. His father was a prominent business man in Sta. Marta, tried to keep
clear of their politics, and died ruined after a lot of revolutions. And that's
your Costaguana in a nutshell.«
    Of course, he was too great a man to be questioned as to his motives, even
by his intimates. The outside world was at liberty to wonder respectfully at the
hidden meaning of his actions. He was so great a man that his lavish patronage
of the purer forms of Christianity (which in its naive form of church-building
amused Mrs. Gould) was looked upon by his fellow-citizens as the manifestation
of a pious and humble spirit. But in his own circles of the financial world the
taking up of such a thing as the San Tomé mine was regarded with respect,
indeed, but rather as a subject for discreet jocularity. It was a great man's
caprice. In the great Holroyd building (an enormous pile of iron, glass, and
blocks of stone at the corner of two streets, cobwebbed aloft by the radiation
of telegraph wires) the heads of principal departments exchanged humorous
glances, which meant that they were not let into the secrets of the San Tomé
business. The Costaguana mail (it was never large - one fairly heavy envelope)
was taken unopened straight into the great man's room, and no instructions
dealing with it had ever been issued thence. The office whispered that he
answered personally - and not by dictation either, but actually writing in his
own hand, with pen and ink, and, it was to be supposed, taking a copy in his own
private press copy-book, inaccessible to profane eyes. Some scornful young men,
insignificant pieces of minor machinery in that eleven-storey-high workshop of
great affairs, expressed frankly their private opinion that the great chief had
done at last something silly, and was ashamed of his folly; others, elderly and
insignificant, but full of romantic reverence for the business that had devoured
their best years, used to mutter darkly and knowingly that this was a portentous
sign; that the Holroyd connection meant by-and-by to get hold of the whole
Republic of Costaguana, lock, stock, and barrel. But, in fact, the hobby theory
was the right one. It interested the great man to attend personally to the San
Tomé mine; it interested him so much that he allowed this hobby to give a
direction to the first complete holiday he had taken for quite a startling
number of years. He was not running a great enterprise there; no mere railway
board or industrial corporation. He was running a man! A success would have
pleased him very much on refreshingly novel grounds; but, on the other side of
the same feeling, it was incumbent upon him to cast it off utterly at the first
sign of failure. A man may be thrown off. The papers had unfortunately trumpeted
all over the land his journey to Costaguana. If he was pleased at the way
Charles Gould was going on, he infused an added grimness into his assurances of
support. Even at the very last interview, half an hour or so before he rolled
out of the patio, hat in hand, behind Mrs. Gould's white mules, he had said in
Charles's room -
    »You go ahead in your own way, and I shall know how to help you as long as
you hold your own. But you may rest assured that in a given case we shall know
how to drop you in time.«
    To this Charles Gould's only answer had been: »You may begin sending out the
machinery as soon as you like.«
    And the great man had liked this imperturbable assurance. The secret of it
was that to Charles Gould's mind these uncompromising terms were agreeable. Like
this the mine preserved its identity, with which he had endowed it as a boy; and
it remained dependent on himself alone. It was a serious affair, and he, too,
took it grimly.
    »Of course,« he said to his wife, alluding to this last conversation with
the departed guest, while they walked slowly up and down the corridor, followed
by the irritated eye of the parrot - »of course, a man of that sort can take up
a thing or drop it when he likes. He will suffer from no sense of defeat. He may
have to give in, or he may have to die to-morrow, but the great silver and iron
interests shall survive, and some day shall get hold of Costaguana along with
the rest of the world.«
    They had stopped near the cage. The parrot, catching the sound of a word
belonging to his vocabulary, was moved to interfere. Parrots are very human.
    »Viva Costaguana!« he shrieked, with intense self-assertion, and, instantly
ruffling up his feathers, assumed an air of puffed-up somnolence behind the
glittering wires.
    »And do you believe that, Charley?« Mrs. Gould asked. »This seems to me most
awful materialism, and -«
    »My dear, it's nothing to me,« interrupted her hus band, in a reasonable
tone. »I make use of what I see. What's it to me whether his talk is the voice
of destiny or simply a bit of clap-trap eloquence? There's a good deal of
eloquence of one sort or another produced in both Americas. The air of the New
World seems favourable to the art of declamation. Have you forgotten how dear
Avellanos can hold forth for hours here -?«
    »Oh, but that's different,« protested Mrs. Gould, almost shocked. The
allusion was not to the point. Don José was a dear good man, who talked very
well, and was enthusiastic about the greatness of the San Tomé mine. »How can
you compare them, Charles?« she exclaimed, reproachfully »He has suffered - and
yet he hopes.«
    The working competence of men - which she never questioned - was very
surprising to Mrs. Gould, because upon so many obvious issues they showed
themselves strangely muddle-headed.
    Charles Gould, with a careworn calmness which secured for him at once his
wife's anxious sympathy, assured her that he was not comparing. He was an
American himself, after all, and perhaps he could understand both kinds of
eloquence - »if it were worth while to try,« he added, grimly. But he had
breathed the air of England longer than any of his people had done for three
generations, and really he begged to be excused. His poor father could be
eloquent, too. And he asked his wife whether she remembered a passage in one of
his father's last letters where Mr. Gould had expressed the conviction that »God
looked wrathfully at these countries, or else He would let some ray of hope fall
through a rift in the appalling darkness of intrigue, bloodshed, and crime that
hung over the Queen of Continents.«
    Mrs. Gould had not forgotten. »You read it to me, Charley,« she murmured.
»It was a striking pronouncement. How deeply your father must have felt its
terrible sadness!«
    »He did not like to be robbed. It exasperated him,« said Charles Gould. »But
the image will serve well enough. What is wanted here is law, good faith, order,
security. Any one can declaim about these things, but I pin my faith to material
interests. Only let the material interests once get a firm footing, and they are
bound to impose the conditions on which alone they can continue to exist. That's
how your money-making is justified here in the face of lawlessness and disorder.
It is justified because the security which it demands must be shared with an
oppressed people. A better justice will come afterwards. That's your ray of
hope.« His arm pressed her slight form closer to his side for a moment. »And who
knows whether in that sense even the San Tomé mine may not become that little
rift in the darkness which poor father despaired of ever seeing?«
    She glanced up at him with admiration. He was competent; he had given a vast
shape to the vagueness of her unselfish ambitions.
    »Charley,« she said, »you are splendidly disobedient.«
    He left her suddenly in the corrédor to go and get his hat, a soft, grey
sombrero, an article of national costume which combined unexpectedly well with
his English get-up. He came back, a riding-whip under his arm, buttoning up a
dogskin glove; his face reflected the resolute nature of his thoughts. His wife
had waited for him at the head of the stairs, and before he gave her the parting
kiss he finished the conversation -
    »What should be perfectly clear to us,« he said, »is the fact that there is
no going back. Where could we begin life afresh? We are in now for all that
there is in us.«
    He bent over her upturned face very tenderly and a little remorsefully.
Charles Gould was competent because he had no illusions. The Gould Concession
had to fight for life with such weapons as could be found at once in the mire of
corruption that was so universal as to almost lose its significance. He was
prepared to stoop for his weapons. For a moment he felt as if the silver mine,
which had killed his father, had decoyed him further than he meant to go; and
with the round-about logic of emotions, he felt that the worthiness of his life
was bound up with success. There was no going back.
 

                                 Chapter Seven

Mrs. Gould was too intelligently sympathetic not to share that feeling. It made
life exciting, and she was too much of a woman not to like excitement. But it
frightened her, too, a little; and when Don José Avellanos, rocking in the
American chair, would go so far as to say, »Even, my dear Carlos, if you had
failed; even if some untoward event were yet to destroy your work - which God
forbid! - you would have deserved well of your country,« Mrs. Gould would look
up from the tea-table profoundly at her unmoved husband stirring the spoon in
the cup as though he had not heard a word.
    Not that Don José anticipated anything of the sort. He could not praise
enough dear Carlos's tact and courage. His English, rock-like quality of
character was his best safeguard, Don Jose affirmed; and, turning to Mrs. Gould,
»As to you, Emilia, my soul« - he would address her with the familiarity of his
age and old friendship - »you are as true a patriot as though you had been born
in our midst.«
    This might have been less or more than the truth. Mrs. Gould, accompanying
her husband all over the province in the search for labour, had seen the land
with a deeper glance than a trueborn Costaguanera could have done. In her
travel-worn riding habit, her face powdered white like a plaster cast, with a
further protection of a small silk mask during the heat of the day, she rode on
a well-shaped, light-footed pony in the centre of a little cavalcade. Two mozos
de campo, picturesque in great hats, with spurred bare heels, in white
embroidered calzoneras, leather jackets and striped ponchos, rode ahead with
carbines across their shoulders, swaying in unison to the pace of the horses. A
tropilla of pack mules brought up the rear in charge of a thin brown muleteer,
sitting his long-eared beast very near the tail, legs thrust far forward, the
wide brim of his hat set far back, making a sort of halo for his head. An old
Costaguana officer, a retired senior major of humble origin, but patronized by
the first families on account of his Blanco opinions, had been recommended by
Don José for commissary and organizer of that expedition. The points of his grey
moustache hung far below his chin, and, riding on Mrs. Gould's left hand, he
looked about with kindly eyes, pointing out the features of the country, telling
the names of the little pueblos and of the estates, of the smooth-walled
haciendas like long fortresses crowning the knolls above the level of the Sulaco
Valley. It unrolled itself, with green young crops, plains, woodland, and gleams
of water, park-like, from the blue vapour of the distant sierra to an immense
quivering horizon of grass and sky, where big white clouds seemed to fall slowly
into the darkness of their own shadows.
    Men ploughed with wooden ploughs and yoked oxen, small on a boundless
expanse, as if attacking immensity itself. The mounted figures of vaqueros
galloped in the distance, and the great herds fed with all their horned heads
one way, in one single wavering line as far as eye could reach across the broad
potreros. A spreading cotton-wool tree shaded a thatched ranche by the road; the
trudging files of burdened Indians taking off their hats, would lift sad, mute
eyes to the cavalcade raising the dust of the crumbling camino real made by the
hands of their enslaved forefathers. And Mrs. Gould, with each day's journey,
seemed to come nearer to the soul of the land in the tremendous disclosure of
this interior unaffected by the slight European veneer of the coast towns, a
great land of plain and mountain and people, suffering and mute, waiting for the
future in a pathetic immobility of patience.
    She knew its sights and its hospitality, dispensed with a sort of slumbrous
dignity in those great houses presenting long, blind walls and heavy portals to
the wind-swept pastures. She was given the head of the tables, where masters and
dependants sat in a simple and patriarchal state. The ladies of the house would
talk softly in the moonlight under the orange trees of the courtyards,
impressing upon her the sweetness of their voices and the something mysterious
in the quietude of their lives. In the morning the gentlemen, well mounted in
braided sombreros and embroidered riding suits, with much silver on the
trappings of their horses, would ride forth to escort the departing guests
before committing them, with grave good-byes, to the care of God at the boundary
pillars of their estates. In all these households she could hear stories of
political outrage; friends, relatives, ruined, imprisoned, killed in the battles
of senseless civil wars, barbarously executed in ferocious proscriptions, as
though the government of the country had been a struggle of lust between bands
of absurd devils let loose upon the land with sabres and uniforms and
grandiloquent phrases. And on all the lips she found a weary desire for peace,
the dread of officialdom with its nightmarish parody of administration without
law, without security, and without justice.
    She bore a whole two months of wandering very well; she had that power of
resistance to fatigue which one discovers here and there in some quite
frail-looking women with surprise - like a state of possession by a remarkably
stubborn spirit. Don Pépé - the old Costaguana major - after much display of
solicitude for the delicate lady, had ended by conferring upon her the name of
the Never-tired Señora. Mrs. Gould was indeed becoming a Costaguanera. Having
acquired in Southern Europe a knowledge of true peasantry, she was able to
appreciate the great worth of the people. She saw the man under the silent,
sad-eyed beast of burden. She saw them on the road carrying loads, lonely
figures upon the plain, toiling under great straw hats, with their white
clothing flapping about their limbs in the wind; she remembered the villages by
some group of Indian women at the fountain impressed upon her memory, by the
face of some young Indian girl with a melancholy and sensual profile, raising an
earthenware vessel of cool water at the door of a dark hut with a wooden porch
cumbered with great brown jars. The solid wooden wheels of an ox-cart, halted
with its shafts in the dust, showed the strokes of the axe; and a party of
charcoal carriers, with each man's load resting above his head on the top of the
low mud wall, slept stretched in a row within the strip of shade.
    The heavy stonework of bridges and churches left by the conquerors
proclaimed the disregard of human labour, the tribute-labour of vanished
nations. The power of king and church was gone, but at the sight of some heavy
ruinous pile overtopping from a knoll the low mud walls of a village, Don Pépé
would interrupt the tale of his campaigns to exclaim -
    »Poor Costaguana! Before, it was everything for the Padres, nothing for the
people; and now it is everything for these great politicos in Sta. Marta, for
Negroes and thieves.«
    Charles talked with the alcaldes, with the fiscales, with the principal
people in towns, and with the caballeros on the estates. The commandantes of the
districts offered him escorts - for he could show an authorization from the
Sulaco political chief of the day. How much the document had cost him in gold
twenty-dollar pieces was a secret between himself, a great man in the United
States (who condescended to answer the Sulaco mail with his own hand), and a
great man of another sort, with a dark olive complexion and shifty eyes,
inhabiting then the Palace of the Intendencia in Sulaco, and who piqued himself
on his culture and Europeanism generally in a rather French style because he had
lived in Europe for some years - in exile, he said. However, it was pretty well
known that just before this exile he had incautiously gambled away all the cash
in the Custom House of a small port where a friend in power had procured for him
the post of sub-collector. That youthful indiscretion had, amongst other
inconveniences, obliged him to earn his living for a time as a café waiter in
Madrid; but his talents must have been great, after all, since they had enabled
him to retrieve his political fortunes so splendidly. Charles Gould, exposing
his business with an imperturbable steadiness, called him Excellency.
    The provincial Excellency assumed a weary superiority, tilting his chair far
back near an open window in the true Costaguana manner. The military band
happened to be braying operatic selections on the plaza just then, and twice he
raised his hand imperatively for silence in order to listen to a favourite
passage.
    »Exquisite, delicious!« he murmured; while Charles Gould waited, standing by
with inscrutable patience. »Lucia, Lucia di Lammermoor! I am passionate for
music. It transports me. Ha! the divine - ha! - Mozart. Si! divine. ... What is
it you were saying?«
    Of course, rumours had reached him already of the newcomer's intentions.
Besides, he had received an official warning from Sta. Marta. His manner was
intended simply to conceal his curiosity and impress his visitor. But after he
had locked up something valuable in the drawer of a large writing-desk in a
distant part of the room, he became very affable, and walked back to his chair
smartly.
    »If you intend to build villages and assemble a population near the mine,
you shall require a decree of the Minister of the Interior for that,« he
suggested in a business-like manner.
    »I have already sent a memorial,« said Charles Gould, steadily, »and I
reckon now confidently upon your Excellency's favourable conclusions.«
    The Excellency was a man of many moods. With the receipt of the money a
great mellowness had descended upon his simple soul. Unexpectedly he fetched a
deep sigh.
    »Ah, Don Carlos! What we want is advanced men like you in the province. The
lethargy - the lethargy of these aristocrats! The want of public spirit! The
absence of all enterprise! I, with my profound studies in Europe, you understand
-«
    With one hand thrust into his swelling bosom, he rose and fell on his toes,
and for ten minutes, almost without drawing breath, went on hurling himself
intellectually to the assault of Charles Gould's polite silence; and when,
stopping abruptly, he fell back into his chair, it was as though he had been
beaten off from a fortress. To save his dignity he hastened to dismiss this
silent man with a solemn inclination of the head and the words, pronounced with
moody, fatigued condescension -
    »You may depend upon my enlightened goodwill as long as your conduct as a
good citizen deserves it.«
    He took up a paper fan and began to cool himself with a consequential air,
while Charles Gould bowed and withdrew. Then he dropped the fan at once, and
stared with an appearance of wonder and perplexity at the closed door for quite
a long time. At last he shrugged his shoulders as if to assure himself of his
disdain. Cold, dull. No intellectuality. Red hair. A true Englishman. He
despised him.
    His face darkened. What meant this unimpressed and frigid behaviour? He was
the first of the successive politicians sent out from the capital to rule the
Occidental Province whom the manner of Charles Gould in official intercourse was
to strike as offensively independent.
    Charles Gould assumed that if the appearance of listening to deplorable
balderdash must form part of the price he had to pay for being left unmolested,
the obligation of uttering balderdash personally was by no means included in the
bargain. He drew the line there. To these provincial autocrats, before whom the
peaceable population of all classes had been accustomed to tremble, the reserve
of that English-looking engineer caused an uneasiness which swung to and fro
between cringing and truculence. Gradually all of them discovered that, no
matter what party was in power, that man remained in most effective touch with
the higher authorities in Sta. Marta.
    This was a fact, and it accounted perfectly for the Goulds being by no means
so wealthy as the engineer- on the new railway could legitimately suppose.
Following the advice of Don José Avellanos, who was a man of good counsel
(though rendered timid by his horrible experiences of Guzman Bento's time),
Charles Gould had kept clear of the capital; but in the current gossip of the
foreign residents there he was known (with a good deal of seriousness underlying
the irony) by the nickname of King of Sulaco. An advocate of the Costaguana Bar,
a man of reputed ability and good character, member of the distinguished Moraga
family possessing extensive estates in the Sulaco Valley, was pointed out to
strangers, with a shade of mystery and respect, as the agent of the San Tomé
mine - »political, you know.« He was tall, black-whiskered, and discreet. It was
known that he had easy access to ministers, and that the numerous Costaguana
generals were always anxious to dine at his house. Presidents granted him
audience with facility. He corresponded actively with his maternal uncle, Don
José Avellanos; but his letters - unless those expressing formally his dutiful
affection - were seldom entrusted to the Costaguana Post Office. There the
envelopes are opened, indiscriminately, with the frankness of a brazen and
childish impudence characteristic of some Spanish-American Governments. But it
must be noted that at about the time of the re-opening of the San Tomé mine the
muleteer who had been employed by Charles Gould in his preliminary travels on
the Campo added his small train of animals to the thin stream of traffic carried
over the mountain passes between the Sta. Marta upland and the Valley of Sulaco.
There are no travellers by that arduous and unsafe route unless under very
exceptional circumstances, and the state of inland trade did not visibly require
additional transport facilities; but the man seemed to find his account in it. A
few packages were always found for him whenever he took the road. Very brown and
wooden, in goatskin breeches with the hair outside, he sat near the tail of his
own smart mule, his great hat turned against the sun, an expression of blissful
vacancy on his long face, humming day after day a love-song in a plaintive key,
or, without a change of expression, letting out a yell at his small tropilla in
front. A round little guitar hung high up on his back; and there was a place
scooped out artistically in the wood of one of his pack-saddles where a tightly
rolled piece of paper could be slipped in, the wooden plug replaced, and the
coarse canvas nailed on again. When in Sulaco it was his practice to smoke and
doze all day long (as though he had no care in the world) on a stone bench
outside the doorway of the Casa Gould and facing the windows of the Avellanos
house. Years and years ago his mother had been chief laundry-woman in that
family - very accomplished in the matter of clear-starching. He himself had been
born on one of their haciendas. His name was Bonifacio, and Don José, crossing
the street about five o'clock to call on Doña Emilia, always acknowledged his
humble salute by some movement of hand or head. The porters of both houses
conversed lazily with him in tones of grave intimacy. His evenings he devoted to
gambling and to calls in a spirit of generous festivity upon the peyne d'oro
girls in the more remote side-streets of the town. But he, too, was a discreet
man.
 

                                 Chapter Eight

Those of us whom business or curiosity took to Sulaco in these years before the
first advent of the railway can remember the steadying effect of the San Tomé
mine upon the life of that remote province. The outward appearances had not
changed then as they have changed since, as I am told, with cable cars running
along the streets of the Constitution, and carriage roads far into the country,
to Rincon and other villages, where the foreign merchants and the Ricos
generally have their modern villas, and a vast railway goods yard by the
harbour, which has a quay-side, a long range of warehouses, and quite serious,
organized labour troubles of its own.
    Nobody had ever heard of labour troubles then. The Cargadores of the port
formed, indeed, an unruly brotherhood of all sorts of scum, with a patron saint
of their own. They went on strike regularly (every bull-fight day), a form of
trouble that even Nostromo at the height of his prestige could never cope with
efficiently; but the morning after each fiesta, before the Indian market-women
had opened their mat parasols on the plaza, when the snows of Higuerota gleamed
pale over the town on a yet black sky, the appearance of a phantom-like horseman
mounted on a silver-grey mare solved the problem of labour without fail. His
steed paced the lanes of the slums and the weed-grown enclosures within the old
ramparts, between the black, lightless cluster of huts, like cow-byres, like
dog-kennels. The horseman hammered with the butt of a heavy revolver at the
doors of low pulperias, of obscene lean-to sheds sloping against the tumble-down
piece of a noble wall, at the wooden sides of dwellings so flimsy that the sound
of snores and sleepy mutters within could be heard in the pauses of the
thundering clatter of his blows. He called out men's names menacingly from the
saddle, once, twice. The drowsy answers - grumpy, conciliating, savage, jocular,
or deprecating - came out into the silent darkness in which the horseman sat
still, and presently a dark figure would flit out coughing in the still air.
Sometimes a low-toned woman cried through the window-hole softly, »He's coming
directly, señor,« and the horseman waited silent on a motionless horse. But if
perchance he had to dismount, then, after a while, from the door of that hovel
or of that pulperia, with a ferocious scuffle and stifled imprecations, a
cargador would fly out head first and hands abroad, to sprawl under the forelegs
of the silver-grey mare, who only pricked forward her sharp little ears. She was
used to that work; and the man, picking himself up, would walk away hastily from
Nostromo's revolver, reeling a little along the street and snarling low curses.
At sunrise Captain Mitchell, coming out anxiously in his night attire on to the
wooden balcony running the whole length of the O.S.N. Company's lonely building
by the shore, would see the lighters already under way, figures moving busily
about the cargo cranes, perhaps hear the invaluable Nostromo, now dismounted and
in the checked shirt and red sash of a Mediterranean sailor, bawling orders from
the end of the jetty in a stentorian voice. A fellow in a thousand!
    The material apparatus of perfected civilization which obliterates the
individuality of old towns under the stereotyped conveniences of modern life had
not intruded as yet; but over the worn-out antiquity of Sulaco, so
characteristic with its stuccoed houses and barred windows, with the great
yellowy-white walls of abandoned convents behind the rows of sombre green
cypresses, that fact - very modern in its spirit - the San Tomé mine had already
thrown its subtle influence. It had altered, too, the outward character of the
crowds on feast days on the plaza before the open portal of the cathedral, by
the number of white ponchos with a green stripe affected as holiday wear by the
San Tomé miners. They had also adopted white hats with green cord and braid -
articles of good quality, which could be obtained in the storehouse of the
administration for very little money. A peaceable Cholo wearing these colours
(unusual in Costaguana) was somehow very seldom beaten to within an inch of his
life on a charge of disrespect to the town police; neither ran he much risk of
being suddenly lassoed on the road by a recruiting party of lanceros - a method
of voluntary enlistment looked upon as almost legal in the Republic. Whole
villages were known to have volunteered for the army in that way; but, as Don
Pépé would say with a hopeless shrug to Mrs. Gould, »What would you! Poor
people! Pobrecitos! Pobrecitos! But the State must have its soldiers.«
    Thus professionally spoke Don Pépé, the fighter, with pendent moustaches, a
nut-brown, lean face, and a clean run of a cast-iron jaw, suggesting the type of
a cattle-herd horseman from the great Llanos of the South. »If you will listen
to an old officer of Paez, señores,« was the exordium of all his speeches in the
Aristocratic Club of Sulaco, where he was admitted on account of his past
services to the extinct cause of Federation. The club, dating from the days of
the proclamation of Costaguana's independence, boasted many names of liberators
amongst its first founders. Suppressed arbitrarily innumerable times by various
Governments, with memories of proscriptions and of at least one wholesale
massacre of its members, sadly assembled for a banquet by the order of a zealous
military commandante (their bodies were afterwards stripped naked and flung into
the plaza out of the windows by the lowest scum of the populace), it was again
flourishing, at that period, peacefully. It extended to strangers the large
hospitality of the cool, big rooms of its historic quarters in the front part of
a house, once the residence of a high official of the Holy Office. The two
wings, shut up, crumbled behind the nailed doors, and what may be described as a
grove of young orange trees grown in the unpaved patio concealed the utter ruin
of the back part facing the gate. You turned in from the street, as if entering
a secluded orchard, where you came upon the foot of a disjointed staircase,
guarded by a moss-stained effigy of some saintly bishop, mitred and staffed, and
bearing the indignity of a broken nose meekly, with his fine stone hands crossed
on his breast. The chocolate-coloured faces of servants with mops of black hair
peeped at you from above; the click of billiard balls came to your ears, and
ascending the steps, you would perhaps see in the first sala, very stiff upon a
straight-backed chair, in a good light, Don Pépé moving his long moustaches as
he spelt his way, at arm's length, through an old Sta. Marta newspaper. His
horse - a stony-hearted but persevering black brute with a hammer head - you
would have seen in the street dozing motionless under an immense saddle, with
its nose almost touching the curbstone of the sidewalk.
    Don Pépé, when down from the mountain, as the phrase, often heard in Sulaco,
went, could also be seen in the drawing-room of the Casa Gould. He sat with
modest assurance at some distance from the tea-table. With his knees close
together, and a kindly twinkle of drollery in his deep-set eyes, he would throw
his small and ironic pleasantries into the current of conversation. There was in
that man a sort of sane, humorous shrewdness, and a vein of genuine humanity so
often found in simple old soldiers of proved courage who have seen much
desperate service. Of course he knew nothing whatever of mining, but his
employment was of a special kind. He was in charge of the whole population in
the territory of the mine, which extended from the head of the gorge to where
the cart track from the foot of the mountain enters the plain, crossing a stream
over a little wooden bridge painted green - green, the colour of hope, being
also the colour of the mine.
    It was reported in Sulaco that up there at the mountain Don Pépé walked
about precipitous paths, girt with a great sword and in a shabby uniform with
tarnished bullion epaulettes of a senior major. Most miners being Indians, with
big wild eyes, addressed him as Taita (father), as these barefooted people of
Costaguana will address anybody who wears shoes; but it was Basilio, Mr. Gould's
own mozo and the head servant of the Casa, who, in all good faith and from a
sense of propriety, announced him once in the solemn words, »El Señor Gobernador
has arrived.«
    Don José Avellanos, then in the drawing-room, was delighted beyond measure
at the aptness of the title, with which he greeted the old major banteringly as
soon as the latter's soldierly figure appeared in the doorway. Don Pépé only
smiled in his long moustaches, as much as to say, »You might have found a worse
name for an old soldier.«
    And El Señor Gobernador he had remained, with his small jokes upon his
function and upon his domain, where he affirmed with humorous exaggeration to
Mrs. Gould -
    »No two stones could come together anywhere without the Gobernador hearing
the click, señora.«
    And he would tap his ear with the tip of his forefinger knowingly. Even when
the number of the miners alone rose to over six hundred he seemed to know each
of them individually, all the innumerable Josés, Manuels, Ignacios, from the
villages primero - segundo - or tercero (there were three mining villages) under
his government. He could distinguish them not only by their flat, joyless faces,
which to Mrs. Gould looked all alike, as if run into the same ancestral mould of
suffering and patience, but apparently also by the infinitely graduated shades
of reddish-brown, of blackish-brown, of coppery-brown backs, as the two shifts,
stripped to linen drawers and leather skull-caps, mingled together with a
confusion of naked limbs, of shouldered picks, swinging lamps, in a great
shuffle of sandalled feet on the open plateau before the entrance of the main
tunnel. It was a time of pause. The Indian boys leaned idly against the long
line of little cradle wagons standing empty; the screeners and ore-breakers
squatted on their heels smoking long cigars; the great wooden shoots slanting
over the edge of the tunnel plateau were silent; and only the ceaseless, violent
rush of water in the open flumes could be heard, murmuring fiercely, with the
splash and rumble of revolving turbine-wheels, and the thudding march of the
stamps pounding to powder the treasure rock on the plateau below. The heads of
gangs, distinguished by brass medals hanging on their bare breasts, marshalled
their squads; and at last the mountain would swallow one-half of the silent
crowd, while the other half would move off in long files down the zigzag paths
leading to the bottom of the gorge. It was deep; and, far below, a thread of
vegetation winding between the blazing rock faces resembled a slender green
cord, in which three lumpy knots of banana patches, palm-leaf roots, and shady
trees marked the Village One, Village Two, Village Three, housing the miners of
the Gould Concession.
    Whole families had been moving from the first towards the spot in the
Higuerota range, whence the rumour of work and safety had spread over the
pastoral Campo, forcing its way also, even as the waters of a high flood, into
the nooks and crannies of the distant blue walls of the Sierras. Father first,
in a pointed straw hat, then the mother with the bigger children, generally also
a diminutive donkey, all under burdens, except the leader himself, or perhaps
some grown girl, the pride of the family, stepping barefooted and straight as an
arrow, with braids of raven hair, a thick, haughty profile, and no load to carry
but the small guitar of the country and a pair of soft leather sandals tied
together on her back. At the sight of such parties strung out on the cross
trails between the pastures, or camped by the side of the royal road, travellers
on horseback would remark to each other -
    »More people going to the San Tomé mine. We shall see others to-morrow.«
    And spurring on in the dusk they would discuss the great news of the
province, the news of the San Tomé mine. A rich Englishman was going to work it
- and perhaps not an Englishman, Quien sabe! A foreigner with much money. Oh,
yes, it had begun. A party of men who had been to Sulaco with a herd of black
bulls for the next corrida had reported that from the porch of the posada in
Rincon, only a short league from the town, the lights on the mountain were
visible, twinkling above the trees. And there was a woman seen riding a horse
sideways, not in the chair seat, but upon a sort of saddle, and a man's hat on
her head. She walked about, too, on foot up the mountain paths. A woman
engineer, it seemed she was.
    »What an absurdity! Impossible, señor!«
    »Si! Si! Una Americana del Norte.«
    »Ah, well! if your worship is informed. Una Americana; it need be something
of that sort.«
    And they would laugh a little with astonishment and scorn, keeping a wary
eye on the shadows of the road, for one is liable to meet bad men when
travelling late on the Campo.
    And it was not only the men that Don Pépé knew so well, but he seemed able,
with one attentive, thoughtful glance, to classify each woman, girl, or growing
youth of his domain. It was only the small fry that puzzled him sometimes. He
and the padre could be seen frequently side by side, meditative and gazing
across the street of a village at a lot of sedate brown children, trying to sort
them out, as it were, in low, consulting tones, or else they would together put
searching questions as to the parentage of some small, staid urchin met
wandering, naked and grave, along the road with a cigar in his baby mouth, and
perhaps his mother's rosary, purloined for purposes of ornamentation, hanging in
a loop of beads low down on his rotund little stomach. The spiritual and
temporal pastors of the mine flock were very good friends. With Dr. Monygham,
the medical pastor, who had accepted the charge from Mrs. Gould, and lived in
the hospital building, they were on not so intimate terms. But no one could be
on intimate terms with El Señor Doctor, who, with his twisted shoulders,
drooping head, sardonic mouth, and side-long bitter glance, was mysterious and
uncanny. The other two authorities worked in harmony. Father Roman, dried-up,
small, alert, wrinkled, with big round eyes, a sharp chin, and a great
snuff-taker, was an old campaigner, too; he had shriven many simple souls on the
battlefields of the Republic, kneeling by the dying on hillsides, in the long
grass, in the gloom of the forests, to hear the last confession with the smell
of gunpowder smoke in his nostrils, the rattle of muskets, the hum and spatter
of bullets in his ears. And where was the harm if, at the presbytery, they had a
game with a pack of greasy cards in the early evening, before Don Pépé went his
last rounds to see that all the watchmen of the mine - a body organized by
himself - were at their posts? For that last duty before he slept Don Pépé did
actually gird his old sword on the verandah of an unmistakable American white
frame house, which Father Roman called the presbytery. Near by, a long, low,
dark building, steeple-roofed, like a vast barn with a wooden cross over the
gable, was the miners' chapel. There Father Roman said Mass every day before a
sombre altar-piece representing the Resurrection, the grey slab of the tombstone
balanced on one corner, a figure soaring upwards, long-limbed and livid, in an
oval of pallid light, and a helmeted brown legionary smitten down, right across
the bituminous foreground. »This picture, my children, muy linda e maravillosa,«
Father Roman would say to some of his flock, »which you behold here through the
munificence of the wife of our Señor Administrator, has been painted in Europe,
a country of saints and miracles, and much greater than our Costaguana.« And he
would take a pinch of snuff with unction. But when once an inquisitive spirit
desired to know in what direction this Europe was situated, whether up or down
the coast, Father Roman, to conceal his perplexity, became very reserved and
severe. »No doubt it is extremely far away. But ignorant sinners like you of the
San Tomé mine should think earnestly of everlasting punishment instead of
inquiring into the magnitude of the earth, with its countries and populations
altogether beyond your understanding.«
    With a »Good-night, Padre;« »Good-night, Don Pépé,« the Gobernador would go
off, holding up his sabre against his side, his body bent forward, with a long,
plodding stride in the dark. The jocularity proper to an innocent card game for
a few cigars or a bundle of yerba was replaced at once by the stern duty mood of
an officer setting out to visit the outposts of an encamped army. One loud blast
of the whistle that hung from his neck provoked instantly a great shrilling of
responding whistles, mingled with the barking of dogs, that would calm down
slowly at last, away up at the head of the gorge; and in the stillness two
serenos, on guard by the bridge, would appear walking noiselessly towards him.
On one side of the road a long frame building - the store - would be closed and
barricaded from end to end; facing it another white frame house, still longer,
and with a verandah - the hospital - would have lights in the two windows of Dr.
Monygham's quarters. Even the delicate foliage of a clump of pepper trees did
not stir, so breathless would be the darkness warmed by the radiation of the
over-heated rocks. Don Pépé would stand still for a moment with the two
motionless serenos before him, and, abruptly, high up on the sheer face of the
mountain, dotted with single torches, like drops of fire fallen from the two
great blazing clusters of lights above, the ore shoots would begin to rattle.
The great clattering, shuffling noise, gathering speed and weight, would be
caught up by the walls of the gorge, and sent upon the plain in a growl of
thunder. The pasadero in Rincon swore that on calm nights, by listening
intently, he could catch the sound in his doorway as of a storm in the
mountains.
    To Charles Gould's fancy it seemed that the sound must reach the uttermost
limits of the province. Riding at night towards the mine, it would meet him at
the edge of a little wood just beyond Rincon. There was no mistaking the
growling mutter of the mountain pouring its stream of treasure under the stamps;
and it came to his heart with the peculiar force of a proclamation thundered
forth over the land and the marvellousness of an accomplished fact fulfilling an
audacious desire. He had heard this desire. He had heard this very sound in his
imagination on that far-off evening when his wife and himself, after a tortuous
ride through a strip of forest, had reined in their horses near the stream, and
had gazed for the first time upon the jungle-grown solitude of the gorge. The
head of a palm rose here and there. In a high ravine round the corner of the San
Tomé mountain (which is square like a blockhouse) the thread of a slender
waterfall flashed bright and glassy through the dark green of the heavy fronds
of tree-ferns. Don Pépé, in attendance, rode up, and, stretching his arm up the
gorge, had declared with mock solemnity, »Behold the very paradise of snakes,
señora.«
    And then they had wheeled their horses and ridden back to sleep that night
at Rincon. The alcalde - an old, skinny Moreno, a sergeant of Guzman Bento's
time - had cleared respectfully out of his house with his three pretty
daughters, to make room for the foreign señora and their worships the
Caballeros. All he asked Charles Gould (whom he took for a mysterious and
official person) to do for him was to remind the supreme Government - El
Gobierno supremo - of a pension (amounting to about a dollar a month) to which
he believed himself entitled. It had been promised to him, he affirmed,
straightening his bent back martially, »many years ago, for my valour in the
wars with the wild Indios when a young man, señor.«
    The waterfall existed no longer. The tree-ferns that had luxuriated in its
spray had dried around the dried-up pool, and the high ravine was only a big
trench half filled up with the refuse of excavations and tailings. The torrent,
dammed up above, sent its water rushing along the open flumes of scooped tree
trunks striding on trestle-legs to the turbines working the stamps on the lower
plateau - the mesa grande of the San Tomé mountain. Only the memory of the
waterfall, with its amazing fernery, like a hanging garden above the rocks of
the gorge, was preserved in Mrs. Gould's water-colour sketch; she had made it
hastily one day from a cleared patch in the bushes, sitting in the shade of a
roof of straw erected for her on three rough poles under Don Pépé's direction.
    Mrs. Gould had seen it all from the beginning: the clearing of the
wilderness, the making of the road, the cutting of new paths up the cliff face
of San Tomé. For weeks together she had lived on the spot with her husband; and
she was so little in Sulaco during that year that the appearance of the Gould
carriage on the Alameda would cause a social excitement. From the heavy family
coaches full of stately señoras and black-eyed señoritas rolling solemnly in the
shaded alley white hands were waved towards her with animation in a flutter of
greetings. Doña Emilia was down from the mountain.
    But not for long. Doña Emilia would be gone up to the mountain in a day or
two, and her sleek carriage, mules would have an easy time of it for another
long spell. She had watched the erection of the first framehouse put up on the
lower mesa for an office and Don Pépé's quarters; she heard with a thrill of
thankful emotion the first wagon load of ore rattle down the then only shoot;
she had stood by her husband's side perfectly silent, and gone cold all over
with excitement at the instant when the first battery of only fifteen stamps was
put in motion for the first time. On the occasion when the fires under the first
set of retorts in their shed had glowed far into the night she did not retire to
rest on the rough cadre set up for her in the as yet bare frame-house till she
had seen the first spungy lump of silver yielded to the hazards of the world by
the dark depths of the Gould Concession; she had laid her unmercenary hands,
with an eagerness that made them tremble, upon the first silver ingot turned out
still warm from the mould; and by her imaginative estimate of its power she
endowed that lump of metal with a justificative conception, as though it were
not a mere fact, but something far-reaching and impalpable, like the true
expression of an emotion or the emergence of a principle.
    Don Pépé, extremely interested, too, looked over her shoulder with a smile
that, making longitudinal folds on his face, caused it to resemble a leathern
mask with a benignantly diabolic expression.
    »Would not the muchachos of Hernandez like to get hold of this insignificant
object, that looks, por Dios, very much like a piece of tin?« he remarked,
jocularly.
    Hernandez, the robber, had been an inoffensive, small ranchero, kidnapped
with circumstances of peculiar atrocity from his home during one of the civil
wars, and forced to serve in the army. There his conduct as soldier was
exemplary, till, watching his chance, he killed his colonel, and managed to get
clear away. With a band of deserters, who chose him for their chief, he had
taken refuge beyond the wild and waterless Bolson de Tonoro. The haciendas paid
him blackmail in cattle and horses; extraordinary stories were told of his
powers and of his wonderful escapes from capture. He used to ride,
single-handed, into the villages and the little towns on the Campo, driving a
pack mule before him, with two revolvers in his belt, go straight to the shop or
store, select what he wanted, and ride away unopposed because of the terror his
exploits and his audacity inspired. Poor country people he usually left alone;
the upper class were often stopped on the roads and robbed; but any unlucky
official that fell into his hands was sure to get a severe flogging. The army
officers did not like his name to be mentioned in their presence. His followers,
mounted on stolen horses, laughed at the pursuit of the regular cavalry sent to
hunt them down, and whom they took pleasure to ambush most scientifically in the
broken ground of their own fastness. Expeditions had been fitted out; a price
had been put upon his head; even attempts had been made, treacherously of
course, to open negotiations with him, without in the slightest way affecting
the even tenor of his career. At last, in true Costaguana fashion, the Fiscal of
Tonoro, who was ambitious of the glory of having reduced the famous Hernandez,
offered him a sum of money and a safe conduct out of the country for the
betrayal of his band. But Hernandez evidently was not of the stuff of which the
distinguished military politicians and conspirators of Costaguana are made. This
clever but common device (which frequently works like a charm in putting down
revolutions) failed with the chief of vulgar Salteadores. It promised well for
the Fiscal at first, but ended very badly for the squadron of lanceros posted
(by the Fiscal's directions) in a fold of the ground into which Hernandez had
promised to lead his unsuspecting followers. They came, indeed, at the appointed
time, but creeping on their hands and knees through the bush, and only let their
presence be known by a general discharge of firearms, which emptied many
saddles. The troopers who escaped came riding very hard into Tonoro. It is said
that their commanding officer (who, being better mounted, rode far ahead of the
rest) afterwards got into a state of despairing intoxication and beat the
ambitious Fiscal severely with the flat of his sabre in the presence of his wife
and daughters, for bringing this disgrace upon the National Army. The highest
civil official of Tonoro, falling to the ground in a swoon, was further kicked
all over the body and rowelled with sharp spurs about the neck and face because
of the great sensitiveness of his military colleague. This gossip of the inland
Campo, so characteristic of the rulers of the country with its story of
oppression, inefficiency, fatuous methods, treachery, and savage brutality, was
perfectly known to Mrs. Gould. That it should be accepted with no indignant
comment by people of intelligence, refinement, and character as something
inherent in the nature of things was one of the symptoms of degradation that had
the power to exasperate her almost to the verge of despair. Still looking at the
ingot of silver, she shook her head at Don Pépé's remark -
    »If it had not been for the lawless tyranny of your Government, Don Pépé,
many an outlaw now with Hernandez would be living peaceably and happy by the
honest work of his hands.«
    »Señora,« cried Don Pépé, with enthusiasm, »it is true! It is as if God had
given you the power to look into the very breasts of people. You have seen them
working round you. Doña Emilia - meek as lambs, patient like their own burros,
brave like lions. I have led them to the very muzzles of guns - I, who stand
here before you, señora - in the time of Paez, who was full of generosity, and
in courage only approached by the uncle of Don Carlos here, as far as I know. No
wonder there are bandits in the Campo when there are none but thieves,
swindlers, and sanguinary macaques to rule us in Sta. Marta. However, all the
same, a bandit is a bandit, and we shall have a dozen good straight Winchesters
to ride with the silver down to Sulaco.«
    Mrs. Gould's ride with the first silver escort to Sulaco was the closing
episode of what she called »my camp life« before she had settled in her
town-house permanently, as was proper and even necessary for the wife of the
administrator of such an important institution as the San Tomé mine. For the San
Tomé mine was to become an institution, a rallying point for everything in the
province that needed order and stability to live. Security seemed to flow upon
this land from the mountain-gorge. The authorities of Sulaco had learned that
the San Tomé mine could make it worth their while to leave things and people
alone. This was the nearest approach to the rule of common-sense and justice
Charles Gould felt it possible to secure at first. In fact, the mine, with its
organization, its population growing fiercely attached to their position of
privileged safety, with its armoury, with its Don Pépé, with its armed body of
serenos (where, it was said, many an outlaw and deserter - and even some members
of Hernandez's band - had found a place), the mine was a power in the land. As a
certain prominent man in Sta. Marta had exclaimed with a hollow laugh, once,
when discussing the line of action taken by the Sulaco authorities at a time of
political crisis -
    »You call these men Government officials? They? Never! They are officials of
the mine - officials of the Concession - I tell you.«
    The prominent man (who was then a person in power, with a lemon-coloured
face and a very short and curly, not to say woolly, head of hair) went so far in
his temporary discontent as to shake his yellow fist under the nose of his
interlocutor, and shriek -
    »Yes! All! Silence! All! I tell you! The political Jefé, the chief of the
police, the chief of the customs, the general, all, all, are the officials of
that Gould.«
    Thereupon an intrepid but low and argumentative murmur would flow on for a
space in the ministerial cabinet, and the prominent man's passion would end in a
cynical shrug of the shoulders. After all, he seemed to say, what did it matter
as long as the minister himself was not forgotten during his brief day of
authority? But all the same, the unofficial agent of the San Tomé mine, working
for a good cause, had his moments of anxiety, which were reflected in his
letters to Don José Avellanos, his maternal uncle.
    »No sanguinary macaque from Sta. Marta shall set foot on that part of
Costaguana which lies beyond the San Tomé bridge,« Don Pépé, used to assure Mrs.
Gould. »Except, of course, as an honoured guest - for our Señor Administrator is
a deep politico.« But to Charles Gould, in his own room, the old Major would
remark with a grim and soldierly cheeriness, »We are all playing our heads at
this game.«
    Don José Avellanos would mutter »Imperium in imperio, Emilia, my soul,« with
an air of profound self-satisfaction which, somehow, in a curious way, seemed to
contain a queer admixture of bodily discomfort. But that, perhaps, could only be
visible to the initiated.
    And for the initiated it was a wonderful place, this drawing-room of the
Casa Gould, with its momentary glimpses of the master - El Señor Administrator -
older, harder, mysteriously silent, with the lines deepened on his English,
ruddy, out-of-doors complexion; flitting on his thin cavalryman's legs across
the doorways, either just back from the mountain or with jingling spurs and
riding-whip under his arm, on the point of starting for the mountain. Then Don
Pépé, modestly martial in his chair, the llanero who seemed somehow to have
found his martial jocularity, his knowledge of the world, and his manner perfect
for his station, in the midst of savage armed contests with his kind; Avellanos,
polished and familiar, the diplomatist with his loquacity covering much caution
and wisdom in delicate advice, with his manuscript of a historical work on
Costaguana, entitled »Fifty Years of Misrule,« which, at present, he thought it
was not prudent (even if it were possible) »to give to the world«; these three,
and also Doña Emilia amongst them, gracious, small, and fairy-like, before the
glittering tea-set, with one common master-thought in their heads, with one
common feeling of a tense situation, with one ever-present aim to preserve the
inviolable character of the mine at every cost. And there was also to be seen
Captain Mitchell, a little apart, near one of the long windows, with an air of
old-fashioned neat old bachelorhood about him, slightly pompous, in a white
waistcoat, a little disregarded and unconscious of it; utterly in the dark, and
imagining himself to be in the thick of things. The good man, having spent a
clear thirty years of his life on the high seas before getting what he called a
»shore billet,« was astonished at the importance of transactions (other than
relating to shipping) which take place on dry land. Almost every event out of
the usual daily course marked an epoch for him or else was history; unless with
his pomposity struggling with a discomfited droop of his rubicund, rather
handsome face, set off by snow-white close hair and short whiskers, he would
mutter -
    »Ah, that! That, sir, was a mistake.«
    The reception of the first consignment of San Tomé silver for shipment to
San Francisco in one of O.S.N. Co.'s mail-boats had, of course, marked an epoch
for Captain Mitchell. The ingots packed in boxes of stiff ox-hide with plaited
handles, small enough to be carried easily by two men, were brought down by the
serenos of the mine walking in careful couples down the half-mile or so of
steep, zigzag paths to the foot of the mountain. There they would be loaded into
a string of two-wheeled carts, resembling roomy coffers with a door at the back,
and harnessed tandem with two mules each, waiting under the guard of armed and
mounted serenos. Don Pépé padlocked each door in succession, and at the signal
of his whistle the string of carts would move off, closely surrounded by the
clank of spur and carabine, with jolts and cracking of whips, with a sudden deep
rumble over the boundary bridge (»into the land of thieves and sanguinary
macaques,« Don Pépé defined that crossing); hats bobbing in the first light of
the dawn, on the heads of cloaked figures; Winchesters on hip; bridle hands
protruding lean and brown from under the falling folds of the ponchos. The
convoy skirting a little wood, along the mine trail, between the mud huts and
low walls of Rincon, increased its pace on the camino real, mules urged to
speed, escort galloping, Don Carlos riding alone ahead of a dust storm affording
a vague vision of long ears of mules, of fluttering little green and white flags
stuck upon each cart; of raised arms in a mob of sombreros with the white gleam
of ranging eyes; and Don Pépé, hardly visible in the rear of that rattling dust
trail, with a stiff seat and impassive face, rising and falling rhythmically on
an ewe-necked silver-bitted black brute with a hammer head.
    The sleepy people in the little clusters of huts, in the small ranchos near
the road, recognized by the headlong sound the charge of the San Tomé silver
escort towards the crumbling wall of the city on the Campo side. They came to
the doors to see it dash by over ruts and stones, with a clatter and clank and
cracking of whips, with the reckless rush and precise driving of a field battery
hurrying into action, and the solitary English figure of the Señor Administrator
riding far ahead in the lead.
    In the fenced roadside paddocks loose horses galloped wildly for a while;
the heavy cattle stood up breast deep in the grass, lowing mutteringly at the
flying noise; a meek Indian villager would glance back once and hasten to shove
his loaded little donkey bodily against a wall, out of the way of the San Tomé
silver escort going to the sea; a small knot of chilly leperos under the Stone
Horse of the Alameda would mutter: »Caramba!« on seeing it take a wide curve at
a gallop and dart into the empty street of the Constitution; for it was
considered the correct thing, the only proper style by the mule-drivers of the
San Tomé mine to go through the waking town from end to end without a check in
the speed as if chased by a devil.
    The early sunshine glowed on the delicate primrose, pale pink, pale blue
fronts of the big houses with all their gates shut yet, and no face behind the
iron bars of the windows. In the whole sunlit range of empty balconies along the
street only one white figure would be visible high up above the clear pavement -
the wife of the Señor Administrator - leaning over to see the escort go by to
the harbour, a mass of heavy, fair hair twisted up negligently on her little
head, and a lot of lace about the neck of her muslin wrapper. With a smile to
her husband's single, quick, upward glance, she would watch the whole thing
stream past below her feet with an orderly uproar, till she answered by a
friendly sign the salute of the galloping Don Pépé, the stiff, deferential
inclination with a sweep of the hat below the knee.
    The string of padlocked carts lengthened, the size of the escort grew bigger
as the years went on. Every three months an increasing stream of treasure swept
through the streets of Sulaco on its way to the strong room in the O.S.N. Co.'s
building by the harbour, there to await shipment for the North. Increasing in
volume, and of immense value also; for, as Charles Gould told his wife once with
some exultation, there had never been seen anything in the world to approach the
vein of the Gould Concession. For them both, each passing of the escort under
the balconies of the Casa Gould was like another victory gained in the conquest
of peace for Sulaco.
    No doubt the initial action of Charles Gould had been helped at the
beginning by a period of comparative peace which occurred just about that time;
and also by the general softening of manners as compared with the epoch of civil
wars whence had emerged the iron tyranny of Guzman Bento of fearful memory. In
the contests that broke out at the end of his rule (which had kept peace in the
country for a whole fifteen years) there was more fatuous imbecility, plenty of
cruelty and suffering still, but much less of the old-time fierce and blindly
ferocious political fanaticism. It was all more vile, more base, more
contemptible, and infinitely more manageable in the very outspoken cynicism of
motives. It was more clearly a brazen-faced scramble for a constantly
diminishing quantity of booty; since all enterprise had been stupidly killed in
the land. Thus it came to pass that the province of Sulaco, once the field of
cruel party vengeances, had become in a way one of the considerable prizes of
political career. The great of the earth (in Sta. Marta) reserved the posts in
the old Occidental State to those nearest and dearest to them: nephews,
brothers, husbands of favourite sisters, bosom friends, trusty supporters - or
prominent supporters of whom perhaps they were afraid. It was the blessed
province of great opportunities and of largest salaries; for the San Tomé mine
had its own unofficial pay list, whose items and amounts, fixed in consultation
by Charles Gould and Señor Avellanos, were known to a prominent business man in
the United States, who for twenty minutes or so in every month gave his
undivided attention to Sulaco affairs. At the same time the material interests
of all sorts, backed up by the influence of the San Tomé mine, were quietly
gathering substance in that part of the Republic. If, for instance, the Sulaco
Collectorship was generally understood, in the political world of the capital,
to open the way to the Ministry of Finance, and so on for every official post,
then, on the other hand, the despondent business circles of the Republic had
come to consider the Occidental Province as the promised land of safety,
especially if a man managed to get on good terms with the administration of the
mine. »Charles Gould; excellent fellow! Absolutely necessary to make sure of him
before taking a single step. Get an introduction to him from Moraga if you can -
the agent of the King of Sulaco, don't you know.«
    No wonder, then, that Sir John, coming from Europe to smooth the path for
his railway, had been meeting the name (and even the nickname) of Charles Gould
at every turn in Costaguana. The agent of the San Tomé Administration in Sta.
Marta (a polished, well-informed gentleman, Sir John thought him) had certainly
helped so greatly in bringing about the presidential tour that he began to think
that there was something in the faint whispers hinting at the immense occult
influence of the Gould Concession. What was currently whispered was this - that
the San Tomé Administration had, in part, at least, financed the last
revolution, which had brought into a five-year dictatorship Don Vincente
Ribiera, a man of culture and of unblemished character, invested with a mandate
of reform by the best elements of the State. Serious, well-informed men seemed
to believe the fact, to hope for better things, for the establishment of
legality, of good faith and order in public life. So much the better, then,
thought Sir John. He worked always on a great scale; there was a loan to the
State, and a project for systematic colonization of the Occidental Province,
involved in one vast scheme with the construction of the National Central
Railway. Good faith, order, honesty, peace, were badly wanted for this great
development of material interests. Anybody on the side of these things, and
especially if able to help, had an importance in Sir John's eyes. He had not
been disappointed in the »King of Sulaco.« The local difficulties had fallen
away, as the engineer-in-chief had foretold they would, before Charles Gould's
mediation. Sir John had been extremely fêted in Sulaco, next to the
President-Dictator, a fact which might have accounted for the evident ill-humour
General Montero displayed at lunch given on board the Juno just before she was
to sail, taking away from Sulaco the President-Dictator and the distinguished
foreign guests in his train.
    The Excellentissimo (»the hope of honest men,« as Don José had addressed him
in a public speech delivered in the name of the Provincial Assembly of Sulaco)
sat at the head of the long table; Captain Mitchell, positively stony-eyed and
purple in the face with the solemnity of this historical event, occupied the
foot as the representative of the O.S.N. Company in Sulaco, the hosts of that
informal function, with the captain of the ship and some minor officials from
the shore around him. Those cheery, swarthy little gentlemen cast jovial
side-glances at the bottles of champagne beginning to pop behind the guests'
backs in the hands of the ship's stewards. The amber wine creamed up to the rims
of the glasses.
    Charles Gould had his place next to a foreign envoy, who, in a listless
undertone, had been talking to him fitfully of hunting and shooting. The
well-nourished, pale face, with an eyeglass and drooping yellow moustache, made
the Señor Administrator appear by contrast twice as sunbaked, more flaming red,
a hundred times more intensely and silently alive. Don José Avellanos touched
elbows with the other foreign diplomat, a dark man with a quiet, watchful,
self-confident demeanour, and a touch of reserve. All etiquette being laid aside
on the occasion. General Montero was the only one there in full uniform, so
stiff with embroideries in front that his broad chest seemed protected by a
cuirass of gold. Sir John at the beginning had got away from high places for the
sake of sitting near Mrs. Gould.
    The great financier was trying to express to her his grateful sense of her
hospitality and of his obligation to her husband's enormous influence in this
part of the country, when she interrupted him by a low »Hush!« The President was
going to make an informal pronouncement.
    The Excellentissimo was on his legs. He said only a few words, evidently
deeply felt, and meant perhaps mostly for Avellanos - his old friend - as to the
necessity of unremitting effort to secure the lasting welfare of the country
emerging after this last struggle, he hoped, into a period of peace and material
prosperity.
    Mrs. Gould, listening to the mellow, slightly mournful voice, looking at
this rotund, dark, spectacled face, at the short body, obese to the point of
infirmity, thought that this man of delicate and melancholy mind, physically
almost a cripple, coming out of his retirement into a dangerous strife at the
call of his fellows, had the right to speak with the authority of his
self-sacrifice. And yet she was made uneasy. He was more pathetic than
promising; this first civilian Chief of the State Costaguana had ever known,
pronouncing, glass in hand, his simple watchwords of honesty, peace, respect for
law, political good faith abroad and at home - the safeguards of national
honour.
    He sat down. During the respectful, appreciative buzz of voices that
followed the speech, General Montero raised a pair of heavy, drooping eyelids
and rolled his eyes with a sort of uneasy dullness from face to face. The
military backwoods hero of the party, though secretly impressed by the sudden
novelties and splendours of his position (he had never been on board a ship
before, and had hardly ever seen the sea except from a distance), understood by
a sort of instinct the advantage his surly, unpolished attitude of a savage
fighter gave him amongst all these refined Blanco aristocrats. But why was it
that nobody was looking at him? he wondered to himself angrily. He was able to
spell out the print of newspapers, and knew that he had performed the greatest
military exploit of modern times.
    »My husband wanted the railway,« Mrs. Gould said to Sir John in the general
murmur of resumed conversations. »All this brings nearer the sort of future we
desire for the country, which has waited for it in sorrow long enough, God
knows. But I will confess that the other day, during my afternoon drive when I
suddenly saw an Indian boy ride out of a wood with the red flag of a surveying
party in his hand, I felt something of a shock. The future means change - an
utter change. And yet even here there are simple and picturesque things that one
would like to preserve.«
    Sir John listened, smiling. But it was his turn now to hush Mrs. Gould.
    »General Montero is going to speak,« he whispered, and almost immediately
added, in comic alarm, »Heavens! he's going to propose my own health, I
believe.«
    General Montero had risen with a jingle of steel scabbard and a ripple of
glitter on his gold-embroidered breast; a heavy sword-hilt appeared at his side
above the edge of the table. In this gorgeous uniform, with his bull neck, his
hooked nose flattened on the tip upon a blue-black, dyed moustache, he looked
like a disguised and sinister vaquero. The drone of his voice had a strangely
rasping, soulless ring. He floundered, lowering, through a few vague sentences;
then suddenly raising his big head and his voice together, burst out harshly -
    »The honour of the country is in the hands of the army. I assure you I shall
be faithful to it.« He hesitated till his roaming eyes met Sir John's face upon
which he fixed a lurid, sleepy glance; and the figure of the lately negotiated
loan came into his mind. He lifted his glass. »I drink to the health of the man
who brings us a million and a half of pounds.«
    He tossed off his champagne, and sat down heavily with a half-surprised,
half-bullying look all round the faces in the profound, as if appalled, silence
which succeeded the felicitous toast. Sir John did not move.
    »I don't think I am called upon to rise,« he murmured to Mrs. Gould. »That
sort of thing speaks for itself.« But Don José Avellanos came to the rescue with
a short oration, in which he alluded pointedly to England's goodwill towards
Costaguana - »a goodwill,« he continued, significantly, »of which I, having been
in my time accredited to the Court of St. James, am able to speak with some
knowledge.«
    Only then Sir John thought fit to respond, which he did gracefully in bad
French, punctuated by bursts of applause and the »Hear! Hears!« of Captain
Mitchell, who was able to understand a word now and then. Directly he had done,
the financier of railways turned to Mrs. Gould -
    »You were good enough to say that you intended to ask me for something,« he
reminded her, gallantly. »What is it? Be assured that any request from you would
be considered in the light of a favour to myself.«
    She thanked him by a gracious smile. Everybody was rising from the table.
    »Let us go on deck,« she proposed, »where I'll be able to point out to you
the very object of my request.«
    An enormous national flag of Costaguana, diagonal red and yellow, with two
green palm trees in the middle, floated lazily at the mainmast head of the Juno.
A multitude of fireworks being let off in their thousands at the water's edge in
honour of the President kept up a mysterious crepitating noise half round the
harbour. Now and then a lot of rockets, swishing upwards invisibly, detonated
overhead with only a puff of smoke m the bright sky. Crowds of people could be
seen between the town gate and the harbour, under the bunches of multicoloured
flags fluttering on tall poles. Faint bursts of military music would be heard
suddenly, and the remote sound of shouting. A knot of ragged Negroes at the end
of the wharf kept on loading and firing a small iron cannon time after time. A
greyish haze of dust hung thin and motionless against the sun.
    Don Vincente Ribiera made a few steps under the deck-awning, leaning on the
arm of Señor Avellanos; a wide circle was formed round him, where the mirthless
smile of his dark lips and the sightless glitter of his spectacles could be seen
turning amiably from side to side. The informal function arranged on purpose on
board the Juno to give the President-Dictator an opportunity to meet intimately
some of his most notable adherents in Sulaco was drawing to an end. On one side,
General Montero, his bald head covered now by a plumed cocked hat, remained
motionless on a skylight seat, a pair of big gauntleted hands folded on the hilt
of the sabre standing upright between his legs. The white plume, the coppery
tint of his broad face, the blue-black of the moustaches under the curved beak,
the mass of gold on sleeves and breast, the high shining boots with enormous
spurs, the working nostrils, the imbecile and domineering stare of the glorious
victor of Rio Seco had in them something ominous and incredible; the
exaggeration of a cruel caricature, the fatuity of solemn masquerading, the
atrocious grotesqueness of some military idol of Aztec conception and European
bedecking, awaiting the homage of worshippers. Don José approached
diplomatically this weird and inscrutable portent, and Mrs. Gould turned her
fascinated eyes away at last.
    Charles, coming up to take leave of Sir John, heard him say, as he bent over
his wife's hand, »Certainly. Of course, my dear Mrs. Gould, for a protégé of
yours! Not the slightest difficulty. Consider it done.«
    Going ashore in the same boat with the Goulds, Don José Avellanos was very
silent. Even in the Gould carriage he did not open his lips for a long time. The
mules trotted slowly away from the wharf between the extended hands of the
beggars, who for that day seemed to have abandoned in a body the portals of
churches. Charles Gould sat on the back seat and looked away upon the plain. A
multitude of booths made of green boughs, of rushes, of odd pieces of plank eked
out with bits of canvas had been erected all over it for the sale of cana, of
dulces, of fruit, of cigars. Over little heaps of glowing charcoal Indian women,
squatting on mats, cooked food in black earthen pots, and boiled the water for
the maté gourds, which they offered in soft, caressing voices to the country
people. A racecourse had been staked out for the vaqueros; and away to the left,
from where the crowd was massed thickly about a huge temporary erection, like a
circus tent of wood with a conical grass roof, came the resonant twanging of
harp strings, the sharp ping of guitars, with the grave drumming throb of an
Indian gombo pulsating steadily through the shrill choruses of the dancers.
    Charles Gould said presently -
    »All this piece of land belongs now to the Railway Company. There will be no
more popular feasts held here.«
    Mrs. Gould was rather sorry to think so. She took this opportunity to
mention how she had just obtained from Sir John the promise that the house
occupied by Giorgio Viola should not be interfered with. She declared she could
never understand why the survey engineers ever talked of demolishing that old
building. It was not in the way of the projected harbour branch of the line in
the least.
    She stopped the carriage before the door to reassure at once the old
Genoese, who came out bare-headed and stood by the carriage step. She talked to
him in Italian, of course, and he thanked her with calm dignity. An old
Garibaldino was grateful to her from the bottom of his heart for keeping the
roof over the heads of his wife and children. He was too old to wander any more.
    »And is it for ever, signora?« he asked.
    »For as long as you like.«
    »Bene. Then the place must be named. It was not worth while before.«
    He smiled ruggedly, with a running together of wrinkles at the corners of
his eyes. »I shall set about the painting of the name to-morrow.«
    »And what is it going to be, Giorgio?«
    »Albergo d'ltalia Una,« said the old Garibaldino, looking away for a moment.
»More in memory of those who have died,« he added, »than for the country stolen
from us soldiers of liberty by the craft of that accursed Piedmontese race of
kings and ministers.«
    Mrs. Gould smiled slightly, and, bending over a little, began to inquire
about his wife and children. He had sent them into town on that day. The padrona
was better in health; many thanks to the signora for inquiring.
    People were passing in twos and threes, in whole parties of men and women
attended by trotting children. A horseman mounted on a silver-grey mare drew
rein quietly in the shade of the house after taking off his hat to the party in
the carriage, who returned smiles and familiar nods. Old Viola, evidently very
pleased with the news he had just heard, interrupted himself for a moment to
tell him rapidly that the house was secured, by the kindness of the English
signora, for as long as he liked to keep it. The other listened attentively, but
made no response.
    When the carriage moved on he took off his hat again, a grey sombrero with a
silver cord and tassels. The bright colours of a Mexican serape twisted on the
cantle, the enormous silver buttons on the embroidered leather jacket, the row
of tiny silver buttons down the seam of the trousers, the snowy linen, a silk
sash with embroidered ends, the silver plates on headstall and saddle,
proclaimed the unapproachable style of the famous Capataz de Cargadores - a
Mediterranean sailor - got up with more finished splendour than any well-to-do
young ranchero of the Campo had ever displayed on a high holiday.
    »It is a great thing for me,« murmured old Giorgio, still thinking of the
house, for now he had grown weary of change. »The signora just said a word to
the Englishman.«
    »The old Englishman who has enough money to pay for a railway? He is going
off in an hour,« remarked Nostromo, carelessly. »Buon viaggio, then. I've
guarded his bones all the way from the Entrada pass down to the plain and into
Sulaco, as though he had been my own father.«
    Old Giorgio only moved his head sideways absently. Nostromo pointed after
the Goulds' carriage, nearing the grass-grown gate in the old town wall that was
like a wall of matted jungle.
    »And I have sat alone at night with my revolver in the Company's warehouse
time and again by the side of that other Englishman's heap of silver, guarding
it as though it had been my own.«
    Viola seemed lost in thought. »It is a great thing for me,« he repeated
again, as if to himself.
    »It is,« agreed the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, calmly. »Listen,
Vecchio - go in and bring me out a cigar, but don't look for it in my room.
There's nothing there.«
    Viola stepped into the café and came out directly, still absorbed in his
idea, and tendered him a cigar, mumbling thoughtfully in his moustache,
»Children growing up - and girls, too! Girls!« He sighed and fell silent.
    »What, only one?« remarked Nostromo, looking down with a sort of comic
inquisitiveness at the unconscious old man. »No matter,« he added, with lofty
negligence; »one is enough till another is wanted.«
    He lit it and let the match drop from his passive fingers. Giorgio Viola
looked up, and said abruptly -
    »My son would have been just such a fine young man as you, Gian' Battista,
if he had lived.«
    »What? Your son? But you are right, padrone. If he had been like me he would
have been a man.«
    He turned his horse slowly, and paced on between the booths, checking the
mare almost to a standstill now and then for children, for the groups of people
from the distant Campo, who stared after him with admiration. The Company's
lightermen saluted him from afar; and the greatly envied Capataz de Cargadores
advanced, amongst murmurs of recognition and obsequious greetings, towards the
huge circus-like erection. The throng thickened; the guitars tinkled louder;
other horsemen sat motionless, smoking calmly above the heads of the crowd; it
eddied and pushed before the doors of the high-roofed building, whence issued a
shuffle and thumping of feet in time to the dance music vibrating and shrieking
with a racking rhythm, overhung by the tremendous, sustained, hollow roar of the
gombo. The barbarous and imposing noise of the big drum, that can madden a
crowd, and that even Europeans cannot hear without a strange emotion, seemed to
draw Nostromo on to its source, while a man, wrapped up in a faded, torn poncho,
walked by his stirrup, and, buffeted right and left, begged his worship
insistently for employment on the wharf. He whined, offering the Señor Capataz
half his daily pay for the privilege of being admitted to the swaggering
fraternity of Cargadores; the other half would be enough for him, he protested.
But Captain Mitchell's right-hand man - »invaluable for our work - a perfectly
incorruptible fellow« - after looking down critically at the ragged mozo, shook
his head without a word in the uproar going on around.
    The man fell back; and a little further on Nostromo had to pull up. From the
doors of the dance hall men and women emerged tottering, streaming with sweat,
trembling in every limb, to lean, panting, with staring eyes and parted lips,
against the wall of the structure, where the harps and guitars played on with
mad speed in an incessant roll of thunder. Hundreds of hands clapped in there;
voices shrieked, and then all at once would sink low, chanting in unison the
refrain of a love song, with a dying fall. A red flower, flung with a good aim
from somewhere in the crowd, struck the resplendent Capataz on the cheek.
    He caught it as it fell, neatly, but for some time did not turn his head.
When at last he condescended to look round, the throng near him had parted to
make way for a pretty Morenita, her hair held up by a small golden comb, who was
walking towards him in the open space.
    Her arms and neck emerged plump and bare from a snowy chemisette; the blue
woollen skirt, with all the fullness gathered in front, scanty on the hips and
tight across the back, disclosed the provoking action of her walk. She came
straight on and laid her hand on the mare's neck with a timid, coquettish look
upwards out of the corner of her eyes.
    »Querido,« she murmured, caressingly, »why do you pretend not to see me when
I pass?«
    »Because I don't love thee any more,« said Nostromo, deliberately, after a
moment of reflective silence.
    The hand on the mare's neck trembled suddenly. She dropped her head before
all the eyes in the wide circle formed round the generous, the terrible, the
inconstant Capataz de Cargadores, and his Morenita.
    Nostromo, looking down, saw tears beginning to fall down her face.
    »Has it come, then, ever beloved of my heart?« she whispered. »Is it true?«
    »No,« said Nostromo, looking away carelessly. »It was a lie. I love thee as
much as ever.«
    »Is that true?« she cooed, joyously, her cheeks still wet with tears.
    »It is true.«
    »True on the life?«
    »As true as that; but thou must not ask me to swear it on the Madonna that
stands in thy room.« And the Capataz laughed a little in response to the grins
of the crowd.
    She pouted - very pretty - a little uneasy.
    »No, I will not ask for that. I can see love in your eyes.« She laid her
hand on his knee. »Why are you trembling like this? From love?« she continued,
while the cavernous thundering of the gombo went on without a pause. »But if you
love her as much as that, you must give your Paquita a gold-mounted rosary of
beads for the neck of her Madonna.«
    »No,« said Nostromo, looking into her uplifted, begging eyes, which suddenly
turned stony with surprise.
    »No? Then what else will your worship give me on the day of the fiesta?« she
asked, angrily; »so as not to shame me before all these people.«
    »There is no shame for thee in getting nothing from thy lover for once.«
    »True! The shame is your worship's - my poor lover's,« she flared up,
sarcastically.
    Laughs were heard at her anger, at her retort. What an audacious spitfire
she was! The people aware of this scene were calling out urgently to others in
the crowd. The circle round the silver-grey mare narrowed slowly.
    The girl went off a pace or two, confronting the mocking curiosity of the
eyes, then flung back to the stirrup, tiptoeing, her enraged face turned up to
Nostromo with a pair of blazing eyes. He bent low to her in the saddle.
    »Juan,« she hissed, »I could stab thee to the heart!«
    The dreaded Capataz de Cargadores, magnificent and carelessly public in his
amours, flung his arm round her neck and kissed her spluttering lips. A murmur
went round.
    »A knife!« he demanded at large, holding her firmly by the shoulder.
    Twenty blades flashed out together in the circle. A young man in holiday
attire, bounding in, thrust one in Nostromo's hand and bounded back into the
ranks, very proud of himself. Nostromo had not even looked at him.
    »Stand on my foot,« he commanded the girl, who, suddenly subdued, rose
lightly, and when he had her up, encircling her waist, her face near to his, he
pressed the knife into her little hand.
    »No, Morenita! You shall not put me to shame,« he said. »You shall have your
present; and so that everyone should know who is your lover to-day, you may cut
all the silver buttons off my coat.«
    There were shouts of laughter and applause at this witty freak, while the
girl passed the keen blade, and the impassive rider jingled in his palm the
increasing hoard of silver buttons. He eased her to the ground with both her
hands full. After whispering for a while with a very strenuous face, she walked
away, staring haughtily, and vanished into the crowd.
    The circle had broken up, and the lordly Capataz de Cargadores, the
indispensable man, the tried and trusty Nostromo, the Mediterranean sailor come
ashore casually to try his luck in Costaguana, rode slowly towards the harbour.
The Juno was just then swinging round; and even as Nostromo reined up again to
look on, a flag ran up on the improvised flagstaff erected in an ancient and
dismantled little fort at the harbour entrance. Half a battery of field guns had
been hurried over there from the Sulaco barracks for the purpose of firing the
regulation salutes for the President-Dictator and the War Minister. As the
mail-boat headed through the pass, the badly timed reports announced the end of
Don Vincente Ribiera's first official visit to Sulaco, and for Captain Mitchell
the end of another historic occasion. Next time when the Hope of honest men was
to come that way, a year and a half later, it was unofficially, over the
mountain tracks, fleeing after a defeat on a lame mule, to be only just saved by
Nostromo from an ignominious death at the hands of a mob. It was a very
different event, of which Captain Mitchell used to say -
    »It was history - history, sir! And that fellow of mine, Nostromo, you know,
was right in it. Absolutely making history, sir.«
    But this event, creditable to Nostromo, was to lead immediately to another,
which could not be classed either as history or as a mistake in Captain
Mitchell's phraseology. He had another word for it.
    »Sir,« he used to say afterwards, »that was no mistake. It was a fatality. A
misfortune, pure and simple, sir. And that poor fellow of mine was right in it -
right in the middle of it! A fatality, if ever there was one - and to my mind he
has never been the same man since.«
 

                            Part Second: The Isabels

                                  Chapter One

Through good and evil report in the varying fortune of that struggle which Don
José had characterized in the phrase, »the fate of national honesty trembles in
the balance,« the Gould Concession, »Imperium in Imperio,« had gone on working;
the square mountain had gone on pouring its treasure down the wooden shoots to
the unresting batteries of stamps; the lights of San Tomé had twinkled night
after night upon the great, limitless shadow of the Campo; every three months
the silver escort had gone down to the sea as if neither the war nor its
consequences could ever affect the ancient Occidental State secluded beyond its
high barrier of the Cordillera. All the fighting took place on the other side of
that mighty wall of serrated peaks lorded over by the white dome of Higuerota
and as yet unbreached by the railway, of which only the first part, the easy
Campo part from Sulaco to the Ivie Valley at the foot of the pass, had been
laid. Neither did the telegraph line cross the mountains yet; its poles, like
slender beacons on the plain, penetrated into the forest fringe of the
foot-hills cut by the deep avenue of the track; and its wire ended abruptly in
the construction camp at a white deal table supporting a Morse apparatus, in a
long hut of planks with a corrugated iron roof overshadowed by gigantic cedar
trees - the quarters of the engineer in charge of the advance section.
    The harbour was busy, too, with the traffic in railway material, and with
the movements of troops along the coast. The O.S.N. Company found much
occupation for its fleet. Costaguana had no navy, and, apart from a few
coastguard cutters, there were no national ships except a couple of old merchant
steamers used as transports.
    Captain Mitchell, feeling more and more in the thick of history, found time
for an hour or so during an afternoon in the drawing-room of the Casa Gould,
where, with a strange ignorance of the real forces at work around him, he
professed himself delighted to get away from the strain of affairs. He did not
know what he would have done without his invaluable Nostromo, he declared. Those
confounded Costaguana politics gave him more work - he confided to Mrs. Gould -
than he had bargained for.
    Don José Avellanos had displayed in the service of the endangered Ribiera
Government an organizing activity and an eloquence of which the echoes reached
even Europe. For, after the new loan to the Ribiera Government, Europe had
become interested in Costaguana. The Sala of the Provincial Assembly (in the
Municipal Buildings of Sulaco), with its portraits of the Liberators on the
walls and an old flag of Cortez preserved in a glass case above the President's
chair, had heard all these speeches - the early one containing the impassioned
declaration »Militarism is the enemy,« the famous one of the trembling balance
delivered on the occasion of the vote for the raising of a second Sulaco
regiment in the defence of the reforming Government; and when the provinces
again displayed their old flags (proscribed in Guzman Bento's time) there was
another of those great orations, when Don José greeted these old emblems of the
war of Independence, brought out again in the name of new Ideals. The old idea
of Federalism had disappeared. For his part he did not wish to revive old
political doctrines. They were perishable. They died. But the doctrine of
political rectitude was immortal. The second Sulaco regiment, to whom he was
presenting this flag, was going to show its valour in a contest for order,
peace, progress; for the establishment of national self-respect without which -
he declared with energy - »we are a reproach and a byword amongst the powers of
the world.«
    Don José Avellanos loved his country. He had served it lavishly with his
fortune during his diplomatic career, and the later story of his captivity and
barbarous ill-usage under Guzman Bento was well known to his listeners. It was a
wonder that he had not been a victim of the ferocious and summary executions
which marked the course of that tyranny; for Guzman had ruled the country with
the sombre imbecility of political fanaticism. The power of Supreme Government
had become in his dull mind an object of strange worship, as if it were some
sort of cruel deity. It was incarnated in himself, and his adversaries, the
Federalists, were the supreme sinners, objects of hate, abhorrence, and fear, as
heretics would be to a convinced Inquisitor. For years he had carried about at
the tail of the Army of Pacification, all over the country, a captive band of
such atrocious criminals, who considered themselves most unfortunate at not
having been summarily executed. It was a diminishing company of nearly naked
skeletons, loaded with irons, covered with dirt, with vermin, with raw wounds,
all men of position, of education, of wealth, who had learned to fight amongst
themselves for scraps of rotten beef thrown to them by soldiers, or to beg a
negro cook for a drink of muddy water in pitiful accents. Don José Avellanos,
clanking his chains amongst the others, seemed only to exist in order to prove
how much hunger, pain, degradation, and cruel torture a human body can stand
without parting with the last spark of life. Sometimes interrogatories, backed
by some primitive method of torture, were administered to them by a commission
of officers hastily assembled in a hut of sticks and branches, and made pitiless
by the fear for their own lives. A lucky one or two of that spectral company of
prisoners would perhaps be led tottering behind a bush to be shot by a file of
soldiers. Always an army chaplain - some unshaven, dirty man, girt with a sword
and with a tiny cross embroidered in white cotton on the left breast of a
lieutenant's uniform - would follow, cigarette in the corner of the mouth,
wooden stool in hand, to hear the confession and give absolution; for the
Citizen Saviour of the Country (Guzman Bento was called thus officially in
petitions) was not averse from the exercise of rational clemency. The irregular
report of the firing squad would be heard, followed sometimes by a single
finishing shot; a little bluish cloud of smoke would float up above the green
bushes, and the Army of Pacification would move on over the savannas, through
the forests, crossing rivers, invading rural pueblos, devastating the haciendas
of the horrid aristocrats, occupying the inland towns in the fulfilment of its
patriotic mission, and leaving behind a united land wherein the evil taint of
Federalism could no longer be detected in the smoke of burning houses and the
smell of spilt blood.
    Don José Avellanos had survived that time.
    Perhaps, when contemptuously signifying to him his release, the Citizen
Saviour of the Country might have thought this benighted aristocrat too broken
in health and spirit and fortune to be any longer dangerous. Or, perhaps, it may
have been a simple caprice. Guzman Bento, usually full of fanciful fears and
brooding suspicions, had sudden accesses of unreasonable self-confidence when he
perceived himself elevated on a pinnacle of power and safety beyond the reach of
mere mortal plotters. At such times he would impulsively command the celebration
of a solemn Mass of thanksgiving, which would be sung in great pomp in the
cathedral of Sta. Marta by the trembling, subservient Archbishop of his
creation. He heard it sitting in a gilt armchair placed before the high altar,
surrounded by the civil and military heads of his Government. The unofficial
world of Sta. Marta would crowd into the cathedral, for it was not quite safe
for anybody of mark to stay away from these manifestations of presidential
piety. Having thus acknowledged the only power he was at all disposed to
recognize as above himself, he would scatter acts of political grace in a
sardonic wantonness of clemency. There was no other way left now to enjoy his
power but by seeing his crushed adversaries crawl impotently into the light of
day out of the dark, noisome cells of the Collegio. Their harmlessness fed his
insatiable vanity, and they could always be got hold of again. It was the rule
for all the women of their families to present thanks afterwards in a special
audience. The incarnation of that strange god: El Gobierno Supremo, received
them standing, cocked hat on head, and exhorted them in a menacing mutter to
show their gratitude by bringing up their children in fidelity to the democratic
form of government, »which I have established for the happiness of our country.«
His front teeth having been knocked out in some accident of his former
herdsman's life, his utterance was spluttering and indistinct. He had been
working for Costaguana alone in the midst of treachery and opposition. Let it
cease now lest he should become weary of forgiving!
    Don José Avellanos had known this forgiveness.
    He was broken in health and fortune deplorably enough to present a truly
gratifying spectacle to the supreme chief of democratic institutions. He retired
to Sulaco. His wife had an estate in that province, and she nursed him back to
life out of the house of death and captivity. When she died, their daughter, an
only child, was old enough to devote herself to poor papa.
    Miss Avellanos, born in Europe and educated partly in England, was a tall,
grave girl, with a self-possessed manner, a wide, white forehead, a wealth of
rich brown hair, and blue eyes.
    The other young ladies of Sulaco stood in awe of her character and
accomplishments. She was reputed to be terribly learned and serious. As to
pride, it was well known that all the Corbelàns were proud, and her mother was a
Corbelàn. Don José Avellanos depended very much upon the devotion of his beloved
Antonia. He accepted it in the benighted way of men, who, though made in God's
image, are like stone idols without sense before the smoke of certain burnt
offerings. He was ruined in every way, but a man possessed of passion is not a
bankrupt in life. Don José Avellanos desired passionately for his country:
peace, prosperity, and (as the end of the preface to »Fifty Years of Misrule«
has it) »an honourable place in the comity of civilized nations.« In this last
phrase the Minister Plenipotentiary, cruelly humiliated by the bad faith of his
Government towards the foreign bondholders, stands disclosed in the patriot.
    The fatuous turmoil of greedy factions succeeding the tyranny of Guzman
Bento seemed to bring his desire to the very door of opportunity. He was too old
to descend personally into the centre of the arena at Sta. Marta. But the men
who acted there sought his advice at every step. He himself thought that he
could be most useful at a distance, in Sulaco. His name, his connections, his
former position, his experience commanded the respect of his class. The
discovery that this man, living in dignified poverty in the Corbelàn town
residence (opposite the Casa Gould), could dispose of material means towards the
support of the cause increased his influence. It was his open letter of appeal
that decided the candidature of Don Vincente Ribiera for the Presidency. Another
of these informal State papers drawn up by Don José (this time in the shape of
an address from the Province) induced that scrupulous constitutionalist to
accept the extraordinary powers conferred upon him for five years by an
overwhelming vote of congress in Sta. Marta. It was a specific mandate to
establish the prosperity of the people on the basis of firm peace at home, and
to redeem the national credit by the satisfaction of all just claims abroad.
    In the afternoon the news of that vote had reached Sulaco by the usual
roundabout postal way through Cayta, and up the coast by steamer. Don José, who
had been waiting for the mail in the Goulds' drawing-room, got out of the
rocking-chair, letting his hat fall off his knees. He rubbed his silvery, short
hair with both hands, speechless with the excess of joy.
    »Emilia, my soul,« he had burst out, »let me embrace you! Let me -«
    Captain Mitchell, had he been there, would no doubt have made an apt remark
about the dawn of a new era; but if Don José thought something of the kind, his
eloquence failed him on this occasion. The inspirer of that revival of the
Blanco party tottered where he stood. Mrs. Gould moved forward quickly and, as
she offered her cheek with a smile to her old friend, managed very cleverly to
give him the support of her arm he really needed.
    Don José had recovered himself at once, but for a time he could do no more
than murmur, »Oh, you two patriots! Oh, you two patriots!« - looking from one to
the other. Vague plans of another historical work, wherein all the devotions to
the regeneration of the country he loved would be enshrined for the reverent
worship of posterity, flitted through his mind. The historian who had enough
elevation of soul to write of Guzman Bento: »Yet this monster, imbrued in the
blood of his countrymen, must not be held unreservedly to the execration of
future years. It appears to be true that he, too, loved his country. He had
given it twelve years of peace; and, absolute master of lives and fortunes as he
was, he died poor. His worst fault, perhaps, was not his ferocity, but his
ignorance;« the man who could write thus of a cruel persecutor (the passage
occurs in his »History of Misrule«) felt at the foreshadowing of success an
almost boundless affection for his two helpers, for these two young people from
over the sea.
    Just as years ago, calmly, from the conviction of practical necessity,
stronger than any abstract political doctrine, Henry Gould had drawn the sword,
so now, the times being changed, Charles Gould had flung the silver of the San
Tomé into the fray. The Inglez of Sulaco, the Costaguana Englishman of the third
generation, was as far from being a political intriguer as his uncle from a
revolutionary swashbuckler. Springing from the instinctive uprightness of their
natures their action was reasoned. They saw an opportunity and used the weapon
to hand.
    Charles Gould's position - a commanding position in the background of that
attempt to retrieve the peace and the credit of the Republic - was very clear.
At the beginning he had had to accommodate himself to existing circumstances of
corruption so naïvely brazen as to disarm the hatred of a man courageous enough
not to be afraid of its irresponsible potency to ruin everything it touched. It
seemed to him too contemptible for hot anger even. He made use of it with a
cold, fearless scorn, manifested rather than concealed by the forms of stony
courtesy which did away with much of the ignominy of the situation. At bottom,
perhaps, he suffered from it, for he was not a man of cowardly illusions, but he
refused to discuss the ethical view with his wife. He trusted that, though a
little disenchanted, she would be intelligent enough to understand that his
character safeguarded the enterprise of their lives as much or more than his
policy. The extraordinary development of the mine had put a great power into his
hands. To feel that prosperity always at the mercy of unintelligent greed had
grown irksome to him. To Mrs. Gould it was humiliating. At any rate, it was
dangerous. In the confidential communications passing between Charles Gould, the
King of Sulaco, and the head of the silver and steel interests far away in
California, the conviction was growing that any attempt made by men of education
and integrity ought to be discreetly supported. »You may tell your friend
Avellanos that I think so,« Mr. Holroyd had written at the proper moment from
his inviolable sanctuary within the eleven-storey high factory of great affairs.
And shortly afterwards, with a credit opened by the Third Southern Bank (located
next door but one to the Holroyd Building), the Ribierist party in Costaguana
took a practical shape under the eye of the administrator of the San Tomé mine.
And Don José, the hereditary friend of the Gould family, could say: »Perhaps, my
dear Carlos, I shall not have believed in vain.«
 

                                  Chapter Two

After another armed struggle, decided by Montero's victory of Rio Seco, had been
added to the tale of civil wars, the honest men, as Don José called them, could
breathe freely for the first time in half a century. The Five-Year-Mandate law
became the basis of that regeneration, the passionate desire and hope for which
had been like the elixir of everlasting youth for Don José Avellanos.
    And when it was suddenly - and not quite unexpectedly - endangered by that
brute Montero, it was a passionate indignation that gave him a new lease of
life, as it were. Already, at the time of the President-Dictator's visit to
Sulaco, Moraga had sounded a note of warning from Sta. Marta about the War
Minister. Montero and his brother made the subject of an earnest talk between
the Dictator-President and the Nestor-inspirer of the party. But Don Vincente, a
doctor of philosophy from the Cordova University, seemed to have an exaggerated
respect for military ability, whose mysteriousness - since it appeared to be
altogether independent of intellect - imposed upon his imagination. The victor
of Rio Seco was a popular hero. His services were so recent that the
President-Dictator quailed before the obvious charge of political ingratitude.
Great regenerating transactions were being initiated - the fresh loan, a new
railway line, a vast colonization scheme. Anything that could unsettle the
public opinion in the capital was to be avoided. Don José bowed to these
arguments and tried to dismiss from his mind the gold-laced portent in boots,
and with a sabre, made meaningless now at last, he hoped, in the new order of
things.
    Less than six months after the President-Dictator's visit, Sulaco learned
with stupefaction of the military revolt in the name of national honour. The
Minister of War, in a barrack-square allocution to the officers of the artillery
regiment he had been inspecting, had declared the national honour sold to
foreigners. The Dictator, by his weak compliance with the demands of the
European powers - for the settlement of long outstanding money claims - had
showed himself unfit to rule. A letter from Moraga explained afterwards that the
initiative, and even the very text, of the incendiary allocution came, in
reality, from the other Montero, the ex-guerillero, the Commandante de Plaza.
The energetic treatment of Dr. Monygham, sent for in haste to the mountain, who
came galloping three leagues in the dark, saved Don José from a dangerous attack
of jaundice.
    After getting over the shock, Don José refused to let himself be prostrated.
Indeed, better news succeeded at first. The revolt in the capital had been
suppressed after a night of fighting in the streets. Unfortunately, both the
Monteros had been able to make their escape south, to their native province of
Entre-Montes. The hero of the forest march, the victor of Rio Seco, had been
received with frenzied acclamations in Nicoya, the provincial capital. The
troops in garrison there had gone to him in a body. The brothers were organizing
an army, gathering malcontents, sending emissaries primed with patriotic lies to
the people, and with promises of plunder to the wild llaneros. Even a Monterist
press had come into existence, speaking oracularly of the secret promises of
support given by our great sister Republic of the North against the sinister
land-grabbing designs of European powers, cursing in every issue the miserable
Ribiera, who had plotted to deliver his country, bound hand and foot, for a prey
to foreign speculators.
    Sulaco, pastoral and sleepy, with its opulent Campo and the rich silver
mine, heard the din of arms fitfully in its fortunate isolation. It was
nevertheless in the very forefront of the defence with men and money; but the
very rumours reached it circuitously - from abroad even, so much was it cut off
from the rest of the Republic, not only by natural obstacles, but also by the
vicissitudes of the war. The Monteristos were besieging Cayta, an important
postal link. The overland couriers ceased to come across the mountains, and no
muleteer would consent to risk the journey at last; even Bonifacio on one
occasion failed to return from Sta. Marta, either not daring to start, or
perhaps captured by the parties of the enemy raiding the country between the
Cordillera and the capital. Monterist publications, however, found their way
into the province, mysteriously enough; and also Monterist emissaries preaching
death to aristocrats in the villages and towns of the Campo. Very early, at the
beginning of the trouble, Hernandez, the bandit, had proposed (through the
agency of an old priest of a village in the wilds) to deliver two of them to the
Ribierist authorities in Tonoro. They had come to offer him a free pardon and
the rank of colonel from General Montero in consideration of joining the rebel
army with his mounted band. No notice was taken at the time of the proposal. It
was joined, as an evidence of good faith, to a petition praying the Sulaco
Assembly for permission to enlist, with all his followers, in the forces being
then raised in Sulaco for the defence of the Five-Year Mandate of regeneration.
The petition, like everything else, had found its way into Don José's hands. He
had showed to Mrs. Gould these pages of dirty-greyish rough paper (perhaps
looted in some village store), covered with the crabbed, illiterate handwriting
of the old padre, carried off from his hut by the side of a mud-walled church to
be the secretary of the dreaded Salteador. They had both bent in the lamplight
of the Gould drawing-room over the document containing the fierce and yet humble
appeal of the man against the blind and stupid barbarity turning an honest
ranchero into a bandit. A postscript of the priest stated that, but for being
deprived of his liberty for ten days, he had been treated with humanity and the
respect due to his sacred calling. He had been, it appears, confessing and
absolving the chief and most of the band, and he guaranteed the sincerity of
their good disposition. He had distributed heavy penances, no doubt in the way
of litanies and fasts; but he argued shrewdly that it would be difficult for
them to make their peace with God durably till they had made peace with men.
    Never before, perhaps, had Hernandez's head been in less jeopardy than when
he petitioned humbly for permission to buy a pardon for himself and his gang of
deserters by armed service. He could range afar from the waste lands protecting
his fastness, unchecked, because there were no troops left in the whole
province. The usual garrison of Sulaco had gone south to the war, with its brass
band playing the Bolivar march on the bridge of one of the O.S.N. Company's
steamers. The great family coaches drawn up along the shore of the harbour were
made to rock on the high leathern springs by the enthusiasm of the señoras and
the señoritas standing up to wave their lace handkerchiefs, as lighter after
lighter packed full of troops left the end of the jetty.
    Nostromo directed the embarkation, under the super-intendendence of Captain
Mitchell, red-faced in the sun, conspicuous in a white waistcoat, representing
the allied and anxious goodwill of all the material interests of civilization.
General Barrios, who commanded the troops, assured Don José on parting that in
three weeks he would have Montero in a wooden cage drawn by three pair of oxen
ready for a tour through all the towns of the Republic.
    »And then, señora,« he continued, baring his curly iron-grey head to Mrs.
Gould in her landau - »and then, señora, we shall convert our swords into
plough-shares and grow rich. Even I, myself, as soon as this little business is
settled, shall open a fundacion on some land I have on the llanos and try to
make a little money in peace and quietness. Señora, you know, all Costaguana
knows - what do I say? - this whole South American continent knows, that Pablo
Barrios has had his fill of military glory.«
    Charles Gould was not present at the anxious and patriotic send-off. It was
not his part to see the soldiers embark. It was neither his part, nor his
inclination, nor his policy. His part, his inclination, and his policy were
united in one endeavour to keep unchecked the flow of treasure he had started
single-handed from the re-opened scar in the flank of the mountain. As the mine
developed he had trained for himself some native help. There were foremen,
artificers and clerks, with Don Pépé for the gobernador of the mining
population. For the rest his shoulders alone sustained the whole weight of the
»Imperium in Imperio,« the great Gould Concession whose mere shadow had been
enough to crush the life out of his father.
    Mrs. Gould had no silver mine to look after. In the general life of the
Gould Concession she was represented by her two lieutenants, the doctor and the
priest, but she fed her woman's love for excitement on events whose significance
was purified to her by the fire of her imaginative purpose. On that day she had
brought the Avellanos, father and daughter, down to the harbour with her.
    Amongst his other activities of that stirring time, Don José had become the
chairman of a Patriotic Committee which had armed a great proportion of troops
in the Sulaco command with an improved model of a military rifle. It had been
just discarded for something still more deadly by one of the great European
powers. How much of the market-price for second-hand weapons was covered by the
voluntary contributions of the principal families, and how much came from those
funds Don José was understood to command abroad, remained a secret which he
alone could have disclosed; but the Ricos, as the populace called them, had
contributed under the pressure of their Nestor's eloquence. Some of the more
enthusiastic ladies had been moved to bring offerings of jewels into the hands
of the man who was the life and soul of the party.
    There were moments when both his life and his soul seemed overtaxed by so
many years of undiscouraged belief in regeneration. He appeared almost
inanimate, sitting rigidly by the side of Mrs. Gould in the landau, with his
fine, old, clean-shaven face of a uniform tint as if modelled in yellow wax,
shaded by a soft felt hat, the dark eyes looking out fixedly. Antonia, the
beautiful Antonia, as Miss Avellanos was called in Sulaco, leaned back, facing
them; and her full figure, the grave oval of her face with full red lips, made
her look more mature than Mrs. Gould, with her mobile expression and small,
erect person under a slightly swaying sunshade.
    Whenever possible Antonia attended her father; her recognized devotion
weakened the shocking effect of her scorn for the rigid conventions regulating
the life of Spanish-American girlhood. And, in truth, she was no longer girlish.
It was said that she often wrote State papers from her father's dictation, and
was allowed to read all the books in his library. At the receptions - where the
situation was saved by the presence of a very decrepit old lady (a relation of
the Corbelàns), quite deaf and motionless in an armchair - Antonia could hold
her own in a discussion with two or three men at a time. Obviously she was not
the girl to be content with peeping through a barred window at a cloaked figure
of a lover ensconced in a doorway opposite - which is the correct form of
Costaguana courtship. It was generally believed that with her foreign upbringing
and foreign ideas the learned and proud Antonia would never marry - unless,
indeed, she married a foreigner from Europe or North America, now that Sulaco
seemed on the point of being invaded by all the world.
 

                                 Chapter Three

When General Barrios stopped to address Mrs. Gould, Antonia raised negligently
her hand holding an open fan, as if to shade from the sun her head, wrapped in a
light lace shawl. The clear gleam of her blue eyes gliding behind the black
fringe of eyelashes paused for a moment upon her father, then travelled further
to the figure of a young man of thirty at most, of medium height, rather
thick-set, wearing a light overcoat. Bearing down with the open palm of his hand
upon the knob of a flexible cane, he had been looking on from a distance; but
directly he saw himself noticed, he approached quietly and put his elbow over
the door of the landau.
    The shirt collar, cut low in the neck, the big bow of his cravat, the style
of his clothing, from the round hat to the varnished shoes, suggested an idea of
French elegance; but otherwise he was the very type of a fair Spanish creole.
The fluffy moustache and the short, curly, golden beard did not conceal his
lips, rosy, fresh, almost pouting in expression. His full, round face was of
that warm, healthy creole white which is never tanned by its native sunshine.
Martin Decoud was seldom exposed to the Costaguana sun under which he was born.
His people had been long settled in Paris, where he had studied law, had dabbled
in literature, had hoped now and then in moments of exaltation to become a poet
like that other foreigner of Spanish blood, José Maria Herédia. In other moments
he had, to pass the time, condescended to write articles on European affairs for
the Semenario, the principal newspaper in Sta. Marta, which printed them under
the heading From our special correspondent, though the authorship was an open
secret. Everybody in Costaguana, where the tale of compatriots in Europe is
jealously kept, knew that it was the son Decoud, a talented young man, supposed
to be moving in the higher spheres of Society. As a matter of fact, he was an
idle boulevardier, in touch with some smart journalists, made free of a few
newspaper offices, and welcomed in the pleasure haunts of pressmen. This life,
whose dreary superficiality is covered by the glitter of universal blague, like
the stupid clowning of a harlequin by the spangles of a motley costume, induced
in him a Frenchified - but most un-French - cosmopolitanism, in reality a mere
barren indifferentism posing as intellectual superiority. Of his own country he
used to say to his French associates: »- Imagine an atmosphere of opera-bouffe
in which all the comic business of stage statesmen, brigands, etc., etc., all
their farcical stealing, intriguing, and stabbing is done in dead earnest. It is
screamingly funny, the blood flows all the time, and the actors believe
themselves to be influencing the fate of the universe. Of course, government in
general, any government anywhere, is a thing of exquisite comicality to a
discerning mind; but really we Spanish-Americans do overstep the bounds. No man
of ordinary intelligence can take part in the intrigues of une farce macabre.
However, these Ribierists, of whom we hear so much just now, are really trying
in their own comical way to make the country habitable, and even to pay some of
its debts. My friends, you had better write up Señor Ribiera all you can in
kindness to your own bondholders. Really, if what I am told in my letters is
true, there is some chance for them at last.«
    And he would explain with railing verve what Don Vincente Ribiera stood for
- a mournful little man oppressed by his own good intentions, the significance
of battles won, who Montero was (un grotesque vaniteux et féroce), and the
manner of the new loan connected with railway development, and the colonization
of vast tracts of land in one great financial scheme.
    And his French friends would remark that evidently this little fellow Decoud
connaissait la question à fond. An important Parisian review asked him for an
article on the situation. It was composed in a serious tone and in a spirit of
levity. Afterwards he asked one of his intimates -
    »Have you read my thing about the regeneration of Costaguana - une bonne
blague, hein?«
    He imagined himself Parisian to the tips of his fingers. But far from being
that he was in danger of remaining a sort of nondescript dilettante all his
life. He had pushed the habit of universal raillery to a point where it blinded
him to the genuine impulses of his own nature. To be suddenly selected for the
executive member of the patriotic small-arms committee of Sulaco seemed to him
the height of the unexpected, one of those fantastic moves of which only his
dear countrymen were capable.
    »It's like a tile falling on my head. I - I - executive member! It's the
first I hear of it! What do I know of military rifles? C'est funambulesque!« he
had exclaimed to his favourite sister; for the Decoud family - except the old
father and mother - used the French language amongst themselves. »And you should
see the explanatory and confidential letter! Eight pages of it - no less!«
    This letter, in Antonia's handwriting, was signed by Don José, who appealed
to the young and gifted Costaguanero on public grounds, and privately opened his
heart to his talented god-son, a man of wealth and leisure, with wide relations,
and by his parentage and bringing-up worthy of all confidence.
    »Which means,« Martin commented, cynically, to his sister, »that I am not
likely to misappropriate the funds, or go blabbing to our Chargé d'Affaires
here.«
    The whole thing was being carried out behind the back of the War Minister,
Montero, a mistrusted member of the Ribiera Government, but difficult to get rid
of at once. He was not to know anything of it till the troops under Barrios's
command had the new rifle in their hands. The President-Dictator, whose position
was very difficult, was alone in the secret.
    »How funny!« commented Martin's sister and confidant; to which the brother,
with an air of best Parisian blague, had retorted -
    »It's immense! The idea of that Chief of the State engaged, with the help of
private citizens, in digging a mine under his own indispensable War Minister.
No! We are unapproachable!« And he laughed immoderately.
    Afterwards his sister was surprised at the earnestness and ability he
displayed in carrying out his mission, which circumstances made delicate, and
his want of special knowledge rendered difficult. She had never seen Martin take
so much trouble about anything in his whole life.
    »It amuses me,« he had explained, briefly. »I am beset by a lot of swindlers
trying to see all sorts of gas-pipe weapons. They are charming; they invite me
to expensive luncheons; I keep up their hopes; it's extremely entertaining.
Meanwhile, the real affair is being carried through in quite another quarter.«
    When the business was concluded he declared suddenly his intention of seeing
the precious consignment delivered safely in Sulaco. The whole burlesque
business, he thought, was worth following up to the end. He mumbled his excuses,
tugging at his golden beard, before the acute young lady who (after the first
wide stare of astonishment) looked at him with narrowed eyes, and pronounced
slowly -
    »I believe you want to see Antonia.«
    »What Antonia?« asked the Costaguana boulevardier, in a vexed and disdainful
tone. He shrugged his shoulders, and spun round on his heel. His sister called
out after him joyously -
    »The Antonia you used to know when she wore her hair in two plaits down her
back.«
    He had known her some eight years since, shortly before the Avellanos had
left Europe for good, as a tall girl of sixteen, youthfully austere, and of a
character already so formed that she ventured to treat slightingly his pose of
disabused wisdom. On one occasion, as though she had lost all patience, she flew
out at him about the aimlessness of his life and the levity of his opinions. He
was twenty then, an only son, spoiled by his adoring family. This attack
disconcerted him so greatly that he had faltered in his affection of amused,
superiority before that insignificant chit of a school-girl. But the impression
left was so strong that ever since all the girl friends of his sisters recalled
to him Antonia Avellanos by some faint resemblance, or by the great force of
contrast. It was, he told himself, like a ridiculous fatality. And, of course,
in the news the Decouds received regularly from Costaguana, the name of their
friends, the Avellanos, cropped up frequently - the arrest and the abominable
treatment of the ex-Minister, the dangers and hardships endured by the family,
its withdrawal in poverty to Sulaco, the death of the mother.
    The Monterist pronunciamento had taken place before Martin Decoud reached
Costaguana. He came out in a roundabout way, through Magellan's Straits by the
main line and the West Coast Service of the O.S.N. Company. His precious
consignment arrived just in time to convert the first feelings of consternation
into a mood of hope and resolution. Publicly he was made much of by the familias
principales. Privately Don José, still shaken and weak, embraced him with tears
in his eyes.
    »You have come out yourself! No less could be expected from a Decoud. Alas!
our worst fears have been realized,« he moaned, affectionately. And again he
hugged his god-son. This was indeed the time for men of intellect and conscience
to rally round the endangered cause.
    It was then that Martin Decoud, the adopted child of Western Europe, felt
the absolute change of atmosphere. He submitted to being embraced and talked to
without a word. He was moved in spite of himself by that note of passion and
sorrow unknown on the more refined stage of European politics. But when the tall
Antonia, advancing with her light step in the dimness of the big bare Sala of
the Avellanos house, offered him her hand (in her emancipated way), and
murmured, »I am glad to see you here, Don Martin,« he felt how impossible it
would be to tell these two people that he had intended to go away by the next
month's packet. Don José, meantime, continued his praises. Every accession added
to public confidence, and, besides, what an example to the young men at home
from the brilliant defender of the country's regeneration, the worthy expounder
of the party's political faith before the world! Everybody had read the
magnificent article in the famous Parisian Review. The world was now informed:
and the author's appearance at tins moment was like a public act of faith. Young
Decoud felt overcome by a feeling of impatient confusion. His plan had been to
return by way of the United States through California, visit Yellowstone Park,
see Chicago, Niagara, have a look at Canada, perhaps make a short stay in New
York, a longer one in Newport, use his letters of introduction. The pressure of
Antonia's hand was so frank, the tone of her voice was so unexpectedly unchanged
in its approving warmth, that all he found to say after his low bow was -
    »I am inexpressibly grateful for your welcome; but why need a man be thanked
for returning to his native country? I am sure Doña Antonia does not think so.«
    »Certainly not, señor,« she said, with that perfectly calm openness of
manner which characterized all her utterances. »But when he returns, as you
return, one may be glad - for the sake of both.«
    Martin Decoud said nothing of his plans. He not only never breathed a word
of them to any one, but only a fortnight later asked the mistress of the Casa
Gould (where he had of course obtained admission at once), leaning forward in
his chair with an air of well-bred familiarity, whether she could not detect in
him that day a marked change - an air, he explained, of more excellent gravity.
At this Mrs. Gould turned her face full towards him with the silent inquiry of
slightly widened eyes and the merest ghost of a smile, an habitual movement with
her, which was very fascinating to men by something subtly devoted, finely
self-forgetful in its lively readiness of attention. Because, Decoud continued
imperturbably, he felt no longer an idle cumberer of the earth. She was, he
assured her, actually beholding at that moment the Journalist of Sulaco. At once
Mrs. Gould glanced towards Antonia, posed upright in the corner of a high,
straight-backed Spanish sofa, a large black fan waving slowly against the curves
of her fine figure, the tips of crossed feet peeping from under the hem of the
black skirt. Decoud's eyes also remained fixed there, while in an undertone he
added that Miss Avellanos was quite aware of his new and unexpected vocation,
which in Costaguana was generally the speciality of half-educated Negroes and
wholly penniless lawyers. Then, confronting with a sort of urbane effrontery
Mrs. Gould's gaze, now turned sympathetically upon himself, he breathed out the
words, »Pro Patria!«
    What had happened was that he had all at once yielded to Don José's pressing
entreaties to take the direction of a newspaper that would voice the aspirations
of the province. It had been Don José's old and cherished idea. The necessary
plant (on a modest scale) and a large consignment of paper had been received
from America some time before; the right man alone was wanted. Even Señor Moraga
in Sta. Marta had not been able to find one, and the matter was now becoming
pressing; some organ was absolutely needed to counteract the effect of the lies
disseminated by the Monterist press: the atrocious calumnies, the appeals of the
people calling upon them to rise with their knives in their hands and put an end
once for all to the Blancos, to these Gothic remnants, to these sinister
mummies, these impotent paraliticos, who plotted with foreigners for the
surrender of the lands and the slavery of the people.
    The clamour of this Negro Liberalism frightened Señor Avellanos. A newspaper
was the only remedy. And now that the right man had been found in Decoud, great
black letters appeared painted between the windows above the arcaded ground
floor of a house on the Plaza. It was next to Anzani's great emporium of boots,
silks, ironware, muslins, wooden toys, tiny silver arms, legs, heads, hearts
(for ex-voto offerings), rosaries, champagne, women's hats, patent medicines,
even a few dusty books in paper covers and mostly in the French language. The
big black letters formed the words, Offices of the Porvenir. From these offices
a single folded sheet of Martin's journalism issued three times a week; and the
sleek yellow Anzani prowling in a suit of ample black and carpet slippers,
before the many doors of his establishment, greeted by a deep, side-long
inclination of his body the Journalist of Sulaco going to and fro on the
business of his august calling.
 

                                  Chapter Four

Perhaps it was in the exercise of his calling that he had come to see the troops
depart. The Porvenir of the day after next would no doubt relate the event, but
its editor, leaning his side against the landau, seemed to look at nothing. The
front rank of the company of infantry drawn up three deep across the shore end
of the jetty when pressed too close would bring their bayonets to the charge
ferociously, with an awful rattle; and then the crowd of spectators swayed back
bodily, even under the noses of the big white mules. Notwithstanding the great
multitude there was only a low, muttering noise; the dust hung in a brown haze,
in which the horsemen, wedged in the throng here and there, towered from the
hips upwards, gazing all one way over the heads. Almost every one of them had
mounted a friend, who steadied himself with both hands grasping his shoulders
from behind; and the rims of their hats touching, made like one disc sustaining
the cones of two pointed crowns with a double face underneath. A hoarse mozo
would bawl out something to an acquaintance in the ranks, or a woman would
shriek suddenly the word Adios! followed by the Christian name of a man.
    General Barrios, in a shabby blue tunic and white peg-top trousers falling
upon strange red boots, kept his head uncovered and stooped slightly, propping
himself up with a thick stick. No! He had earned enough military glory to
satiate any man, he insisted to Mrs. Gould, trying at the same time to put an
air of gallantry into his attitude. A few jetty hairs hung sparsely from his
upper lip, he had a salient nose, a thin, long jaw, and a black silk patch over
one eye. His other eye, small and deep-set, twinkled erratically in all
directions, aimlessly affable. The few European spectators, all men, who had
naturally drifted into the neighbourhood of the Gould carriage, betrayed by the
solemnity of their faces their impression that the general must have had too
much punch (Swedish punch, imported in bottles by Anzani) at the Amarilla Club
before he had started with his Staff on a furious ride to the harbour. But Mrs.
Gould bent forward, self-possessed, and declared her conviction that still more
glory awaited the general in the near future.
    »Señora!« he remonstrated, with great feeling, »in the name of God, reflect!
How can there be any glory for a man like me in overcoming that bald-headed
embustero with the dyed moustaches?«
    Pablo Ignacio Barrios, son of a village alcade, general of division,
commanding in chief the Occidental Military district, did not frequent the
higher society of the town. He preferred the unceremonious gatherings of men
where he could tell jaguar-hunt stories, boast of his powers with the lasso,
with which he could perform extremely difficult feats of the sort no married man
should attempt, as the saying goes amongst the llaneros; relate tales of
extraordinary night rides, encounters with wild bulls, struggles with crocodile,
adventures in the great forests, crossings of swollen rivers. And it was not
mere boastfulness that prompted the general's reminiscences, but a genuine love
of that wild life which he had led in his young days before he turned his back
for ever on the thatched roof of the parental tolderia in the woods. Wandering
away as far as Mexico he had fought against the French by the side (as he said)
of Juarez, and was the only military man of Costaguana who had ever encountered
European troops in the field. That fact shed a great lustre upon his name till
it became eclipsed by the rising star of Montero. All his life he had been an
inveterate gambler. He alluded himself quite openly to the current story how
once, during some campaign (when in command of a brigade), he had gambled away
his horses, pistols, and accoutrements, to the very epaulettes, playing monte
with his colonels the night before the battle. Finally, he had sent under escort
his sword (a presentation sword, with a gold hilt) to the town in the rear of
his position to be immediately pledged for five hundred pesetas with a sleepy
and frightened shop-keeper. By daybreak he had lost the last of that money, too,
when his only remark, as he rose calmly, was, »Now let us go and fight to the
death.« From that time he had become aware that a general could lead his troops
into battle very well with a simple stick in his hand. »It has been my custom
ever since,« he would say.
    He was always overwhelmed with debts; even during the periods of splendour
in his varied fortunes of a Costaguana general, when he held high military
commands, his gold-laced uniforms were almost always in pawn with some
tradesman. And at last, to avoid the incessant difficulties of costume caused by
the anxious lenders, he had assumed a disdain of military trappings, an
eccentric fashion of shabby old tunics, which had become like a second nature.
But the faction Barrios joined needed to fear no political betrayal. He was too
much of a real soldier for the ignoble traffic of buying and selling victories.
A member of the foreign diplomatic body in Sta. Marta had once passed a judgment
upon him: »Barrios is a man of perfect honesty and even of some talent for war,
mais il manque de tenue.« After the triumph of the Ribierists he had obtained
the reputedly lucrative Occidental command, mainly through the exertions of his
creditors (the Sta. Marta shopkeepers, all great politicians), who moved heaven
and earth in his interest publicly, and privately besieged Señor Moraga, the
influential agent of the San Tomé mine, with the exaggerated lamentations that
if the general were passed over, We shall all be ruined. An incidental but
favourable mention of his name in Mr. Gould senior's long correspondence with
his son had something to do with his appointment, too; but most of all
undoubtedly his established political honesty. No one questioned the personal
bravery of the Tiger-killer, as the populace called him. He was, however, said
to be unlucky in the field - but this was to be the beginning of an era of
peace. The soldiers liked him for his humane temper, which was like a strange
and precious flower unexpectedly blooming on the hotbed of corrupt revolutions;
and when he rode slowly through the streets during some military display, the
contemptuous good humour of his solitary eye roaming over the crowds extorted
the acclamations of the populace. The women of that class especially seemed
positively fascinated by the long dropping nose, the peaked chin, the heavy
lower lip, the black silk eye-patch and band slanting rakishly over the
forehead. His high rank always procured an audience of Caballeros for his
sporting stories, which he detailed very well with a simple, grave enjoyment. As
to the society of ladies, it was irksome by the restraints it imposed without
any equivalent, as far as he could see. He had not, perhaps, spoken three times
on the whole to Mrs. Gould since he had taken up his high command; but he had
observed her frequently riding with the Señor Administrator, and had pronounced
that there was more sense in her little bridle-hand than in all the female heads
in Sulaco. His impulse had been to be very civil on parting to a woman who did
not wobble in the saddle, and happened to be the wife of a personality very
important to a man always short of money. He even pushed his attentions so far
as to desire the aide-de-camp at his side (a thick-set, short captain with a
Tartar physiognomy) to bring along a corporal with a file of men in front of the
carriage, lest the crowd in its backward surges should incommode the mules of
the señora. Then, turning to the small knot of silent Europeans looking on
within earshot, he raised his voice protectingly -
    »Señores, have no apprehension. Go on quietly making your Ferro Carril -
your railways, your telegraphs. Your - There's enough wealth in Costaguana to
pay for everything - or else you would not be here. Ha! ha! Don't mind this
little picardia of my friend Montero. In a little while you shall behold his
dyed moustaches through the bars of a strong wooden cage. Si, señores! Fear
nothing, develop the country, work, work!«
    The little group of engineers received this exhortation without a word, and
after waving his hand at them loftily, he addressed himself again to Mrs. Gould
-
    »That is what Don José says we must do. Be enterprising! Work! Grow rich! To
put Montero in a cage is my work; and when that insignificant piece of business
is done, then, as Don José wishes us, we shall grow rich, one and all, like so
many Englishmen, because it is money that saves a country, and -«
    But a young officer in a very new uniform, hurrying up from the direction of
the jetty, interrupted his interpretation of Señor Avellanos's ideals. The
general made a movement of impatience; the other went on talking to him
insistently, with an air of respect. The horses of the Staff had been embarked,
the steamer's gig was awaiting the general at the boat steps; and Barrios, after
a fierce stare of his one eye, began to take leave. Don José roused himself for
an appropriate phrase pronounced mechanically. The terrible strain of hope and
fear was telling on him, and he seemed to husband the last sparks of his fire
for those oratorical efforts of which even the distant Europe was to hear.
Antonia, her red lips firmly closed, averted her head behind the raised fan; and
young Decoud, though he felt the girl's eyes upon him, gazed away persistently,
hooked on his elbow, with a scornful and complete detachment. Mrs. Gould
heroically concealed her dismay at the appearance of men and events so remote
from her racial conventions, dismay too deep to be uttered in words even to her
husband. She understood his voiceless reserve better now. Their confidential
intercourse fell, not in moments of privacy, but precisely in public, when the
quick meeting of their glances would comment upon some fresh turn of events. She
had gone to his school of uncompromising silence, the only one possible, since
so much that seemed shocking, weird, and grotesque in the working out of their
purposes had to be accepted as normal in this country. Decidedly, the stately
Antonia looked more mature and infinitely calm; but she would never have known
how to reconcile the sudden sinkings of her heart with an amiable mobility of
expression.
    Mrs. Gould smiled a good-bye at Barrios, nodded round to the Europeans (who
raised their hats simultaneously) with an engaging invitation, »I hope to see
you all presently, at home«; then said nervously to Decoud, »Get in, Don
Martin,« and heard him mutter to himself in French, as he opened the carriage
door, »Le sort en est jeté.« She heard him with a sort of exasperation. Nobody
ought to have known better than himself that the first cast of dice had been
already thrown long ago in a most desperate game. Distant acclamations, words of
command yelled out, and a roll of drums on the jetty greeted the departing
general. Something like a slight faintness came over her, and she looked blankly
at Antonia's still face, wondering what would happen to Charley if that absurd
man failed. »A la casa, Ignacio,« she cried at the motionless broad back of the
coachman, who gathered the reins without haste, mumbling to himself under his
breadth, »Si, la casa. Si, si niña.«
    The carriage rolled noiselessly on the soft track, the shadows fell long on
the dusty little plain interspersed with dark bushes, mounds of turned-up earth,
low wooden buildings with iron roofs of the Railway Company; the sparse row of
telegraph poles strode obliquely clear of the town, bearing a single, almost
invisible wire far into the great campo - like a slender, vibrating feeler of
that progress waiting outside for a moment of peace to enter and twine itself
about the weary heart of the land.
    The café window of the Albergo d'Italia Una was full of sunburnt, whiskered
faces of railway men. But at the other end of the house, the end of the Signori
Inglesi, old Giorgio, at the door with one of his girls on each side, bared his
bushy head, as white as the snows of Higuerota. Mrs. Gould stopped the carriage.
She seldom failed to speak to her protégé; moreover, the excitement, the heat,
and the dust had made her thirsty. She asked for a glass of water. Giorgio sent
the children indoors for it, and approached with pleasure expressed in his whole
rugged countenance. It was not often that he had occasion to see his
benefactress, who was also an Englishwoman - another title to his regard. He
offered some excuses for his wife. It was a bad day with her; her oppressions -
he tapped his own broad chest. She could not move from her chair that day.
    Decoud, ensconced in the corner of his seat, observed gloomily Mrs. Gould's
old revolutionist, then, offhand -
    »Well, and what do you think of it all, Garibaldino?«
    Old Giorgio, looking at him with some curiosity, said civilly that the
troops had marched very well. One-eyed Barrios and his officers had done wonders
with the recruits in a short time. Those Indios, only caught the other day, had
gone swinging past in double quick time, like bersaglieri; they looked well fed,
too, and had whole uniforms. »Uniforms!« he repeated with a half-smile of pity.
A look of grim retrospect stole over his piercing, steady eyes. It had been
otherwise in his time when men fought against tyranny, in the forests of Brazil,
or on the plains of Uruguay, starving on half-raw beef without salt, half naked,
with often only a knife tied to a stick for a weapon. »And yet we used to
prevail against the oppressor,« he concluded, proudly.
    His animation fell; the slight gesture of his hand expressed discouragement;
but he added that he had asked one of the sergeants to show him the new rifle.
There was no such weapon in his fighting days; and if Barrios could not -
    »Yes, yes,« broke in Don José, almost trembling with eagerness. »We are
safe. The good Señor Viola is a man of experience. Extremely deadly - is it not
so? You have accomplished your mission admirably, my dear Martin.«
    Decoud, lolling back moodily, contemplated old Viola.
    »Ah! Yes. A man of experience. But who are you for, really, in your heart?«
    Mrs. Gould leaned over to the children. Linda had brought out a glass of
water on a tray, with extreme care; Giselle presented her with a bunch of
flowers gathered hastily.
    »For the people,« declared old Viola, sternly.
    »We are all for the people - in the end.«
    »Yes,« muttered old Viola, savagely. »And meantime they fight for you.
Blind. Esclavos!«
    At that moment young Scarfe of the railway staff emerged from the door of
the part reserved for the Signori Inglesi. He had come down to headquarters from
somewhere up the line on a light engine, and had had just time to get a bath and
change his clothes. He was a nice boy, and Mrs. Gould welcomed him.
    »It's a delightful surprise to see you, Mrs. Gould. I've just come down.
Usual luck. Missed everything, of course. This show is just over, and I hear
there has been a great dance at Don Juste Lopez's last night. Is it true?«
    »The young patricians,« Decoud began suddenly in his precise English, »have
indeed been dancing before they started off to the war with the Great Pompey.«
    Young Scarfe stared, astounded. »You haven't met before,« Mrs. Gould
intervened. »Mr. Decoud - Mr. Scarfe.«
    »Ah! But we are not going to Pharsalia,« protested Don José, with nervous
haste, also in English. »You should not jest like this, Martin.«
    Antonia's breast rose and fell with a deeper breath. The young engineer was
utterly in the dark. »Great what?« he muttered, vaguely.
    »Luckily, Montero is not a Cæsar,« Decoud continued. »Not the two Monteros
put together would make a decent parody of a Cæsar.« He crossed his arms on his
breast, looking at Señor Avellanos, who had returned to his immobility. »It is
only you, Don José, who are a genuine old Roman - vir Romanus - eloquent and
inflexible.«
    Since he had heard the name of Montero pronounced, young Scarfe had been
eager to express his simple feelings. In a loud and youthful tone he hoped that
this Montero was going to be licked once for all and done with. There was no
saying what would happen to the railway if the revolution got the upper hand.
Perhaps it would have to be abandoned. It would not be the first railway gone to
pot in Costaguana. »You know, it's one of their so-called national things,« he
ran on, wrinkling up his nose as if the world had a suspicious flavour to his
profound experience of South American affairs. And, of course, he chatted with
animation, it had been such an immense piece of luck for him at his age to get
appointed on the staff »of a big thing like that - don't you know.« It would
give him the pull over a lot of chaps all through life, he asserted. »Therefore
- down with Montero! Mrs. Gould.« His artless grin disappeared slowly before the
unanimous gravity of the faces turned upon him from the carriage; only that old
chap, Don José, presenting a motionless, waxy profile, stared straight on as if
deaf. Scarfe did not know the Avellanos very well. They did not give balls, and
Antonia never appeared at a ground-floor window, as some other young ladies used
to do attended by elder women, to chat with the caballeros on horseback in the
Calle. The stares of these creoles did not matter much; but what on earth had
come to Mrs. Gould? She said, »Go on, Ignacio,« and gave him a slow inclination
of the head. He heard a short laugh from that round-faced, Frenchified fellow.
He coloured up to the eyes, and stared at Giorgio Viola, who had fallen back
with the children, hat in hand.
    »I shall want a horse presently,« he said with some asperity to the old man.
    »Si, señor. There are plenty of horses,« murmured the Garibaldino, smoothing
absently, with his brown hands, the two heads, one dark with bronze glints, the
other fair with a coppery ripple, of the two girls by his side. The returning
stream of sightseers raised a great dust on the road. Horsemen noticed the
group. »Go to your mother,« he said. »They are growing up as I am growing older,
and there is nobody -«
    He looked at the young engineer and stopped, as if awakened from a dream;
then, folding his arms on his breast, took up his usual position, leaning back
in the doorway with an upward glance fastened on the white shoulder of Higuerota
far away.
    In the carriage Martin Decoud, shifting his position as though he could not
make himself comfortable, muttered as he swayed towards Antonia, »I suppose you
hate me.« Then in a loud voice he began to congratulate Don José upon all the
engineers being convinced Ribierists. The interests of all those foreigners was
gratifying. »You have heard this one. He is an enlightened well-wisher. It is
pleasant to think that the prosperity of Costaguana is of some use to the
world.«
    »He is very young,« Mrs. Gould remarked, quietly.
    »And so very wise for his age,« retorted Decoud. »But here we have the naked
truth from the mouth of that child. You are right, Don José. The natural
treasures of Costaguana are of importance to the progressive Europe represented
by this youth, just as three hundred years ago the wealth of our Spanish fathers
was a serious object to the rest of Europe - as represented by the bold
buccaneers. There is a curse of futility upon our character: Don Quixote and
Sancho Panza, chivalry and materialism, high-sounding sentiments and a supine
morality, violent efforts for an idea and a sullen acquiescence in every form of
corruption. We convulsed a continent for our independence only to become the
passive prey of a democratic parody, the helpless victims of scoundrels and
cut-throats, our institutions a mockery, our laws a farce - a Guzman Bento our
master! And we have sunk so low that when a man like you has awakened our
conscience, a stupid barbarian of a Montero - Great Heavens! a Montero! -
becomes a deadly danger, and an ignorant, boastful Indio, like Barrios, is our
defender.«
    But Don José, disregarding the general indictment as though he had not heard
a word of it, took up the defence of Barrios. The man was competent enough for
his special task in the plan of campaign. It consisted in an offensive movement,
with Cayta as base, upon the flank of the Revolutionist forces advancing from
the south against Sta. Marta, which was covered by another army with the
President-Dictator in its midst. Don José became quite animated with a great
flow of speech, bending forward anxiously under the steady eyes of his daughter.
Decoud, as if silenced by so much ardour, did not make a sound. The bells of the
city were striking the hour of Oracion when the carriage rolled under the old
gateway facing the harbour like a shapeless monument of leaves and stones. The
rumble of wheels under the sonorous arch was traversed by a strange, piercing
shriek, and Decoud, from his back seat, had a view of the people behind the
carriage trudging along the road outside, all turning their heads, in sombreros
and rebozos, to look at a locomotive which rolled quickly out of sight behind
Giorgio Viola's house; under a white trail of steam that seemed to vanish in the
breathless, hysterically prolonged scream of warlike triumph. And it was all
like a fleeting vision, the shrieking ghost of a railway engine fleeing across
the frame of the archway, behind the startled movement of the people streaming
back from a military spectacle with silent footsteps on the dust of the road. It
was a material train returning from the Campo to the palisaded yards. The empty
cars rolled lightly on the single track; there was no rumble of wheels, no
tremor on the ground. The engine-driver, running past the Casa Viola with the
salute of an uplifted arm, checked his speed smartly before entering the yard;
and when the ear-splitting screech of the steam-whistle for the brakes had
stopped, a series of hard, battering shocks, mingled with the clanking of
chain-couplings, made a tumult of blows and shaken fetters under the vault of
the gate.
 

                                  Chapter Five

The Gould carriage was the first to return from the harbour to the empty town.
On the ancient pavement, laid out in patterns, sunk into ruts and holes, the
portly Ignacio, mindful of the springs of the Parisian-built landau, had pulled
up to a walk, and Decoud in his corner contemplated moodily the inner aspect of
the gate. The squat turreted sides held up between them a mass of masonry with
bunches of grass growing at the top, and a grey, heavily scrolled, armorial
shield of stone above the apex of the arch with the arms of Spain nearly
smoothed out as if in readiness for some new device typical of the impending
progress.
    The explosive noise of the railway trucks seemed to augment Decoud's
irritation. He muttered something to himself, then began to talk aloud in curt,
angry phrases thrown at the silence of the two women. They did not look at him
at all; while Don José, with his semi-translucent, waxy complexion, overshadowed
by the soft grey hat, swayed a little to the jolts of the carriage by the side
of Mrs. Gould.
    »This sound puts a new edge on a very old truth.«
    Decoud spoke in French, perhaps because of Ignacio on the box above him; the
old coachman, with his broad back filling a short, silver-braided jacket, had a
big pair of ears, whose thick rims stood well away from his cropped head.
    »Yes, the noise outside the city wall is new, but the principle is old.«
    He ruminated his discontent for a while, then began afresh with a sidelong
glance at Antonia -
    »No, but just imagine our forefathers in morions and corselets drawn up
outside this gate, and a band of adventurers just landed from their ships in the
harbour there. Thieves, of course. Speculators, too. Their expeditions, each
one, were the speculations of grave and reverend persons in England. That is
history, as that absurd sailor Mitchell is always saying.«
    »Mitchell's arrangements for the embarkation of the troops were excellent!«
exclaimed Don José.
    »That! - that! oh, that's really the work of that Genoese seaman! But to
return to my noises; there used to be in the old days the sound of trumpets
outside that gate. War trumpets! I'm sure they were trumpets. I have read
somewhere that Drake, who was the greatest of these men, used to dine alone in
his cabin on board ship to the sound of trumpets. In those days this town was
full of wealth. Those men came to take it. Now the whole land is like a
treasure-house, and all these people are breaking into it, whilst we are cutting
each other's throats. The only thing that keeps them out is mutual jealousy. But
they'll come to an agreement some day - and by the time we've settled our
quarrels and become decent and honourable, there'll be nothing left for us. It
has always been the same. We are a wonderful people, but it has always been our
fate to be« - he did not say »robbed,« but added, after a pause - »exploited!«
    Mrs. Gould said, »Oh, this is unjust!« And Antonia interjected, »Don't
answer him, Emilia. He is attacking me.«
    »You surely do not think I was attacking Don Carlos!« Decoud answered.
    And then the carriage stopped before the door of the Casa Gould. The young
man offered his hand to the ladies. They went in first together; Don José walked
by the side of Decoud, and the gouty old porter tottered after them with some
light wraps on his arm.
    Don José slipped his hand under the arm of the journalist of Sulaco.
    »The Porvenir must have a long and confident article upon Barrios and the
irresistibleness of his army of Cayta! The moral effect should be kept up in the
country. We must cable encouraging extracts to Europe and the United States to
maintain a favourable impression abroad.«
    Decoud muttered, »Oh, yes, we must comfort our friends, the speculators.«
    The long open gallery was in shadow, with its screen of plants in vases
along the balustrade, holding out motionless blossoms, and all the glass doors
of the reception-rooms thrown open. A jingle of spurs died out at the further
end.
    Basilio, standing aside against the wall, said in a soft tone to the passing
ladies, »The Señor Administrator is just back from the mountain.«
    In the great sala, with its groups of ancient Spanish and modern European
furniture making as if different centres under the high white spread of the
ceiling, the silver and porcelain of the tea-service gleamed among a cluster of
dwarf chairs, like a bit of a lady's boudoir, putting in a note of feminine and
intimate delicacy.
    Don José in his rocking-chair placed his hat on his lap, and Decoud walked
up and down the whole length of the room, passing between tables loaded with
knick-knacks and almost disappearing behind the high backs of leathern sofas. He
was thinking of the angry face of Antonia; he was confident that he would make
his peace with her. He had not stayed in Sulaco to quarrel with Antonia.
    Martin Decoud was angry with himself. All he saw and heard going on around
him exasperated the preconceived views of his European civilization. To
contemplate revolutions from the distance of the Parisian Boulevards was quite
another matter. Here on the spot it was not possible to dismiss their tragic
comedy with the expression, Quelle farce!
    The reality of the political action, such as it was, seemed closer, and
acquired poignancy by Antonia's belief in the cause. Its crudeness hurt his
feelings. He was surprised at his own sensitiveness.
    »I suppose I am more of a Costaguanero than I would have believed possible,«
he thought to himself.
    His disdain grew like a reaction of his scepticism against the action into
which he was forced by his infatuation for Antonia. He soothed himself by saying
he was not a patriot, but a lover.
    The ladies came in bareheaded, and Mrs. Gould sank low before the little
tea-table. Antonia took up her usual place at the reception hour - the corner of
a leathern couch, with a rigid grace in her pose and a fan in her hand. Decoud,
swerving from the straight line of his march, came to lean over the high back of
her seat.
    For a long time he talked into her ear from behind, softly, with a half
smile and an air of apologetic familiarity. Her fan lay half grasped on her
knees. She never looked at him. His rapid utterance grew more and more insistent
and caressing. At last he ventured a slight laugh.
    »No, really. You must forgive me. One must be serious sometimes.« He paused.
She turned her head a little; her blue eyes glided slowly towards him, slightly
upwards, mollified and questioning.
    »You can't think I am serious when I call Montero a gran' bestia every
second day in the Porvenir? That is not a serious occupation. No occupation is
serious, not even when a bullet through the heart is the penalty of failure!«
    Her hand closed firmly on her fan.
    »Some reason, you understand, I mean some sense, may creep into thinking;
some glimpse of truth. I mean some effective truth, for which there is no room
in politics or journalism. I happen to have said what I thought. And you are
angry! If you do me the kindness to think a little you will see that I spoke
like a patriot.«
    She opened her red lips for the first time, not unkindly.
    »Yes, but you never see the aim. Men must be used as they are. I suppose
nobody is really disinterested, unless, perhaps, you, Don Martin.«
    »God forbid! It's the last thing I should like you to believe of me.« He
spoke lightly, and paused.
    She began to fan herself with a slow movement without raising her hand.
After a time he whispered passionately -
    »Antonia!«
    She smiled, and extended her hand after the English manner towards Charles
Gould, who was bowing before her; while Decoud, with his elbows spread on the
back of the sofa, dropped his eyes and murmured, »Bonjour.«
    The Señor Administrator of the San Tomé mine bent over his wife for a
moment. They exchanged a few words, of which only the phrase, »The greatest
enthusiasm,« pronounced by Mrs. Gould, could be heard.
    »Yes,« Decoud began in a murmur. »Even he!«
    »This is sheer calumny,« said Antonia, not very severely.
    »You just ask him to throw his mine into the melting-pot for the great
cause,« Decoud whispered.
    Don José had raised his voice. He rubbed his hands cheerily. The excellent
aspect of the troops and the great quantity of new deadly rifles on the
shoulders of those brave men seemed to fill him with an ecstatic confidence.
    Charles Gould, very tall and thin before his chair, listened, but nothing
could be discovered in his face except a kind and deferential attention.
    Meantime, Antonia had risen, and, crossing the room, stood looking out of
one of the three long windows giving on the street. Decoud followed her. The
window was thrown open, and he leaned against the thickness of the wall. The
long folds of the damask curtain, falling straight from the broad brass cornice,
hid him partly from the room. He folded his arms on his breast, and looked
steadily at Antonia's profile.
    The people returning from the harbour filled the pavements; the shuffle of
sandals and a low murmur of voices ascended to the window. Now and then a coach
rolled slowly along the disjointed roadway of the Calle de la Constitucion.
There were not many private carriages in Sulaco; at the most crowded hour on the
Alameda they could be counted with one glance of the eye. The great family arks
swayed on high leathern springs, full of pretty powdered faces in which the eyes
looked intensely alive and black. And first Don Juste Lopez, the President of
the Provincial Assembly, passed with his three lovely daughters, solemn in a
black frock-coat and stiff white tie, as when directing a debate from a high
tribune. Though they all raised their eyes, Antonia did not make the usual
greeting gesture of a fluttered hand, and they affected not to see the two young
people, Costaguaneros with European manners, whose eccentricities were discussed
behind the barred windows of the first families in Sulaco. And then the widowed
Señora Gavilaso de Valdes rolled by, handsome and dignified, in a great machine
in which she used to travel to and from her country house, surrounded by an
armed retinue in leather suits and big sombreros, with carbines at the bows of
their saddles. She was a woman of most distinguished family, proud, rich, and
kind-hearted. Her second son, Jaime, had just gone off on the Staff of Barrios.
The eldest, a worthless fellow of a moody disposition, filled Sulaco with the
noise of his dissipations, and gambled heavily at the club. The two youngest
boys, with yellow Ribierist cockades in their caps, sat on the front seat. She,
too, affected not to see the Señor Decoud talking publicly with Antonia in
defiance of every convention. And he not even her novio as far as the world
knew! Though, even in that case, it would have been scandal enough. But the
dignified old lady, respected and admired by the first families, would have been
still more shocked if she could have heard the words they were exchanging.
    »Did you say I lost sight of the aim? I have only one aim in the world.«
    She made an almost imperceptible negative movement of her head, still
staring across the street at the Avellanos's house, grey, marked with decay, and
with iron bars like a prison.
    »And it would be so easy of attainment,« he continued, »this aim which,
whether knowingly or not, I have always had in my heart - ever since the day
when you snubbed me so horribly once in Paris, you remember.«
    A slight smile seemed to move the corner of the lip that was on his side.
    »You know you were a very terrible person, a sort of Charlotte Corday in a
schoolgirl's dress; a ferocious patriot. I suppose you would have stuck a knife
into Guzman Bento?«
    She interrupted him. »You do me too much honour.«
    »At any rate,« he said, changing suddenly to a tone of bitter levity, »you
would have sent me to stab him without compunction.«
    »Ah, par exemple!« she murmured in a shocked tone.
    »Well,« he argued, mockingly, »you do keep me here writing deadly nonsense.
Deadly to me! It has already killed my self-respect. And you may imagine,« he
continued, his tone passing into light banter, »that Montero, should he be
successful, would get even with me in the only way such a brute can get even
with a man of intelligence who condescends to call him a gran' bestia three
times a week. It's a sort of intellectual death; but there is the other one in
the background for a journalist of my ability.«
    »If he is successful!« said Antonia, thoughtfully.
    »You seem satisfied to see my life hang on a thread,« Decoud replied, with a
broad smile. »And the other Montero, the my trusted brother of the
proclamations, the guerrillero - haven't I written that he was taking the
guests' overcoats and changing plates in Paris at our Legation in the intervals
of spying on our refugees there, in the time of Rojas? He will wash out that
sacred truth in blood. In my blood! Why do you look annoyed? This is simply a
bit of the biography of one of our great men. What do you think he will do to
me? There is a certain convent wall round the corner of the Plaza, opposite the
door of the Bull Ring. You know? Opposite the door with the inscription, Intrada
de la Sombra. Appropriate, perhaps! That's where the uncle of our host gave up
his Anglo-South-American soul. And, note, he might have run away. A man who has
fought with weapons may run away. You might have let me go with Barrios if you
had cared for me. I would have carried one of those rifles, in which Don José
believes, with the greatest satisfaction, in the ranks of poor peons and Indios,
that know nothing either of reason or politics. The most forlorn hope in the
most forlorn army on earth would have been safer than that for which you made me
stay here. When you make war you may retreat, but not when you spend your time
in inciting poor ignorant fools to kill and to die.«
    His tone remained light, and as if unaware of his presence she stood
motionless, her hands clasped lightly, the fan hanging down from her interlaced
fingers. He waited for a while, and then -
    »I shall go to the wall,« he said, with a sort of jocular desperation.
    Even that declaration did not make her look at him. Her head remained still,
her eyes fixed upon the house of the Avellanos, whose chipped pilasters, broken
cornices, the whole degradation of dignity was hidden now by the gathering dusk
of the street. In her whole figure her lips alone moved, forming the words -
    »Martin, you will make me cry.«
    He remained silent for a minute, startled, as if overwhelmed by a sort of
awed happiness, with the lines of the mocking smile still stiffened about his
mouth, and incredulous surprise in his eyes. The value of a sentence is in the
personality which utters it, for nothing new can be said by man or woman; and
those were the last words, it seemed to him, that could ever have been spoken by
Antonia. He had never made it up with her so completely in all their intercourse
of small encounters; but even before she had time to turn towards him, which she
did slowly with a rigid grace, he had begun to plead -
    »My sister is only waiting to embrace you. My father is transported with
joy. I won't say anything of my mother! Our mothers were like sisters. There is
the mail-boat for the south next week - let us go. That Moraga is a fool! A man
like Montero is bribed. It's the practice of the country. It's tradition - it's
politics. Read Fifty Years of Misrule.«
    »Leave poor papa alone, Don Martin. He believes -«
    »I have the greatest tenderness for your father,« he began, hurriedly. »But
I love you, Antonia! And Moraga has miserably mismanaged this business. Perhaps
your father did, too; I don't know. Montero was bribeable. Why, I suppose he
only wanted his share of this famous loan for national development. Why didn't
the stupid Sta. Marta people give him a mission to Europe, or something? He
would have taken five years' salary in advance, and gone on loafing in Paris,
this stupid, ferocious Indio!«
    »The man,« she said, thoughtfully, and very calm before this outburst, »was
intoxicated with vanity. We had all the information, not from Moraga only; from
others, too. There was his brother intriguing, too.«
    »Oh, yes!« he said. »Of course you know. You know everything. You read all
the correspondence, you write all the papers - all those State papers that are
inspired here, in this room, in blind deference to a theory of political purity.
Hadn't you Charles Gould before your eyes? Rey de Sulaco! He and his mine are
the practical demonstration of what could have been done. Do you think he
succeeded by his fidelity to a theory of virtue? And all those railway people,
with their honest work! Of course, their work is honest! But what if you cannot
work honestly till the thieves are satisfied? Could he not, a gentleman, have
told this Sir John what's-his-name that Montero had to be bought off - he and
all his Negro Liberals hanging on to his gold-laced sleeve? He ought to have
been bought off with his own stupid weight of gold - his weight of gold, I tell
you, boots, sabre, spurs, cocked hat, and all.«
    She shook her head slightly. »It was impossible,« she murmured.
    »He wanted the whole lot? What?«
    She was facing him now in the deep recess of the window, very close and
motionless. Her lips moved rapidly. Decoud, leaning his back against the wall,
listened with crossed arms and lowered eyelids. He drank the tones of her even
voice, and watched the agitated life of her throat, as if waves of emotion had
run from her heart to pass out into the air in her reasonable words. He also had
his aspirations, he aspired to carry her away out of these deadly futilities of
pronunciamientos and reforms. All this was wrong - utterly wrong; but she
fascinated him, and sometimes the sheer sagacity of a phrase would break the
charm, replace the fascination by a sudden unwilling thrill of interest. Some
women hovered, as it were, on the threshold of genius, he reflected. They did
not want to know, or think, or understand. Passion stood for all that, and he
was ready to believe that some startlingly profound remark, some appreciation of
character, or a judgment upon an event, bordered on the miraculous. In the
mature Antonia he could see with an extraordinary vividness the austere
schoolgirl of the earlier days. She seduced his attention; sometimes he could
not restrain a murmur of assent; now and then he advanced an objection quite
seriously. Gradually they began to argue; the curtain half hid them from the
people in the sala.
    Outside it had grown dark. From the deep trench of shadow between the
houses, lit up vaguely by the glimmer of street lamps, ascended the evening
silence of Sulaco; the silence of a town with few carriages, of unshod horses,
and a softly sandalled population. The windows of the Casa Gould flung their
shining parallelograms upon the house of the Avellanos. Now and then a shuffle
of feet passed below with the pulsating red glow of a cigarette at the foot of
the walls; and the night air, as if cooled by the snows of Higuerota, refreshed
their faces.
    »We Occidentals,« said Martin Decoud, using the usual term the provincials
of Sulaco applied to themselves, »have been always distinct and separated. As
long as we hold Cayta nothing can reach us. In all our troubles no army has
marched over those mountains. A revolution in the central provinces isolates us
at once. Look how complete it is now! The news of Barrios' movement will be
cabled to the United States, and only in that way will it reach Sta. Marta by
the cable from the other seaboard. We have the greatest riches, the greatest
fertility, the purest blood in our great families, the most laborious
population. The Occidental Province should stand alone. The early Federalism was
not bad for us. Then came this union which Don Henrique Gould resisted. It
opened the road to tyranny; and, ever since, the rest of Costaguana hangs like a
millstone round our necks. The Occidental territory is large enough to make any
man's country. Look at the mountains! Nature itself seems to cry to us
Separate!«
    She made an energetic gesture of negation. A silence fell.
    »Oh, yes, I know it's contrary to the doctrine laid down in the »History of
Fifty Years' Misrule.« I am only trying to be sensible. But my sense seems
always to give you cause for offence. Have I startled you very much with this
perfectly reasonable aspiration?«
    She shook her head. No, she was not startled, but the idea shocked her early
convictions. Her patriotism was larger. She had never considered that
possibility.
    »It may yet be the means of saving some of your convictions,« he said,
prophetically.
    She did not answer. She seemed tired. They leaned side by side on the rail
of the little balcony, very friendly, having exhausted politics, giving
themselves up to the silent feeling of their nearness, in one of those profound
pauses that fall upon the rhythm of passion. Towards the plaza end of the street
the glowing coals in the brazeros of the market women cooking their evening meal
gleamed red along the edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in
the light of a street lamp, showing the coloured inverted triangle of his
bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees.
From the harbour end of the Calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount,
gleaming silver-grey abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider.
    »Behold the illustrious Capataz de Cargadores,« said Decoud, gently, »coming
in all his splendour after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after
Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him.«
    »Ah, indeed!« said Antonia. »How did you make friends?«
    »A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is
one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men -
and this man is remarkable in his way.«
    »Ah, yes!« said Antonia, thoughtfully. »It is known that this Italian has a
great influence.«
    The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining
broad quarters of the grey mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver
spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against
the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face
concealed by a great sombrero.
    Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching
elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the
brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tête-à-tête of extreme
impropriety; something of which in the whole extent of the Republic only the
extraordinary Antonia could be capable - the poor, motherless girl, never
accompanied, with a careless father, who had thought only of making her learned.
Even Decoud himself seemed to feel that this was as much as he could expect of
having her to himself till - till the revolution was over and he could carry her
off to Europe, away from the endlessness of civil strife, whose folly seemed
even harder to bear than its ignominy. After one Montero there would be another,
the lawlessness of a populace of all colours and races, barbarism, irremediable
tyranny. As the great Liberator Bolivar had said in the bitterness of his
spirit, »America is ungovernable. Those who worked for her independence have
ploughed the sea.« He did not care, he declared boldly; he seized every
opportunity to tell her that though she had managed to make a Blanco journalist
of him, he was no patriot. First of all, the word had no sense for cultured
minds, to whom the narrowness of every belief is odious; and secondly, in
connection with the everlasting troubles of this unhappy country it was
hopelessly besmirched; it had been the cry of dark barbarism, the cloak of
lawlessness, of crimes, of rapacity, of simple thieving.
    He was surprised at the warmth of his own utterance. He had no need to drop
his voice; it had been low all the time, a mere murmur in the silence of dark
houses with their shutters closed early against the night air, as is the custom
of Sulaco. Only the sala of the Casa Gould flung out defiantly the blaze of its
four windows, the bright appeal of light in the whole dumb obscurity of the
street. And the murmur on the little balcony went on after a short pause.
    »But we are labouring to change all that,« Antonia protested. »It is exactly
what we desire. It is our object. It is the great cause. And the word you
despise has stood also for sacrifice, for courage, for constancy, for suffering.
Papa, who -«
    »Ploughing the sea,« interrupted Decoud, looking down.
    There was below the sound of hasty and ponderous footsteps.
    »Your uncle, the grand-vicar of the cathedral, has just turned under the
gate,« observed Decoud. »He said Mass for the troops in the Plaza this morning.
They had built for him an altar of drums, you know. And they brought outside all
the painted blocks to take the air. All the wooden saints stood militarily in a
row at the top of the great flight of steps. They looked like a gorgeous escort
attending the Vicar-General. I saw the great function from the windows of the
Porvenir. He is amazing, your uncle, the last of the Corbelàns. He glittered
exceedingly in his vestments with a great crimson velvet cross down his back.
And all the time our saviour Barrios sat in the Amarilla Club drinking punch at
an open window. Esprit fort - our Barrios. I expected every moment your uncle to
launch an excommunication there and then at the black eye-patch in the window
across the Plaza. But not at all. Ultimately the troops marched off. Later
Barrios came down with some of the officers, and stood with his uniform all
unbuttoned, discoursing at the edge of the pavement. Suddenly your uncle
appeared, no longer glittering, but all black, at the cathedral door with that
threatening aspect he has - you know, like a sort of avenging spirit. He gives
one look, strides over straight at the group of uniforms, and leads away the
general by the elbow. He walked him for a quarter of an hour in the shade of a
wall. Never let go his elbow for a moment, talking all the time with exaltation,
and gesticulating with a long black arm. It was a curious scene. The officers
seemed struck with astonishment. Remarkable man, your missionary uncle. He hates
an infidel much less than a heretic, and prefers a heathen many times to an
infidel. He condescends graciously to call me a heathen, sometimes, you know.«
    Antonia listened with her hands over the balustrade, opening and shutting
the fan gently; and Decoud talked a little nervously, as if afraid that she
would leave him at the first pause. Their comparative isolation, the precious
sense of intimacy, the slight contact of their arms, affected him softly; for
now and then a tender inflection crept into the flow of his ironic murmurs.
    »Any slight sign of favour from a relative of yours is welcome, Antonia. And
perhaps he understands me, after all! But I know him, too, our Padre Corbelàn.
The idea of political honour, justice, and honesty for him consists in the
restitution of the confiscated Church property. Nothing else could have drawn
that fierce converter of savage Indians out of the wilds to work for the
Ribierist cause! Nothing else but that wild hope! He would make a
pronunciamiento himself for such an object against any Government if he could
only get followers! What does Don Carlos Gould think of that? But, of course,
with his English impenetrability, nobody can tell what he thinks. Probably he
thinks of nothing apart from his mine; of his »Imperium in Imperio.« As to Mrs.
Gould, she thinks of her schools, of her hospitals, of the mothers with the
young babies, of every sick old man in the three villages. If you were to turn
your head now you would see her extracting a report from that sinister doctor in
a check shirt - what's his name? Monygham - or else catechising Don Pépé or
perhaps listening to Padre Romàn. They are all down here to-day - all her
ministers of state. Well, she is a sensible woman, and perhaps Don Carlos is a
sensible man. It's a part of solid English sense not to think too much; to see
only what may be of practical use at the moment. These people are not like
ourselves. We have no political reason; we have political passions - sometimes.
What is a conviction? A particular view of our personal advantage either
practical or emotional. No one is a patriot for nothing. The word serves us
well. But I am clear-sighted, and I shall not use that word to you, Antonia! I
have no patriotic illusions. I have only the supreme illusion of a lover.«
    He paused, then muttered almost inaudibly, »That can lead one very far,
though.«
    Behind their backs the political tide that once in every twenty-four hours
set with a strong flood through the Gould drawing-room could be heard, rising
higher in a hum of voices. Men had been dropping in singly, or in twos and
threes: the higher officials of the province, engineers of the railway, sunburnt
and in tweeds, with the frosted head of their chief smiling with slow, humorous
indulgence amongst the young eager faces. Scarfe, the lover of fandangos, had
already slipped out in search of some dance, no matter where, on the outskirts
of the town. Don Juste Lopez, after taking his daughters home, had entered
solemnly, in a black creased coat buttoned up under his spreading brown beard.
The few members of the Provincial Assembly present clustered at once around
their President to discuss the news of the war and the last proclamation of the
rebel Montero, the miserable Montero, calling in the name of a justly incensed
democracy upon all the Provincial Assemblies of the Republic to suspend their
sittings till his sword had made peace and the will of the people could be
consulted. It was practically an invitation to dissolve: an unheard-of audacity
of that evil madman.
    The indignation ran high in the knot of deputies behind José Avellanos. Don
José, lifting up his voice, cried out to them over the high back of his chair,
»Sulaco has answered by sending to-day an army upon his flank. If all the other
provinces show only half as much patriotism as we, Occidentals -«
    A great outburst of acclamations covered the vibrating treble of the life
and soul of the party. Yes! Yes! This was true! A great truth! Sulaco was in the
forefront, as ever! It was a boastful tumult, the hopefulness inspired by the
event of the day breaking out amongst those caballeros of the Campo thinking of
their herds, of their lands, of the safety of their families. Everything was at
stake. ... No! It was impossible that Montero should succeed! This criminal,
this shameless Indio! The clamour continued for some time, everybody else in the
room looking towards the group where Don Juste had put on his air of impartial
solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial Assembly. Decoud had
turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back on the balustrade, shouted into
the room with all the strength of his lungs, »Gran' bestia!«
    This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes were
directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud had already
turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out over the quiet street.
    »This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme argument,«
he said to Antonia. »I have invented this definition, this last word on a great
question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a patriot than the Capataz of the
Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has done such great things for this harbour
- this active usher-in of the material implements for our progress. You have
heard Captain Mitchell confess over and over again that till he got this man he
could never tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for
progress. You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to
dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a fortunate
fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his leisure is spent in
receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation. And he likes it, too. Can
anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and admired is -«
    »And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?« interrupted Antonia.
    »I was speaking of a man of that sort,« said Decoud, curtly. »The heroes of
the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?«
    Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall shattered
against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too, had suffered from
that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands so often between a man and a
woman of the more ordinary sort. But he overcame his vexation at once. He was
very far from thinking Antonia ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might
have pronounced upon himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his
voice he assured her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it
seemed almost unrealizable on this earth.
    She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the
sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of the snows.
His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was enough ardour in his
tone to melt a heart of ice. Antonia turned away abruptly, as if to carry his
whispered assurance into the room behind, full of light, noisy with voices.
    The tide of political speculation was beating high within the four walls of
the great sala, as if driven beyond the marks by a great gust of hope. Don
Juste's fan-shaped beard was still the centre of loud and animated discussions.
There was a self-confident ring in all the voices. Even the few Europeans around
Charles Gould - a Dane, a couple of Frenchmen, a discreet fat German, smiling,
with down-cast eyes, the representatives of those material interests that had
got a footing in Sulaco under the protecting might of the San Tomé mine - had
infused a lot of good humour into their deference. Charles Gould, to whom they
were paying their court, was the visible sign of the stability that could be
achieved on the shifting ground of revolutions. They felt hopeful about their
various undertakings. One of the two Frenchmen, small, black, with glittering
eyes lost in an immense growth of bushy beard, waved his tiny brown hands and
delicate wrists. He had been travelling in the interior of the province for a
syndicate of European capitalists. His forcible »Monsieur l'Administrateur«
returning every minute shrilled above the steady hum of conversations. He was
relating his discoveries. He was ecstatic. Charles Gould glanced down at him
courteously.
    At a given moment of these necessary receptions it was Mrs. Gould's habit to
withdraw quietly into a little drawing-room, especially her own, next to the
great sala. She had risen, and, waiting for Antonia, listened with a slightly
worried graciousness to the engineer-in-chief of the railway, who stooped over
her, relating slowly, without the slightest gesture, something apparently
amusing, for his eyes had a humorous twinkle. Antonia, before she advanced into
the room to join Mrs. Gould, turned her head over her shoulder towards Decoud,
only for a moment.
    »Why should any one of us think his aspirations unrealizable?« she said,
rapidly.
    »I am going to cling to mine to the end, Antonia,« he answered, through
clenched teeth, then bowed very low, a little distantly.
    The engineer-in-chief had not finished telling his amusing story. The
humours of railway building in South America appealed to his keen appreciation
of the absurd, and he told his instances of ignorant prejudice and as ignorant
cunning very well. Now, Mrs. Gould gave him all her attention as he walked by
her side escorting the ladies out of the room. Finally all three passed
unnoticed through the glass doors in the gallery. Only a tall priest stalking
silently in the noise of the sala checked himself to look after them. Father
Corbelàn, whom Decoud had seen from the balcony turning into the gateway of the
Casa Gould, had addressed no one since coming in. The long, skimpy soutane
accentuated the tallness of his stature; he carried his powerful torso thrown
forward; and the straight, black bar of his joined eyebrows, the pugnacious
outline of the bony face, the white spot of a scar on the bluish shaven cheeks
(a testimonial to his apostolic zeal from a party of unconverted Indians),
suggested something unlawful behind his priesthood, the idea of a chaplain of
bandits.
    He separated his bony, knotted hands clasped behind his back, to shake his
finger at Martin.
    Decoud had stepped into the room after Antonia. But he did not go far. He
had remained just within, against the curtain, with an expression of not quite
genuine gravity, like a grown-up person taking part in a game of children. He
gazed quietly at the threatening finger.
    »I have watched your reverence converting General Barrios by a special
sermon on the Plaza,« he said, without making the slightest movement.
    »What miserable nonsense!« Father Corbelàn's deep voice resounded all over
the room, making all the heads turn on the shoulders. »The man is a drunkard.
Señores, the God of your General is a bottle!«
    His contemptuous, arbitrary voice caused an uneasy suspension of every
sound, as if the self-confidence of the gathering had been staggered by a blow.
But nobody took up Father Corbelàn's declaration.
    It was known that Father Corbelàn had come out of the wilds to advocate the
sacred rights of the Church with the same fanatical fearlessness with which he
had gone preaching to bloodthirsty savages, devoid of human compassion or
worship of any kind. Rumours of legendary proportions told of his successes as a
missionary beyond the eye of Christian men. He had baptized whole nations of
Indians, living with them like a savage himself. It was related that the padre
used to ride with his Indians for days, half naked, carrying a bullock-hide
shield, and, no doubt, a long lance, too - who knows? That he had wandered
clothed in skins, seeking for proselytes somewhere near the snow line of the
Cordillera. Of these exploits Padre Corbelàn himself was never known to talk.
But he made no secret of his opinion that the politicians of Sta. Marta had
harder hearts and more corrupt minds than the heathen to whom he had carried the
word of God. His injudicious zeal for the temporal welfare of the Church was
damaging the Ribierist cause. It was common knowledge that he had refused to be
made titular bishop of the Occidental diocese till justice was done to a
despoiled Church. The political Géfé of Sulaco (the same dignitary whom Captain
Mitchell saved from the mob afterwards) hinted with naïve cynicism that
doubtless their Excellencies the Ministers sent the padre over the mountains to
Sulaco in the worst season of the year in the hope that he would be frozen to
death by the icy blasts of the high paramos. Every year a few hardy muleteers -
men inured to exposure - were known to perish in that way. But what would you
have? Their Excellencies possibly had not realized what a tough priest he was.
Meantime, the ignorant were beginning to murmur that the Ribierist reforms meant
simply the taking away of the land from the people. Some of it was to be given
to foreigners who made the railway; the greater part was to go to the padres.
    These were the results of the Grand Vicar's zeal. Even from the short
allocution to the troops on the Plaza (which only the first ranks could have
heard) he had not been able to keep out his fixed idea of an outraged Church
waiting for reparation from a penitent country. The political Géfé had been
exasperated. But he could not very well throw the brother-in-law of Don José
into the prison of the Cabildo. The chief magistrate, an easy-going and popular
official, visited the Casa Gould, walking over after sunset from the
Intendencia, unattended, acknowledging with dignified courtesy the salutations
of high and low alike. That evening he had walked up straight to Charles Gould
and had hissed out to him that he would have liked to deport the Grand Vicar out
of Sulaco, anywhere, to some desert island, to the Isabels, for instance. »The
one without water preferably - eh, Don Carlos?« he had added in a tone between
jest and earnest. This uncontrollable priest, who had rejected his offer of the
episcopal palace for a residence and preferred to hang his shabby hammock
amongst the rubble and spiders of the sequestrated Dominican Convent, had taken
into his head to advocate an unconditional pardon for Hernandez the Robber! And
this was not enough; he seemed to have entered into communication with the most
audacious criminal the country had known for years. The Sulaco police knew, of
course, what was going on. Padre Corbelàn had got hold of that reckless Italian,
the Capataz de Cargadores, the only man fit for such an errand, and had sent a
message through him. Father Corbelàn had studied in Rome, and could speak
Italian. The Capataz was known to visit the old Dominican Convent at night. An
old woman who served the Grand Vicar had heard the name of Hernandez pronounced;
and only last Saturday afternoon the Capataz had been observed galloping out of
town. He did not return for two days. The police would have laid the Italian by
the heels if it had not been for fear of the Cargadores, a turbulent body of
men, quite apt to raise a tumult. Nowadays it was not so easy to govern Sulaco.
Bad characters flocked into it, attracted by the money in the pockets of the
railway workmen. The populace was made restless by Father Corbelàn's discourses.
And the first magistrate explained to Charles Gould that now the province was
stripped of troops any outbreak of lawlessness would find the authorities with
their boots off, as it were.
    Then he went away moodily to sit in an armchair, smoking a long, thin cigar,
not very far from Don José, with whom, bending over sideways, he exchanged a few
words from time to time. He ignored the entrance of the priest, and whenever
Father Corbelàn's voice was raised behind him, he shrugged his shoulders
impatiently.
    Father Corbelàn had remained quite motionless for a time with that something
vengeful in his immobility which seemed to characterize all his attitudes. A
lurid glow of strong convictions gave its peculiar aspect to the black figure.
But its fierceness became softened as the padre, fixing his eyes upon Decoud,
raised his long, black arm slowly, impressively -
    »And you - you are a perfect heathen,« he said, in a subdued, deep voice.
    He made a step nearer, pointing a forefinger at the young man's breast.
Decoud, very calm, felt the wall behind the curtain with the back of his head.
Then, with his chin tilted well up, he smiled.
    »Very well,« he agreed with the slightly weary nonchalance of a man well
used to these passages. »But is it perhaps that you have not discovered yet what
is the God of my worship? It was an easier task with our Barrios.«
    The priest suppressed a gesture of discouragement. »You believe neither in
stick nor stone,« he said.
    »Nor bottle,« added Decoud without stirring. »Neither does the other of your
reverence's confidants. I mean the Capataz of the Cargadores. He does not drink.
Your reading of my character does honour to you perspicacity. But why call me a
heathen?«
    »True,« retorted the priest. »You are ten times worse. A miracle could not
convert you.«
    »I certainly do not believe in miracles,« said Decoud, quietly. Father
Corbelàn shrugged his high, broad shoulders doubtfully.
    »A sort of Frenchman - godless - a materialist,« he pronounced slowly, as if
weighing the terms of a careful analysis. »Neither the son of his own country
nor of any other,« he continued, thoughtfully.
    »Scarcely human, in fact,« Decoud commented under his breath, his head at
rest against the wall, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling.
    »The victim of this faithless age,« Father Corbelàn resumed in a deep but
subdued voice.
    »But of some use as a journalist.« Decoud changed his pose and spoke in a
more animated tone. »Has your worship neglected to read the last number of the
Porvenir? I assure you it is just like the others. On the general policy it
continues to call Montero a gran' bestia, and stigmatize his brother, the
guerrillero, for a combination of lacquey and spy. What could be more effective?
In local affairs it urges the Provincial Government to enlist bodily into the
national army the band of Hernandez the Robber - who is apparently the protégé
of the Church - or at least of the Great Vicar. Nothing could be more sound.«
    The priest nodded and turned on the heels of his square-toed shoes with big
steel buckles. Again, with his hands clasped behind his back, he paced to and
fro, planting his feet firmly. When he swung about, the skirt of his soutane was
inflated slightly by the brusqueness of his movements.
    The great sala had been emptying itself slowly. When the Géfé Politico rose
to go, most of those still remaining stood up suddenly in sign of respect, and
Don José Avellanos stopped the rocking of his chair. But the good-natured First
Official made a deprecatory gesture, waved his hand to Charles Gould, and went
out discreetly.
    In the comparative peace of the room the screaming »Monsieur
l'Administrateur« of the frail, hairy Frenchman seemed to acquire a
preternatural shrillness. The explorer of the Capitalist syndicate was still
enthusiastic. »Ten million dollars' worth of copper practically in sight,
Monsieur l'Administrateur. Ten millions in sight! And a railway coming - a
railway! They will never believe my report. C'est trop beau.« He fell a prey to
a screaming ecstasy, in the midst of sagely nodding heads, before Charles
Gould's imperturbable calm.
    And only the priest continued his pacing, flinging round the skirt of his
soutane at each end of his beat. Decoud murmured to him ironically: »Those
gentlemen talk about their gods.«
    Father Corbelàn stopped short, looked at the journalist of Sulaco fixedly
for a moment, shrugged his shoulders slightly, and resumed his plodding walk of
an obstinate traveller.
    And now the Europeans were dropping off from the group around Charles Gould
till the Administrator of the Great Silver Mine could be seen in his whole lank
length, from head to foot, left stranded by the ebbing tide of his guests on the
great square of carpet, as it were a multi-coloured shoal of flowers and
arabesques under his brown boots. Father Corbelàn approached the rocking-chair
of Don José Avellanos.
    »Come, brother,« he said, with kindly brusqueness and a touch of relieved
impatience a man may feel at the end of a perfectly useless ceremony. »A la
Casa! A la Casa! This has been all talk. Let us now go and think and pray for
guidance from Heaven.«
    He rolled his black eyes upwards. By the side of the frail diplomatist - the
life and soul of the party - he seemed gigantic, with a gleam of fanaticism in
the glance. But the voice of the party, or, rather, its mouthpiece, the son
Decoud from Paris, turned journalist for the sake of Antonia's eyes, knew very
well that it was not so, that he was only a strenuous priest with one idea,
feared by the women and execrated by the men of the people. Martin Decoud, the
dilettante in life, imagined himself to derive an artistic pleasure from
watching the picturesque extreme of wrong-headedness into which an honest,
almost sacred, conviction may drive a man. »It is like madness. It must be -
because it's self-destructive,« Decoud had said to himself often. It seemed to
him that every conviction, as soon as it became effective, turned into that form
of dementia the gods send upon those they wish to destroy. But he enjoyed the
bitter flavour of that example with the zest of a connoisseur in the art of his
choice. Those two men got on well together, as if each had felt respectively
that a masterful conviction, as well as utter scepticism, may lead a man very
far on the by-paths of political action.
    Don José obeyed the touch of the big hairy hand. Decoud followed out the
brothers-in-law. And there remained only one visitor in the vast empty sala,
bluishly hazy with tobacco smoke, a heavy-eyed, round-cheeked man, with a
drooping moustache, a hide merchant from Esmeralda, who had come overland to
Sulaco, riding with a few peons across the coast range. He was very full of his
journey, undertaken mostly for the purpose of seeing the Señor Administrator of
San Tomé in relation to some assistance he required in his hide-exporting
business. He hoped to enlarge it greatly now that the country was going to be
settled. It was going to be settled, he repeated several times, degrading by a
strange, anxious whine the sonority of the Spanish language, which he pattered
rapidly, like some sort of cringing jargon. A plain man could carry on his
little business now in the country, and even think of enlarging it - with
safety. Was it not so? He seemed to beg Charles Gould for a confirmatory word, a
grunt of assent, a simple nod even.
    He could get nothing. His alarm increased, and in the pauses he would dart
his eyes here and there; then, loth to give up, he would branch off into feeling
allusion to the dangers of his journey. The audacious Hernandez, leaving his
usual haunts, had crossed the Campo of Sulaco, and was known to be lurking in
the ravines of the coast range. Yesterday, when distant only a few hours from
Sulaco, the hide merchant and his servants had seen three men on the road
arrested suspiciously, with their horses' heads together. Two of these rode off
at once and disappeared in a shallow quebrada to the left. »We stopped,«
continued the man from Esmeralda, »and I tried to hide behind a small bush. But
none of my mozos would go forward to find out what it meant, and the third
horseman seemed to be waiting for us to come up. It was no use. We had been
seen. So we rode slowly on, trembling. He let us pass - a man on a grey horse
with his hat down on his eyes - without a word of greeting; but by-and-by we
heard him galloping after us. We faced about, but that did not seem to
intimidate him. He rode up at speed, and touching my foot with the toe of his
boot, asked me for a cigar, with a blood-curdling laugh. He did not seem armed,
but when he put his hand back to reach for the matches I saw an enormous
revolver strapped to his waist. I shuddered. He had very fierce whiskers, Don
Carlos, and as he did not offer to go on we dared not move. At last, blowing the
smoke of my cigar into the air through his nostrils, he said, Señor, it would be
perhaps better for you if I rode behind your party. You are not very far from
Sulaco now. Go you with God. What would you? We went on. There was no resisting
him. He might have been Hernandez himself; though my servant, who has been many
times to Sulaco by sea, assured me that he had recognized him very well for the
Capataz of the Steamship Company's Cargadores. Later, that same evening, I saw
that very man at the corner of the Plaza talking to a girl, a Morenita, who
stood by the stirrup with her hand on the grey horse's mane.«
    »I assure you, Señor Hirsch,« murmured Charles Gould, »that you ran no risk
on this occasion.«
    »That may be, señor, though I tremble yet. A most fierce man - to look at.
And what does it mean? A person employed by the Steamship Company talking with
salteadores - no less, señor; the other horsemen were salteadores - in a lonely
place, and behaving like a robber himself! A cigar is nothing, but what was
there to prevent him asking me for my purse?«
    »No, no, Señor Hirsch,« Charles Gould murmured, letting his glance stray
away a little vacantly from the round face, with its hooked beak upturned
towards him in an almost childlike appeal. »If it was the Capataz de Cargadores
you met - and there is no doubt, is there? - you were perfectly safe.«
    »Thank you. You are very good. A very fierce-looking man, Don Carlos. He
asked me for a cigar in a most familiar manner. What would have happened if I
had not had a cigar? I shudder yet. What business had he to be talking with
robbers in a lonely place?«
    But Charles Gould, openly preoccupied now, gave not a sign, made no sound.
The impenetrability of the embodied Gould Concession had its surface shades. To
be dumb is merely a fatal affliction; but the King of Sulaco had words enough to
give him all the mysterious weight of a taciturn force. His silences, backed by
the power of speech, had as many shades of significance as uttered words in the
way of assent, of doubt, of negation - even of simple comment. Some seemed to
say plainly, »Think it over«; others meant clearly »Go ahead,« a simple, low »I
see,« with an affirmative nod, at the end of a patient listening half- was the
equivalent of a verbal contract, which men had learned to trust implicitly,
since behind it all there was the great San Tomé mine, the head and front of the
material interests, so strong that it depended on no man's goodwill in the whole
length and breadth of the Occidental Province - that is, on no goodwill which it
could not buy ten times over. But to the little hook-nosed man from Esmeralda,
anxious about the export of hides, the silence of Charles Gould portended a
failure. Evidently this was no time for extending a modest man's business. He
enveloped in a swift mental malediction the whole country, with all its
inhabitants, partisans of Ribiera and Montero alike; and there were incipient
tears in his mute anger at the thought of the innumerable ox-hides going to
waste upon the dreamy expanse of the Campo, with its single palms rising like
ships at sea within the perfect circle of the horizon, its clumps of heavy
timber motionless like solid islands of leaves above the running waves of grass.
There were hides there, rotting, with no profit to anybody - rotting where they
had been dropped by men called away to attend the urgent necessities of
political revolutions. The practical, mercantile soul of Señor Hirsch rebelled
against all that foolishness, while he was taking a respectful but disconcerted
leave of the might and majesty of the San Tomé mine in the person of Charles
Gould. He could not restrain a heart-broken murmur, wrung out of his very aching
heart, as it were.
    »It is a great, great foolishness, Don Carlos, all this. The price of hides
in Hamburg is gone up - up. Of course the Ribierist Government will do away with
all that - when it gets established firmly. Meantime -«
    He sighed.
    »Yes, meantime,« repeated Charles Gould, inscrutably.
    The other shrugged his shoulders. But he was not ready to go yet. There was
a little matter he would like to mention very much if permitted. It appeared he
had some good friends in Hamburg (he murmured the name of the firm) who were
very anxious to do business, in dynamite, he explained. A contract for dynamite
with the San Tomé mine, and then, perhaps, later on, other mines, which were
sure to - The little man from Esmeralda was ready to enlarge, but Charles
interrupted him. It seemed as though the patience of the Señor Administrator was
giving way at last.
    »Señor Hirsch,« he said, »I have enough dynamite stored up at the mountain
to send it down crashing into the valley« - his voice rose a little - »to send
half Sulaco into the air if I liked.«
    Charles Gould smiled at the round, startled eyes of the dealer in hides, who
was murmuring hastily, »Just so. Just so.« And now he was going. It was
impossible to do business in explosives with an Administrator so well provided
and so discouraging. He had suffered agonies in the saddle and had exposed
himself to the atrocities of the bandit Hernandez for nothing at all. Neither
hides nor dynamite - and the very shoulders of the enterprising Israelite
expressed dejection. At the door he bowed low to the engineer-in-chief. But at
the bottom of the stairs in the patio he stopped short, with his podgy hand over
his lips in an attitude of meditative astonishment.
    »What does he want to keep so much dynamite for?« he muttered. »And why does
he talk like this to me?«
    The engineer-in-chief, looking in at the door of the empty sala, whence the
political tide had ebbed out to the last insignificant drop, nodded familiarly
to the master of the house, standing motionless like a tall beacon amongst the
deserted shoals of furniture.
    »Good-night, I am going. Got my bike downstairs. The railway will know where
to go for dynamite should we get short at any time. We have done cutting and
chopping for a while now. We shall begin soon to blast our way through.«
    »Don't come to me,« said Charles Gould, with perfect serenity. »I shan't
have an ounce to spare for anybody. Not an ounce. Not for my own brother, if I
had a brother, and he were the engineer-in-chief of the most promising railway
in the world.«
    »What's that?« asked the engineer-in-chief, with equanimity. »Unkindness?«
    »No,« said Charles Gould, stolidly. »Policy.«
    »Radical, I should think,« the engineer-in-chief observed from the doorway.
    »Is that the right name?« Charles Gould said, from the middle of the room.
    »I mean, going to the roots, you know,« the engineer explained, with an air
of enjoyment.
    »Why, yes,« Charles pronounced, slowly. »The Gould Concession has struck
such deep roots in this country, in this province, in that gorge of the
mountains, that nothing but dynamite shall be allowed to dislodge it from there.
It's my choice. It's my last card to play.«
    The engineer-in-chief whistled low. »A pretty game,« he said, with a shade
of discretion. »And have you told Holroyd of that extraordinary trump card you
hold in your hand?«
    »Card only when it's played; when it falls at the end of the game. Till then
you may call it a - a -«
    »Weapon,« suggested the railway man.
    »No. You may call it rather an argument,« corrected Charles Gould, gently.
»And that's how I've presented it to Mr. Holroyd.«
    »And what did he say to it?« asked the engineer, with undisguised interest.
    »He« - Charles Gould spoke after a slight pause - »he said something about
holding on like grim death and putting our trust in God. I should imagine he
must have been rather startled. But then« - pursued the Administrator of the San
Tomé mine - »but then, he is very far away, you know, and, as they say in this
country, God is very high above.«
    The engineer's appreciative laugh died away down the stairs, where the
Madonna with the Child on her arm seemed to look after his shaking broad back
from her shallow niche.
 

                                  Chapter Six

A profound stillness reigned in the Casa Gould. The master of the house, walking
along the corridor, opened the door of his room, and saw his wife sitting in a
big armchair - his own smoking armchair - thoughtful, contemplating her little
shoes. And she did not raise her eyes when he walked in.
    »Tired?« asked Charles Gould.
    »A little,« said Mrs. Gould. Still without looking up, she added with
feeling, »There is an awful sense of unreality about all this.«
    Charles Gould, before the long table strewn with papers, on which lay a
hunting crop and a pair of spurs, stood looking at his wife: »The heat and dust
must have been awful this afternoon by the waterside,« he murmured,
sympathetically. »The glare on the water must have been simply terrible.«
    »One could close one's eyes to the glare,« said Mrs. Gould. »But, my dear
Charley, it is impossible for me to close my eyes to our position; to this awful
...«
    She raised her eyes and looked at her husband's face, from which all sign of
sympathy or any other feeling had disappeared. »Why don't you tell me
something?« she almost wailed.
    »I thought you had understood me perfectly from the first,« Charles Gould
said, slowly. »I thought we had said all there was to say a long time ago. There
is nothing to say now. There were things to be done. We have done them; we have
gone on doing them. There is no going back now. I don't suppose that, even from
the first, there was really any possible way back. And, what's more, we can't
even afford to stand still.«
    »Ah, if one only knew how far you mean to go,« said his wife, inwardly
trembling, but in an almost playful tone.
    »Any distance, any length, of course,« was the answer, in a matter-of-fact
tone, which caused Mrs. Gould to make another effort to repress a shudder.
    She stood up, smiling graciously, and her little figure seemed to be
diminished still more by the heavy mass of her hair and the long train of her
gown.
    »But always to success,« she said, persuasively.
    Charles Gould, enveloping her in the steely blue glance of his attentive
eyes, answered without hesitation -
    »Oh, there is no alternative.«
    He put an immense assurance into his tone. As to the words, this was all
that his conscience would allow him to say.
    Mrs. Gould's smile remained a shade too long upon her lips. She murmured -
    »I will leave you; I've a slight headache. The heat, the dust, were indeed -
I suppose you are going back to the mine before the morning?«
    »At midnight,« said Charles Gould. »We are bringing down the silver
to-morrow. Then I shall take three whole days off in town with you.«
    »Ah, you are going to meet the escort. I shall be on the balcony at five
o'clock to see you pass. Till then, good-bye.«
    Charles Gould walked rapidly round the table, and, seizing her hands, bent
down, pressing them both to his lips. Before he straightened himself up again to
his full height she had disengaged one to smooth his cheek with a light touch,
as if he were a little boy.
    »Try to get some rest for a couple of hours,« she murmured, with a glance at
a hammock stretched in a distant part of the room. Her long train swished softly
after her on the red tiles. At the door she looked back.
    Two big lamps with unpolished glass globes bathed in a soft and abundant
light the four white walls of the room, with a glass case of arms, the brass
hilt of Henry Gould's cavalry sabre on its square of velvet, and the
water-colour sketch of the San Tomé gorge. And Mrs. Gould, gazing at the last in
its black wooden frame, sighed out -
    »Ah, if we had left it alone, Charley!«
    »No,« Charles Gould said, moodily; »it was impossible to leave it alone.«
    »Perhaps it was impossible,« Mrs. Gould admitted, slowly. Her lips quivered
a little, but she smiled with an air of dainty bravado. »We have disturbed a
good many snakes in that Paradise, Charley, haven't we?«
    »Yes, I remember,« said Charles Gould, »it was Don Pépé who called the gorge
the Paradise of snakes. No doubt we have disturbed a great many. But remember,
my dear, that it is not now as it was when you made that sketch.« He waved his
hand towards the small water-colour hanging alone upon the great bare wall. »It
is no longer a Paradise of snakes. We have brought mankind into it, and we
cannot turn our backs upon them to go and begin a new life elsewhere.«
    He confronted his wife with a firm, concentrated gaze, which Mrs. Gould
returned with a brave assumption of fearlessness before she went out, closing
the door gently after her.
    In contrast with the white glaring room the dimly lit corridor had a restful
mysteriousness of a forest glade, suggested by the stems and the leaves of the
plants ranged along the balustrade of the open side. In the streaks of light
falling through the open doors of the reception-rooms, the blossoms, white and
red and pale lilac, came out vivid with the brilliance of flowers in a stream of
sunshine; and Mrs. Gould, passing on, had the vividness of a figure seen in the
clear patches of sun that chequer the gloom of open glades in the woods. The
stones in the rings upon her hand pressed to her forehead glittered in the
lamplight abreast of the door of the sala.
    »Who's there?« she asked, in a startled voice. »Is that you, Basilio?« She
looked in, and saw Martin Decoud walking about, with an air of having lost
something, amongst the chairs and tables.
    »Antonia has forgotten her fan in here,« said Decoud, with a strange air of
distraction; »so I entered to see.«
    But, even as he said this, he had obviously given up his search, and walked
straight towards Mrs. Gould, who looked at him with doubtful surprise.
    »Señora,« he began, in a low voice.
    »What is it, Don Martin?« asked Mrs. Gould. And then she added, with a
slight laugh, »I am so nervous to-day,« as if to explain the eagerness of the
question.
    »Nothing immediately dangerous,« said Decoud, who now could not conceal his
agitation. »Pray don't distress yourself. No, really, you must not distress
yourself.«
    Mrs. Gould, with her candid eyes very wide open, her lips composed into a
smile, was steadying herself in the doorway with a little bejewelled hand.
    »Perhaps you don't know how alarming you are, appearing like this
unexpectedly -«
    »I! Alarming!« he protested, sincerely vexed and surprised. »I assure you
that I am not in the least alarmed myself. A fan is lost; well, it will be found
again. But I don't think it is here. It is a fan I am looking for. I cannot
understand how Antonia could - Well! Have you found it, amigo?«
    »No, señor,« said behind Mrs. Gould the soft voice of Basilio, the head
servant of the Casa. »I don't think the señorita could have left it in this
house at all.«
    »Go and look for it in the patio again. Go now, my friend; look for it on
the steps, under the gate; examine every flagstone; search for it till I come
down again. ... That fellow« - he addressed himself in English to Mrs. Gould -
»is always stealing up behind one's back on his bare feet. I set him to look for
that fan directly I came in to justify my reappearance, my sudden return.«
    He paused and Mrs. Gould said, amiably, »You are always welcome.« She paused
for a second, too. »But I am waiting to learn the cause of your return.«
    Decoud affected suddenly the utmost nonchalance.
    »I can't bear to be spied upon. Oh, the cause? Yes, there is a cause; there
is something else that is lost besides Antonia's favourite fan. As I was walking
home after seeing Don José and Antonia to their house, the Capataz de
Cargadores, riding down the street, spoke to me.«
    »Has anything happened to the Violas?« inquired Mrs. Gould.
    »The Violas? You mean the old Garibaldino who keeps the hotel where the
engineers live? Nothing happened there. The Capataz said nothing of them; he
only told me that the telegraphist of the Cable Company was walking on the
Plaza, bareheaded, looking out for me. There is news from the interior, Mrs.
Gould. I should rather say rumours of news.«
    »Good news?« said Mrs. Gould in a low voice.
    »Worthless, I should think. But if I must define them, I would say bad. They
are to the effect that a two days' battle had been fought near Sta. Marta, and
that the Ribierists are defeated. It must have happened a few days ago - perhaps
a week. The rumour has just reached Cayta, and the man in charge of the cable
station there has telegraphed the news to his colleague here. We might just as
well have kept Barrios in Sulaco.«
    »What's to be done now?« murmured Mrs. Gould.
    »Nothing. He's at sea with the troops. He will get to Cayta in a couple of
days' time and learn the news there. What he will do then, who can say? Hold
Cayta? Offer his submission to Montero? Disband his army - this last most
likely, and go himself in one of the O.S.N. Company's steamers, north or south -
to Valparaiso or to San Francisco, no matter where. Our Barrios has a great
practice in exiles and repatriations, which mark the points in the political
game.«
    Decoud, exchanging a steady stare with Mrs. Gould, added, tentatively, as it
were, »And yet, if we had Barrios with his 2,000 improved rifles here, something
could have been done.«
    »Montero victorious, completely victorious!« Mrs. Gould breathed out in a
tone of unbelief.
    »A canard, probably. That sort of bird is hatched in great numbers in such
times as these. And even if it were true? Well, let us put things at their
worst, let us say it is true.«
    »Then everything is lost,« said Mrs. Gould, with the calmness of despair.
    Suddenly she seemed to divine, she seemed to see Decoud's tremendous
excitement under its cloak of studied carelessness. It was, indeed, becoming
visible in his audacious and watchful stare, in the curve, half-reckless,
half-contemptuous, of his lips. And a French phrase came upon them as if, for
this Costaguanero of the Boulevard, that had been the only forcible language -
    »Non, Madame. Rien n'est perdu.«
    It electrified Mrs. Gould out of her benumbed attitude, and she said,
vivaciously -
    »What would you think of doing?«
    But already there was something of mockery in Decoud's suppressed
excitement.
    »What would you expect a true Costaguanero to do? Another revolution, of
course. On my word of honour, Mrs. Gould, I believe I am a true hijo del pays, a
true son of the country, whatever Father Corbelàn may say. And I'm not so much
of an unbeliever as not to have faith in my own ideas, in my own remedies, in my
own desires.«
    »Yes,« said Mrs. Gould, doubtfully.
    »You don't seem convinced,« Decoud went on again in French. »Say, then, in
my passions.«
    Mrs. Gould received this addition unflinchingly. To understand it thoroughly
she did not require to hear his muttered assurance -
    »There is nothing I would not do for the sake of Antonia. There is nothing I
am not prepared to undertake. There is no risk I am not ready to run.«
    Decoud seemed to find a fresh audacity in this voicing of his thoughts. »You
would not believe me if I were to say that it is the love of the country which
-«
    She made a sort of discouraged protest with her arm, as if to express that
she had given up expecting that motive from any one.
    »A Sulaco revolution,« Decoud pursued in a forcible undertone. »The Great
Cause may be served here, on the very spot of its inception, in the place of its
birth, Mrs. Gould.«
    Frowning, and biting her lower lip thoughtfully, she made a step away from
the door.
    »You are not going to speak to your husband?« Decoud arrested her anxiously.
    »But you will need his help?«
    »No doubt,« Decoud admitted without hesitation. »Everything turns upon the
San Tomé mine, but I would rather he didn't know anything as yet of my - my
hopes.«
    A puzzled look came upon Mrs. Gould's face, and Decoud, approaching,
explained confidentially -
    »Don't you see, he's such an idealist.«
    Mrs. Gould flushed pink, and her eyes grew darker at the same time.
    »Charley an idealist!« she said, as if to herself, wonderingly. »What on
earth do you mean?«
    »Yes,« conceded Decoud, »it's a wonderful thing to say with the sight of the
San Tomé mine, the greatest fact in the whole of South America, perhaps, before
our very eyes. But look even at that, he has idealized this fact to a point -«
He paused. »Mrs. Gould, are you aware to what point he has idealized the
existence, the worth, the meaning of the San Tomé mine? Are you aware of it?«
    He must have known what he was talking about.
    The effect he expected was produced. Mrs. Gould, ready to take fire, gave it
up suddenly with a low little sound that resembled a moan.
    »What do you know?« she asked in a feeble voice.
    »Nothing,« answered Decoud, firmly. »But, then, don't you see, he's an
Englishman?«
    »Well, what of that?« asked Mrs. Gould.
    »Simply that he cannot act or exist without idealizing every simple feeling,
desire, or achievement. He could not believe his own motives if he did not make
them first a part of some fairy tale. The earth is not quite good enough for
him, I fear. Do you excuse my frankness? Besides, whether you excuse it or not,
it is part of the truth of things which hurts the - what do you call them? - the
Anglo-Saxon's susceptibilities, and at the present moment I don't feel as if I
could treat seriously either his conception of things or - if you allow me to
say so - or yet yours.«
    Mrs. Gould gave no sign of being offended. »I suppose Antonia understands
you thoroughly?«
    »Understands? Well, yes. But I am not sure that she approves. That, however,
makes no difference. I am honest enough to tell you that, Mrs. Gould.«
    »Your idea, of course, is separation,« she said.
    »Separation, of course,« declared Martin. »Yes; separation of the whole
Occidental Province from the rest of the unquiet body. But my true idea, the
only one I care for, is not to be separated from Antonia.«
    »And that is all?« asked Mrs. Gould, without severity.
    »Absolutely. I am not deceiving myself about my motives. She won't leave
Sulaco for my sake, therefore Sulaco must leave the rest of the Republic to its
fate. Nothing could be clearer than that. I like a clearly denned situation. I
cannot part with Antonia, therefore the one and indivisible Republic of
Costaguana must be made to part with its western province. Fortunately it
happens to be also a sound policy. The richest, the most fertile part of this
land may be saved from anarchy. Personally, I care little, very little; but it's
a fact that the establishment of Montero in power would mean death to me. In all
the proclamations of general pardon which I have seen, my name, with a few
others, is specially excepted. The brothers hate me, as you know very well, Mrs.
Gould; and behold, here is the rumour of them having won a battle. You say that
supposing it is true, I have plenty of time to run away.«
    The slight, protesting murmur on the part of Mrs. Gould made him pause for a
moment, while he looked at her with a sombre and resolute glance.
    »Ah, but I would, Mrs. Gould. I would run away if it served that which at
present is my only desire. I am courageous enough to say that, and to do it,
too. But women, even our women, are idealists. It is Antonia that won't run
away. A novel sort of vanity.«
    »You call it vanity,« said Mrs. Gould, in a shocked voice.
    »Say pride, then, which, Father Corbelàn would tell you, is a mortal sin.
But I am not proud. I am simply too much in love to run away. At the same time I
want to live. There is no love for a dead man. Therefore it is necessary that
Sulaco should not recognize the victorious Montero.«
    »And you think my husband will give you his support?«
    »I think he can be drawn into it, like all idealists, when he once sees a
sentimental basis for his action. But I wouldn't talk to him. Mere clear facts
won't appeal to his sentiment. It is much better for him to convince himself in
his own way. And, frankly, I could not, perhaps, just now pay sufficient respect
to either his motives or even, perhaps, to yours, Mrs. Gould.«
    It was evident that Mrs. Gould was very determined not to be offended. She
smiled vaguely, while she seemed to think the matter over. As far as she could
judge from the girl's half-confidences, Antonia understood that young man.
Obviously there was promise of safety in his plan, or rather in his idea.
Moreover, right or wrong, the idea could do no harm. And it was quite possible,
also, that the rumour was false.
    »You have some sort of a plan,« she said.
    »Simplicity itself. Barrios has started, let him go on then; he will hold
Cayta, which is the door of the sea route to Sulaco. They cannot send a
sufficient force over the mountains. No; not even to cope with the band of
Hernandez. Meantime we shall organize our resistance here. And for that, this
very Hernandez will be useful. He has defeated troops as a bandit; he will no
doubt accomplish the same thing if he is made a colonel or even a general. You
know the country well enough not to be shocked by what I say, Mrs. Gould. I have
heard you assert that this poor bandit was the living, breathing example of
cruelty, injustice, stupidity, and oppression, that ruin men's souls as well as
their fortunes in this country. Well, there would be some poetical retribution
in that man arising to crush the evils which had driven an honest ranchero into
a life of crime. A fine idea of retribution in that, isn't there?«
    Decoud had dropped easily into English, which he spoke with precision, very
correctly, but with too many z sounds.
    »Think also of your hospitals, of your schools, of your ailing mothers and
feeble old men, of all that population which you and your husband have brought
into the rocky gorge of San Tomé. Are you not responsible to your conscience for
all these people? Is it not worth while to make another effort, which is not at
all so desperate as it looks, rather than -«
    Decoud finished his thought with an upward toss of the arm, suggesting
annihilation; and Mrs. Gould turned away her head with a look of horror.
    »Why don't you say all this to my husband?« she asked, without looking at
Decoud, who stood watching the effect of his words.
    »Ah! But Don Carlos is so English,« he began. Mrs. Gould interrupted -
    »Leave that alone, Don Martin. He's as much a Costaguanero - No! He's more
of a Costaguanero than yourself.«
    »Sentimentalist, sentimentalist,« Decoud almost cooed, in a tone of gentle
and soothing deference. »Sentimentalist, after the amazing manner of your
people. I have been watching El Rey de Sulaco since I came here on a fool's
errand, and perhaps impelled by some treason of fate lurking behind the
unaccountable turns of a man's life. But I don't matter, I am not a
sentimentalist, I cannot endow my personal desires with a shining robe of silk
and jewels. Life is not for me a moral romance derived from the tradition of a
pretty fairy tale. No, Mrs. Gould; I am practical. I am not afraid of my
motives. But, pardon me, I have been rather carried away. What I wish to say is
that I have been observing. I won't tell you what I have discovered -«
    »No. That is unnecessary,« whispered Mrs. Gould, once more averting her
head.
    »It is. Except one little fact, that your husband does not like me. It's a
small matter, which, in the circumstances, seems to acquire a perfectly
ridiculous importance. Ridiculous and immense; for, clearly, money is required
for my plan,« he reflected; then added, meaningly, »and we have two
sentimentalists to deal with.«
    »I don't know that I understand you, Don Martin,« said Mrs. Gould, coldly,
preserving the low key of their conversation. »But, speaking as if I did, who is
the other?«
    »The great Holroyd in San Francisco, of course,« Decoud whispered, lightly.
»I think you understand me very well. Women are idealists; but then they are so
perspicacious.«
    But whatever was the reason of that remark, disparaging and complimentary at
the same time, Mrs. Gould seemed not to pay attention to it. The name of Holroyd
had given a new tone to her anxiety.
    »The silver escort is coming down to the harbour to-morrow; a whole six
months' working, Don Martin!« she cried in dismay.
    »Let it come down, then,« breathed out Decoud, earnestly, almost into her
ear.
    »But if the rumour should get about, and especially if it turned out true,
troubles might break out in the town,« objected Mrs. Gould.
    Decoud admitted that it was possible. He knew well the town children of the
Sulaco Campo: sullen, thievish, vindictive, and bloodthirsty, whatever great
qualities their brothers of the plain might have had. But then there was that
other sentimentalist, who attached a strangely idealistic meaning to concrete
facts. This stream of silver must be kept flowing north to return in the form of
financial backing from the great house of Holroyd. Up at the mountain in the
strong room of the mine the silver bars were worth less for his purpose than so
much lead, from which at least bullets may be run. Let it come down to the
harbour, ready for shipment.
    The next north-going steamer would carry it off for the very salvation of
the San Tomé mine, which has produced so much treasure. And, moreover, the
rumour was probably false, he remarked, with much conviction in his hurried
tone.
    »Besides, señora,« concluded Decoud, »we may suppress it for many days. I
have been talking with the telegraphist in the middle of the Plaza Mayor; thus I
am certain that we could not have been overheard. There was not even a bird in
the air near us. And also let me tell you something more. I have been making
friends with this man called Nostromo, the Capataz. We had a conversation this
very evening, I walking by the side of his horse as he rode slowly out of the
town just now. He promised me that if a riot took place for any reason - even
for the most political of reasons, you understand - his Cargadores, an important
part of the populace, you will admit, should be found on the side of the
Europeans.«
    »He has promised you that?« Mrs. Gould inquired, with interest. »What made
him make that promise to you?«
    »Upon my word, I don't know,« declared Decoud, in a slightly surprised tone.
»He certainly promised me that, but now you ask me why I certainly could not
tell you his reasons. He talked with his usual carelessness, which, if he had
been anything else but a common sailor, I would call a pose or an affectation.«
    Decoud, interrupting himself, looked at Mrs. Gould curiously.
    »Upon the whole,« he continued, »I suppose he expects something to his
advantage from it. You mustn't forget that he does not exercise his
extraordinary power over the lower classes without a certain amount of personal
risk and without a great profusion in spending his money. One must pay in some
way or other for such a solid thing as individual prestige. He told me after we
made friends at a dance, in a Posada kept by a Mexican just outside the walls,
that he had come here to make his fortune. I suppose he looks upon his prestige
as a sort of investment.«
    »Perhaps he prizes it for its own sake,« Mrs. Gould said in a tone as if she
were repelling an undeserved aspersion. »Viola, the Garibaldino, with whom he
has lived for some years, calls him the Incorruptible.«
    »Ah! he belongs to the group of your protégés out there towards the harbour,
Mrs. Gould. Muy bien. And Captain Mitchell calls him wonderful. I have heard no
end of tales of his strength, his audacity, his fidelity. No end of fine things.
H'm! incorruptible! It is indeed a name of honour for the Capataz of the
Cargadores of Sulaco. Incorruptible! Fine, but vague. However, I suppose he's
sensible, too. And I talked to him upon that sane and practical assumption.«
    »I prefer to think him disinterested, and therefore trustworthy,« Mrs. Gould
said, with the nearest approach to curtness it was in her nature to assume.
    »Well, if so, then the silver will be still more safe. Let it come down,
señora. Let it come down, so that it may go north and return to us in the shape
of credit.«
    Mrs. Gould glanced along the corridor towards the door of her husband's
room. Decoud, watching her as if she had his fate in her hands, detected an
almost imperceptible nod of assent. He bowed with a smile, and, putting his hand
into the breast pocket of his coat, pulled out a fan of light feathers set upon
painted leaves of sandal-wood. »I had it in my pocket,« he murmured,
triumphantly, »for a plausible pretext.« He bowed again. »Good-night, señora.«
    Mrs. Gould continued along the corridor away from her husband's room. The
fate of the San Tomé mine was lying heavy upon her heart. It was a long time now
since she had begun to fear it. It had been an idea. She had watched it with
misgivings turning into a fetish, and now the fetish had grown into a monstrous
and crushing weight. It was as if the inspiration of their early years had left
her heart to turn into a wall of silver-bricks, erected by the silent work of
evil spirits, between her and her husband. He seemed to dwell alone within a
circumvallation of precious metal, leaving her outside with her school, her
hospital, the sick mothers and the feeble old men, mere insignificant vestiges
of the initial inspiration. »Those poor people!« she murmured to herself.
    Below she heard the voice of Martin Decoud in the patio speaking loudly:
    »I have found Doña Antonia's fan, Basilio. Look, here it is!«
 

                                 Chapter Seven

It was part of what Decoud would have called his sane materialism that he did
not believe in the possibility of friendship between man and woman.
    The one exception he allowed confirmed, he maintained, that absolute rule.
Friendship was possible between brother and sister, meaning by friendship the
frank unreserve, as before another human being, of thoughts and sensations; all
the objectless and necessary sincerity of one's innermost life trying to re-act
upon the profound sympathies of another existence.
    His favourite sister, the handsome, slightly arbitrary and resolute angel,
ruling the father and mother Decoud in the first-floor apartments of a very fine
Parisian house, was the recipient of Martin Decoud's confidences as to his
thoughts, actions, purposes, doubts, and even failures. ...
    »Prepare our little circle in Paris for the birth of another South American
Republic. One more or less, what does it matter? They may come into the world
like evil flowers on a hotbed of rotten institutions; but the seed of this one
has germinated in your brother's brain, and that will be enough for your devoted
assent. I am writing this to you by the light of a single candle, in a sort of
inn, near the harbour, kept by an Italian called Viola, a protégé of Mrs. Gould.
The whole building, which, for all I know, may have been contrived by a
Conquistador farmer of the pearl fishery three hundred years ago, is perfectly
silent. So is the plain between the town and the harbour; silent, but not so
dark as the house, because the pickets of Italian workmen guarding the railway
have lighted little fires all along the line. It was not so quiet around here
yesterday. We had an awful riot - a sudden outbreak of the populace, which was
not suppressed till late to-day. Its object, no doubt, was loot, and that was
defeated, as you must have learned already from the cablegram sent via San
Francisco and New York last night, when the cables were still open. You have
read already there that the energetic action of the Europeans of the railway has
saved the town from destruction, and you may believe that. I wrote out the cable
myself. We have no Reuter's agency man here. I have also fired at the mob from
the windows of the club, in company with some other young men of position. Our
object was to keep the Calle de la Constitucion clear for the exodus of the
ladies and children, who have taken refuge on board a couple of cargo ships now
in the harbour here. That was yesterday. You should also have learned from the
cable that the missing President, Ribiera, who had disappeared after the battle
of Sta. Marta, has turned up here in Sulaco by one of those strange coincidences
that are almost incredible, riding on a lame mule into the very midst of the
street fighting. It appears that he had fled, in company of a muleteer called
Bonifacio, across the mountains from the threats of Montero into the arms of an
enraged mob.
    The Capataz of Cargadores, that Italian sailor of whom I have written to you
before, has saved him from an ignoble death. That man seems to have a particular
talent for being on the spot whenever there is something picturesque to be done.
    He was with me at four o'clock in the morning at the offices of the
Porvenir, where he had turned up so early in order to warn me of the coming
trouble, and also to assure me that he would keep his Cargadores on the side of
order. When the full daylight came we were looking together at the crowd on foot
and on horseback, demonstrating on the Plaza and shying stones at the windows of
the Intendencia. Nostromo (that is the name they call him by here) was pointing
out to me his Cargadores interspersed in the mob.
    The sun shines late upon Sulaco, for it has first to climb above the
mountains. In that clear morning light, brighter than twilight, Nostromo saw
right across the vast Plaza, at the end of the street beyond the cathedral, a
mounted man apparently in difficulties with a yelling knot of leperos. At once
he said to me, That's a stranger. What is it they are doing to him? Then he took
out the silver whistle he is in the habit of using on the wharf (this man seems
to disdain the use of any metal less precious than silver) and blew into it
twice, evidently a preconcerted signal for his Cargadores. He ran out
immediately, and they rallied round him. I ran out, too, but was too late to
follow them and help in the rescue of the stranger, whose animal had fallen. I
was set upon at once as a hated aristocrat, and was only too glad to get into
the club, where Don Jaime Berges (you may remember him visiting at our house in
Paris some three years ago) thrust a sporting gun into my hands. They were
already firing from the windows. There were little heaps of cartridges lying
about on the open card-tables. I remember a couple of overturned chairs, some
bottles rolling on the floor amongst the packs of cards scattered suddenly as
the caballeros rose from their game to open fire upon the mob. Most of the young
men had spent the night at the club in the expectation of some such disturbance.
In two of the candelabra, on the consoles, the candles were burning down in
their sockets. A large iron nut, probably stolen from the railway workshops,
flew in from the street as I entered, and broke one of the large mirrors set in
the wall. I noticed also one of the club servants tied up hand and foot with the
cords of the curtain and flung in a corner. I have a vague recollection of Don
Jaime assuring me hastily that the fellow had been detected putting poison into
the dishes at supper. But I remember distinctly he was shrieking for mercy,
without stopping at all, continuously, and so absolutely disregarded that nobody
even took the trouble to gag him. The noise he made was so disagreeable that I
had half a mind to do it myself. But there was no time to waste on such trifles.
I took my place at one of the windows and began firing.
    I didn't learn till later in the afternoon whom it was that Nostromo, with
his Cargadores and some Italian workmen as well, had managed to save from those
drunken rascals. That man has a peculiar talent when anything striking to the
imagination has to be done. I made that remark to him afterwards when we met
after some sort of order had been restored in the town, and the answer he made
rather surprised me. He said quite moodily, And how much do I get for that,
señor? Then it dawned upon me that perhaps this man's vanity has been satiated
by the adulation of the common people and the confidence of his superiors!«
    Decoud paused to light a cigarette, then, with his head still over his
writing, he blew a cloud of smoke, which seemed to rebound from the paper. He
took up the pencil again.
    »That was yesterday evening on the Plaza, while he sat on the steps of the
cathedral, his hands between his knees, holding the bridle of his famous
silver-grey mare. He had led his body of Cargadores splendidly all day long. He
looked fatigued. I don't know how I looked. Very dirty, I suppose. But I suppose
I also looked pleased. From the time the fugitive President had been got off to
the S. S. Minerva, the tide of success had turned against the mob. They had been
driven off the harbour, and out of the better streets of the town, into their
own maze of ruins and tolderias. You must understand that this riot, whose
primary object was undoubtedly the getting hold of the San Tomé silver stored in
the lower rooms of the Custom House (besides the general looting of the Ricos),
had acquired a political colouring from the fact of two Deputies to the
Provincial Assembly, Señores Gamacho and Fuentes, both from Bolson, putting
themselves at the head of it - late in the afternoon, it is true, when the mob,
disappointed in their hopes of loot, made a stand in the narrow streets to the
cries of Viva la Libertad! Down with Feudalism! (I wonder what they imagine
feudalism to be?) Down with the Goths and Paralytics. I suppose the Señores
Gamacho and Fuentes knew what they were doing. They are prudent gentlemen. In
the Assembly they called themselves Moderates, and opposed every energetic
measure with philanthropic pensiveness. At the first rumours of Montero's
victory, they began to show a subtle change of the pensive temper, and began to
defy poor Don Juste Lopez in his Presidential tribune with an effrontery to
which the poor man could only respond by a dazed smoothing of his beard and the
ringing of the Presidential bell. Then, when the downfall of the Ribierist cause
became confirmed beyond the shadow of a doubt, they have blossomed into
convinced Liberals, acting together as if they were Siamese twins, and
ultimately taking charge, as it were, of the riot in the name of Monterist
principles.
    Their last move of eight o'clock last night was to organize themselves into
a Monterist Committee which sits, as far as I know, in a posada kept by a
retired Mexican bull-fighter, a great politician, too, whose name I have
forgotten. Thence they have issued a communication to us, the Goths and
Paralytics of the Amarilla Club (who have our own committee), inviting us to
come to some provisional understanding for a truce, in order, they have the
impudence to say, that the noble cause of Liberty should not be stained by the
criminal excesses of Conservative selfishness! As I came out to sit with
Nostromo on the cathedral steps the club was busy considering a proper reply in
the principal room, littered with exploded cartridges, with a lot of broken
glass, blood smears, candlesticks, and all sorts of wreckage on the floor. But
all this is nonsense. Nobody in the town has any real power except the railway
engineers, whose men occupy the dismantled houses acquired by the Company for
their town station on one side of the Plaza, and Nostromo, whose Cargadores were
sleeping under the arcades along the front of Anzani's shops. A fire of broken
furniture out of the Intendencia saloons, mostly gilt, was burning on the Plaza,
in a high flame swaying right upon the statue of Charles IV. The dead body of a
man was lying on the steps of the pedestal, his arms thrown wide open, and his
sombrero covering his face - the attention of some friend, perhaps. The light of
the flame touched the foliage of the first trees on the Alameda, and played on
the end of a side street near by, blocked up by a jumble of ox-carts and dead
bullocks. Sitting on one of the carcases, a lepero, muffled up, smoked a
cigarette. It was a truce, you understand. The only other living being on the
Plaza besides ourselves was a Cargador walking to and fro, with a long, bare
knife in his hand, like a sentry before the Arcades, where his friends were
sleeping. And the only other spot of light in the dark town were the lighted
windows of the club, at the corner of the Calle.«
    After having written so far, Don Martin Decoud, the exotic dandy of the
Parisian boulevard, got up and walked across the sanded floor of the café at one
end of the Albergo of United Italy, kept by Giorgio Viola, the old companion of
Garibaldi. The highly coloured lithograph of the Faithful Hero seemed to look
dimly, in the light of one candle, at the man with no faith in anything except
the truth of his own sensations. Looking out of the window, Decoud was met by a
darkness so impenetrable that he could see neither the mountains nor the town,
nor yet the buildings near the harbour; and there was not a sound, as if the
tremendous obscurity of the Placid Gulf, spreading from the waters over the
land, had made it dumb as well as blind. Presently Decoud felt a light tremor of
the floor and a distant clank of iron. A bright white light appeared, deep in
the darkness, growing bigger with a thundering noise. The rolling stock usually
kept on the sidings in Rincon was being run back to the yards for safe keeping.
Like a mysterious stirring of the darkness behind the headlight of the engine,
the train passed in a gust of hollow uproar, by the end of the house, which
seemed to vibrate all over in response. And nothing was clearly visible but, on
the end of the last flat car, a negro, in white trousers and naked to the waist,
swinging a blazing torch basket incessantly with a circular movement of his bare
arm. Decoud did not stir.
    Behind him, on the back of the chair from which he had risen, hung his
elegant Parisian overcoat, with a pearl-grey silk lining. But when he turned
back to come to the table the candlelight fell upon a face that was grimy and
scratched. His rosy lips were blackened with heat, the smoke of gun-powder. Dirt
and rust tarnished the lustre of his short beard. His shirt collar and cuffs
were crumpled; the blue silken tie hung down his breast like a rag; a greasy
smudge crossed his white brow. He had not taken off his clothing nor used water,
except to snatch a hasty drink greedily, for some forty hours. An awful
restlessness had made him its own, had marked him with all the signs of
desperate strife, and put a dry, sleepless stare into his eyes. He murmured to
himself in a hoarse voice, »I wonder if there's any bread here,« looked vaguely
about him, then dropped into the chair and took the pencil up again. He became
aware he had not eaten anything for many hours.
    It occurred to him that no one could understand him so well as his sister.
In the most sceptical heart there lurks at such moments, when the chances of
existence are involved, a desire to leave a correct impression of the feelings,
like a light by which the action may be seen when personality is gone, gone
where no light of investigation can ever reach the truth which every death takes
out of the world. Therefore, instead of looking for something to eat, or trying
to snatch an hour or so of sleep, Decoud was filling the pages of a large
pocket-book with a letter to his sister.
    In the intimacy of that intercourse he could not keep out his weariness, his
great fatigue, the close touch of his bodily sensations. He began again as if he
were talking to her. With almost an illusion of her presence, he wrote the
phrase, »I am very hungry.«
    »I have the feeling of a great solitude around me,« he continued. »Is it,
perhaps, because I am the only man with a definite idea in his head, in the
complete collapse of every resolve, intention, and hope about me? But the
solitude is also very real. All the engineers are cut, and have been for two
days, looking after the property of the National Central Railway, of that great
Costaguana undertaking which is to put money into the pockets of Englishmen,
Frenchmen, Americans, Germans, and God knows who else. The silence about me is
ominous. There is above the middle part of this house a sort of first floor,
with narrow openings like loopholes for windows, probably used in old times for
the better defence against the savages, when the persistent barbarism of our
native continent did not wear the black coats of politicians, but went about
yelling, half-naked, with bows and arrows in its hands. The woman of the house
is dying up there, I believe, all alone with her old husband. There is a narrow
staircase, the sort of staircase one man could easily defend against a mob,
leading up there, and I have just heard, through the thickness of the wall, the
old fellow going down into their kitchen for something or other. It was a sort
of noise a mouse might make behind the plaster of a wall. All the servants they
had ran away yesterday and have not returned yet, if ever they do. For the rest,
there are only two children here, two girls. The father has sent them
downstairs, and they have crept into this café, perhaps because I am here. They
huddle together in a corner, in each other's arms; I just noticed them a few
minutes ago, and I feel more lonely than ever.«
    Decoud turned half round in his chair, and asked, »Is there any bread here?«
    Linda's dark head was shaken negatively in response, above the fair head of
her sister nestling on her breast.
    »You couldn't get me some bread?« insisted Decoud. The child did not move;
he saw her large eyes stare at him very dark from the corner. »You're not afraid
of me?« he said.
    »No,« said Linda, »we are not afraid of you. You came here with Gian'
Battista.«
    »You mean Nostromo?« said Decoud.
    »The English call him so, but that is no name either for man or beast,« said
the girl, passing her hand gently over her sister's hair.
    »But he lets people call him so,« remarked Decoud.
    »Not in this house,« retorted the child.
    »Ah! well, I shall call him the Capataz then.«
    Decoud gave up the point, and after writing steadily for a while turned
round again.
    »When do you expect him back?« he asked.
    »After he brought you here he rode off to fetch the Señor Doctor from the
town for mother. He will be back soon.«
    »He stands a good chance of getting shot somewhere on the road,« Decoud
murmured to himself audibly; and Linda declared in her high-pitched voice -
    »Nobody would dare to fire a shot at Gian' Battista.«
    »You believe that,« asked Decoud, »do you?«
    »I know it,« said the child, with conviction. »There is no one in this place
brave enough to attack Gian' Battista.«
    »It doesn't't require much bravery to pull a trigger behind a bush,« muttered
Decoud to himself. »Fortunately, the night is dark, or there would be but little
chance of saving the silver of the mine.«
    He turned again to his pocket-book, glanced back through the pages, and
again started his pencil.
    »That was the position yesterday, after the Minerva with the fugitive
President had gone out of harbour, and the rioters had been driven back into the
side lanes of the town. I sat on the steps of the cathedral with Nostromo, after
sending out the cable message for the information of a more or less attentive
world. Strangely enough, though the offices of the Cable Company are in the same
building as the Porvenir, the mob, which has thrown my presses out of the window
and scattered the type all over the Plaza, has been kept from interfering with
the instruments on the other side of the courtyard. As I sat talking with
Nostromo, Bernhardt, the telegraphist, came out from under the Arcades with a
piece of paper in his hand. The little man had tied himself up to an enormous
sword and was hung all over with revolvers. He is ridiculous, but the bravest
German of his size that ever tapped the key of a Morse transmitter. He had
received the message from Cayta reporting the transports with Barrios's army
just entering the port, and ending with the words, The greatest enthusiasm
prevails. I walked off to drink some water at the fountain, and I was shot at
from the Alameda by somebody hiding behind a tree. But I drank, and didn't care;
with Barrios in Cayta and the great Cordillera between us and Montero's
victorious army I seemed, notwithstanding Messrs. Gamacho and Fuentes, to hold
my new State in the hollow of my hand. I was ready to sleep, but when I got as
far as the Casa Gould I found the patio full of wounded laid out on straw.
Lights were burning, and in that enclosed courtyard on that hot night a faint
odour of chloroform and blood hung about. At one end Doctor Monygham, the doctor
of the mine, was dressing the wounds; at the other, near the stairs, Father
Corbelàn, kneeling, listened to the confession of a dying Cargador. Mrs. Gould
was walking about through these shambles with a large bottle in one hand and a
lot of cotton wool in the other. She just looked at me and never even winked.
Her camerista was following her, also holding a bottle, and sobbing gently to
herself.
    I busied myself for some time in fetching water from the cistern for the
wounded. Afterwards I wandered upstairs, meeting some of the first ladies of
Sulaco, paler than I had ever seen them before, with bandages over their arms.
Not all of them had fled to the ships. A good many had taken refuge for the day
in the Casa Gould. On the landing a girl, with her hair half down, was kneeling
against the wall under the niche where stands a Madonna in blue robes and a gilt
crown on her head. I think it was the eldest Miss Lopez; I couldn't see her
face, but I remember looking at the high French heel of her little shoe. She did
not make a sound, she did not stir, she was not sobbing; she remained there,
perfectly still, all black against the white wall, a silent figure of passionate
piety. I am sure she was no more frightened than the other white-faced ladies I
met carrying bandages. One was sitting on the top step tearing a piece of linen
hastily into strips - the young wife of an elderly man of fortune here. She
interrupted herself to wave her hand to my bow, as though she were in her
carriage on the Alameda. The women of our country are worth looking at during a
revolution. The rouge and pearl powder fall off, together with that passive
attitude towards the outer world which education, tradition, custom impose upon
them from the earliest infancy. I thought of your face, which from your infancy
had the stamp of intelligence instead of that patient and resigned cast which
appears when some political commotion tears down the veil of cosmetics and
usage.
    In the great sala upstairs a sort of Junta of Notables was sitting, the
remnant of the vanished Provincial Assembly. Don Juste Lopez had had half his
beard singed off at the muzzle of a trabuco loaded with slugs, of which every
one missed him, providentially. And as he turned his head from side to side it
was exactly as if there had been two men inside his frock-coat, one nobly
whiskered and solemn, the other untidy and scared.
    They raised a cry of Decoud! Don Martin! at my entrance. I asked them, What
are you deliberating upon, gentlemen? There did not seem to be any president,
though Don José Avellanos sat at the head of the table. They all answered
together, On the preservation of life and property. Till the new officials
arrive, Don Juste explained to me, with the solemn side of his face offered to
my view. It was as if a stream of water had been poured upon my glowing idea of
a new State. There was a hissing sound in my ears, and the room grew dim, as if
suddenly filled with vapour.
    I walked up to the table blindly, as though I had been drunk. You are
deliberating upon surrender, I said. They all sat still, with their noses over
the sheet of paper each had before him, God only knows why. Only Don José hid
his face in his hands, muttering, Never, never! But as I looked at him, it
seemed to me that I could have blown him away with my breath, he looked so
frail, so weak, so worn out. Whatever happens, he will not survive. The
deception is too great for a man of his age; and hasn't he seen the sheets of
»Fifty Years of Misrule,« which we have begun printing on the presses of the
Porvenir, littering the Plaza, floating in the gutters, fired out as wads for
trabucos loaded with handfuls of type, blown in the wind, trampled in the mud? I
have seen pages floating upon the very waters of the harbour. It would be
unreasonable to expect him to survive. It would be cruel.
    Do you know, I cried, what surrender means to you, to your women, to your
children, to your property?
    I declaimed for five minutes without drawing breath, it seems to me, harping
on our best chances, on the ferocity of Montero, whom I made out to be as great
a beast as I have no doubt he would like to be if he had intelligence enough to
conceive a systematic reign of terror. And then for another five minutes or more
I poured out an impassioned appeal to their courage and manliness, with all the
passion of my love for Antonia. For if ever man spoke well, it would be from a
personal feeling, denouncing an enemy, defending himself, or pleading for what
really may be dearer than life. My dear girl, I absolutely thundered at them. It
seemed as if my voice would burst the walls asunder, and when I stopped I saw
all their scared eyes looking at me dubiously. And that was all the effect I had
produced! Only Don José's head had sunk lower and lower on his breast. I bent my
ear to his withered lips, and made out his whisper, something like, In God's
name, then, Martin, my son! I don't know exactly. There was the name of God in
it, I am certain. It seems to me I have caught his last breath - the breath of
his departing soul on his lips.
    He lives yet, it is true. I have seen him since; but it was only a senile
body, lying on its back, covered to the chin, with open eyes, and so still that
you might have said it was breathing no longer. I left him thus, with Antonia
kneeling by the side of the bed, just before I came to this Italian's posada,
where the ubiquitous death is also waiting. But I know that Don José has really
died there, in the Casa Gould, with that whisper urging me to attempt what no
doubt his soul, wrapped up in the sanctity of diplomatic treaties and solemn
declarations, must have abhorred. I had exclaimed very loud, There is never any
God in a country where men will not help themselves.
    Meanwhile, Don Juste had begun a pondered oration whose solemn effect was
spoiled by the ridiculous disaster to his beard. I did not wait to make it out.
He seemed to argue that Montero's (he called him The General) intentions were
probably not evil, though, he went on, that distinguished man (only a week ago
we used to call him a gran' bestia) was perhaps mistaken as to the true means.
As you may imagine, I didn't stay to hear the rest. I know the intentions of
Montero's brother, Pedrito, the guerrillero, whom I exposed in Paris, some years
ago, in a café frequented by South American students, where he tried to pass
himself off for a Secretary of Legation. He used to come in and talk for hours,
twisting his felt hat in his hairy paws, and his ambition seemed to become a
sort of Duc de Morny to a sort of Napoleon. Already, then, he used to talk of
his brother in inflated terms. He seemed fairly safe from being found out,
because the students, all of the Blanco families, did not, as you may imagine,
frequent the Legation. It was only Decoud, a man without faith and principles,
as they used to say, that went in there sometimes for the sake of the fun, as it
were to an assembly of trained monkeys. I know his intentions. I have seen him
change the plates at table. Whoever is allowed to live on in terror, I must die
the death.
    No, I didn't stay to the end to hear Don Juste Lopez trying to persuade
himself in a grave oration of the clemency and justice, and honesty, and purity
of the brothers Montero. I went out abruptly to seek Antonia. I saw her in the
gallery. As I opened the door, she extended to me her clasped hands.
    What are they doing in there? she asked.
    Talking, I said, with my eyes looking into hers.
    Yes, yes, but -
    Empty speeches, I interrupted her. Hiding their fears behind imbecile hopes.
They are all great Parliamentarians there - on the English model, as you know. I
was so furious that I could hardly speak. She made a gesture of despair.
    Through the door I held a little ajar behind me, we heard Don Juste's
measured mouthing monotone go on from phrase to phrase, like a sort of awful and
solemn madness.
    After all, the Democratic aspirations have, perhaps, their legitimacy. The
ways of human progress are inscrutable, and if the fate of the country is in the
hand of Montero, we ought -
    I crashed the door to on that; it was enough; it was too much. There was
never a beautiful face expressing more horror and despair than the face of
Antonia. I couldn't bear it; I seized her wrists.
    Have they killed my father in there? she asked.
    Her eyes blazed with indignation, but as I looked on, fascinated, the light
in them went out.
    It is a surrender, I said. And I remember I was shaking her wrists I held
apart in my hands. But it's more than talk. Your father told me to go on in
God's name.
    My dear girl, there is that in Antonia which would make me believe in the
feasibility of anything. One look at her face is enough to set my brain on fire.
And yet I love her as any other man would - with the heart, and with that alone.
She is more to me than his Church to Father Corbelàn (the Grand Vicar
disappeared last night from the town; perhaps gone to join the band of
Hernandez). She is more to me than his precious mine to that sentimental
Englishman. I won't speak of his wife. She may have been sentimental once. The
San Tomé mine stands now between those two people. Your father himself, Antonia,
I repeated; your father, do you understand? has told me to go on.
    She averted her face, and in a pained voice -
    He has? she cried. Then, indeed, I fear he will never speak again.
    She freed her wrists from my clutch and began to cry in her handkerchief. I
disregarded her sorrow; I would rather see her miserable than not see her at
all, never any more; for whether I escaped or stayed to die, there was for us no
coming together, no future. And that being so, I had no pity to waste upon the
passing moments of her sorrow. I sent her off in tears to fetch Doña Emilia and
Don Carlos, too. Their sentiment was necessary to the very life of my plan; the
sentimentalism of the people that will never do anything for the sake of their
passionate desire, unless it comes to them clothed in the fair robes of an idea.
    Late at night we formed a small junta of four - the two women, Don Carlos,
and myself - in Mrs. Gould's blue-and-white boudoir.
    El Rey de Sulaco thinks himself, no doubt, a very honest man. And so he is,
if one could look behind his taciturnity. Perhaps he thinks that this alone
makes his honesty unstained. Those Englishmen live on illusions which somehow or
other help them to get a firm hold of the substance. When he speaks it is by a
rare yes or no that seems as impersonal as the words of an oracle. But he could
not impose on me by his dumb reserve. I knew what he had in his head; he has his
mine in his head; and his wife had nothing in her head but his precious person,
which he has bound up with the Gould Concession and tied up to that little
woman's neck. No matter. The thing was to make him present the affair to Holroyd
(the Steel and Silver King) in such a manner as to secure his financial support.
At that time last night, just twenty-four hours ago, we thought the silver of
the mine safe in the Custom House vaults till the north-bound steamer came to
take it away. And as long as the treasure flowed north, without a break, that
utter sentimentalist, Holroyd, would not drop his idea of introducing, not only
justice, industry, peace, to the benighted continents, but also that pet dream
of his of a purer form of Christianity. Later on, the principal European really
in Sulaco, the engineer-in-chief of the railway, came riding up the Calle, from
the harbour, and was admitted to our conclave. Meantime, the Junta of the
Notables in the great sala was still deliberating; only, one of them had run out
in the corridor to ask the servant whether something to eat couldn't be sent in.
The first words the engineer-in-chief said as he came into the boudoir were,
What is your house, dear Mrs. Gould? A war hospital below, and apparently a
restaurant above. I saw them carrying trays full of good things into the sala.
    And here, in this boudoir, I said, you behold the inner cabinet of the
Occidental Republic that is to be.
    He was so preoccupied that he didn't smile at that, he didn't even look
surprised.
    He told us that he was attending to the general dispositions for the defence
of the railway property at the railway yards when he was sent for to go into the
railway telegraph office. The engineer of the railhead, at the foot of the
mountains, wanted to talk to him from his end of the wire. There was nobody in
the office but himself and the operator of the railway telegraph, who read off
the clicks aloud as the tape coiled its length upon the floor. And the purport
of that talk, clicked nervously from a wooden shed in the depths of the forests,
had informed the chief that President Ribiera had been, or was being, pursued.
This was news, indeed, to all of us in Sulaco. Ribiera himself, when rescued,
revived, and soothed by us, had been inclined to think that he had not been
pursued.
    Ribiera had yielded to the urgent solicitations of his friends, and had left
the headquarters of his discomfited army alone, under the guidance of Bonifacio,
the muleteer, who had been willing to take the responsibility with the risk. He
had departed at daybreak of the third day. His remaining forces had melted away
during the night. Bonifacio and he rode hard on horses towards the Cordillera;
then they obtained mules, entered the passes, and crossed the Paramo of Ivie
just before a freezing blast swept over that stony plateau, burying in a drift
of snow the little shelter-hut of stones in which they had spent the night.
Afterwards poor Ribiera had many adventures, got separated from his guide, lost
his mount, struggled down to the Campo on foot, and if he had not thrown himself
on the mercy of a ranchero would have perished a long way from Sulaco. That man,
who, as a matter of fact, recognized him at once, let him have a fresh mule,
which the fugitive, heavy and unskillful, had ridden to death. And it was true he
had been pursued by a party commanded by no less a person than Pedro Montero,
the brother of the general. The cold wind of the Paramo luckily caught the
pursuers on the top of the pass. Some few men, and all the animals, perished in
the icy blast. The stragglers died, but the main body kept on. They found poor
Bonifacio lying half-dead at the foot of a snow slope, and bayoneted him
promptly in the true Civil War style. They would have had Ribiera, too, if they
had not, for some reason or other, turned off the track of the old Camino Real,
only to lose their way in the forests at the foot of the lower slopes. And there
they were at last, having stumbled in unexpectedly upon the construction camp.
The engineer at the railhead told his chief by wire that he had Pedro Montero
absolutely there, in the very office, listening to the clicks. He was going to
take possession of Sulaco in the name of the Democracy. He was very overbearing.
His men slaughtered some of the Railway Company's cattle without asking leave,
and went to work broiling the meat on the embers. Pedrito made many pointed
inquiries as to the silver mine, and what had become of the product of the last
six months' working. He had said peremptorily, Ask your chief up there by wire,
he ought to know; tell him that Don Pedro Montero, Chief of the Campo and
Minister of the Interior of the new Government, desires to be correctly
informed.
    He had his feet wrapped up in blood-stained rags, a lean, haggard face,
ragged beard and hair, and had walked in limping, with a crooked branch of a
tree for a staff. His followers were perhaps in a worse plight, but apparently
they had not thrown away their arms, and, at any rate, not all their ammunition.
Their lean faces filled the door and the windows of the telegraph hut. As it was
at the same time the bedroom of the engineer-in-charge there, Montero had thrown
himself on his clean blankets and lay there shivering and dictating requisitions
to be transmitted by wire to Sulaco. He demanded a train of cars to be sent down
at once to transport his men up.
    To this I answered from my end, the engineer-in-chief related to us, that I
dared not risk the rolling-stock in the interior, as there had been attempts to
wreck trains all along the line several times. I did that for your sake, Gould,
said the chief engineer. The answer to this was, in the words of my subordinate,
»The filthy brute on my bed said, Suppose I were to have you shot? To which my
subordinate, who, it appears, was himself operating, remarked that it would not
bring the cars up. Upon that, the other, yawning, said, Never mind, there is no
lack of horses on the Campo.« And, turning over, went to sleep on Harris's bed.
    This is why, my dear girl, I am a fugitive to-night. The last wire from
railhead says that Pedro Montero and his men left at daybreak, after feeding on
asado beef all night. They took all the horses; they will find more on the road;
they'll be here in less than thirty hours, and thus Sulaco is no place either
for me or the great store of silver belonging to the Gould Concession.
    But that is not the worst. The garrison of Esmeralda has gone over to the
victorious party. We have heard this by means of the telegraphist of the Cable
Company, who came to the Casa Gould in the early morning with the news. In fact,
it was so early that the day had not yet quite broken over Sulaco. His colleague
in Esmeralda had called him up to say that the garrison, after shooting some of
their officers, had taken possession of a Government steamer laid up in the
harbour. It is really a heavy blow for me. I thought I could depend on every man
in this province. It was a mistake. It was a Monterist Revolution in Esmeralda,
just such as was attempted in Sulaco, only that that one came off. The
telegraphist was signalling to Bernhardt all the time, and his last transmitted
words were, They are bursting in the door, and taking possession of the cable
office. You are cut off. Can do no more.
    But, as a matter of fact, he managed somehow to escape the vigilance of his
captors, who had tried to stop the communication with the outer world. He did
manage it. How it was done I don't know, but a few hours afterwards he called up
Sulaco again, and what he said was, The insurgent army has taken possession of
the Government transport in the bay and are filling her with troops, with the
intention of going round the coast to Sulaco. Therefore look out for yourselves.
They will be ready to start in a few hours, and may be upon you before daybreak.
    This is all he could say. They drove him away from his instrument this time
for good, because Bernhardt has been calling up Esmeralda ever since without
getting an answer.«
    After setting these words down in the pocket-book which he was filling up
for the benefit of his sister, Decoud lifted his head to listen. But there were
no sounds, neither in the room nor in the house, except the drip of the water
from the filter into the vast earthenware jar under the wooden stand. And
outside the house there was a great silence. Decoud lowered his head again over
the pocket-book.
    »I am not running away, you understand,« he wrote on. »I am simply going
away with that great treasure of silver which must be saved at all costs. Pedro
Montero from the Campo and the revolted garrison of Esmeralda from the sea are
converging upon it. That it is there lying ready for them is only an accident.
The real objective is the San Tomé mine itself, as you may well imagine;
otherwise the Occidental Province would have been, no doubt, left alone for many
weeks, to be gathered at leisure into the arms of the victorious party. Don
Carlos Gould will have enough to do to save his mine, with its organization and
its people; this »Imperium in Imperio,« this wealth-producing thing, to which
his sentimentalism attaches a strange idea of justice. He holds to it as some
men hold to the idea of love or revenge. Unless I am much mistaken in the man,
it must remain inviolate or perish by an act of his will alone. A passion has
crept into his cold and idealistic life. A passion which I can only comprehend
intellectually. A passion that is not like the passions we know, we men of
another blood. But it is as dangerous as any of ours.
    His wife has understood it, too. That is why she is such a good ally of
mine. She seizes upon all my suggestions with a sure instinct that in the end
they make for the safety of the Gould Concession. And he defers to her because
he trusts her perhaps, but I fancy more rather as if he wished to make up for
some subtle wrong, for that sentimental unfaithfulness which surrenders her
happiness, her life, to the seduction of an idea. The little woman has
discovered that he lives for the mine rather than for her. But let them be. To
each his fate, shaped by passion or sentiment. The principal thing is that she
has backed up my advice to get the silver out of the town, out of the country,
at once, at any cost, at any risk. Don Carlos' mission is to preserve unstained
the fair fame of his mine; Mrs. Gould's mission is to save him from the effects
of that cold and overmastering passion, which she dreads more than if it were an
infatuation for another woman. Nostromo's mission is to save the silver. The
plan is to load it into the largest of the Company's lighters, and send it
across the gulf to a small port out of Costaguana territory just on the other
side the Azuera, where the first northbound steamer will get orders to pick it
up. The waters here are calm. We shall slip away into the darkness of the gulf
before the Esmeralda rebels arrive; and by the time the day breaks over the
ocean we shall be out of sight, invisible, hidden by Azuera, which itself looks
from the Sulaco shore like a faint blue cloud on the horizon.
    The incorruptible Capataz de Cargadores is the man for that work; and I, the
man with a passion, but without a mission, I go with him to return - to play my
part in the farce to the end, and, if successful, to receive my reward, which no
one but Antonia can give me.
    I shall not see her again now before I depart. I left her, as I have said,
by Don José's bedside. The street was dark, the houses shut up, and I walked out
of the town in the night. Not a single street-lamp had been lit for two days,
and the archway of the gate was only a mass of darkness in the vague form of a
tower, in which I heard low, dismal groans, that seemed to answer the murmurs of
a man's voice.
    I recognized something impassive and careless in its tone, characteristic of
that Genoese sailor who, like me, has come casually here to be drawn into the
events for which his scepticism as well as mine seems to entertain a sort of
passive contempt. The only thing he seems to care for, as far as I have been
able to discover, is to be well spoken of. An ambition fit for noble souls, but
also a profitable one for an exceptionally intelligent scoundrel. Yes. His very
words, To be well spoken of. Si, señor. He does not seem to make any difference
between speaking and thinking. Is it sheer naïveness or the practical point of
view, I wonder? Exceptional individualities always interest me, because they are
true to the general formula expressing the moral state of humanity.
    He joined me on the harbour road after I had passed them under the dark
archway without stopping. It was a woman in trouble he had been talking to.
Through discretion I kept silent while he walked by my side. After a time he
began to talk himself. It was not what I expected. It was only an old woman, an
old lace-maker, in search of her son, one of the street-sweepers employed by the
municipality. Friends had come the day before at daybreak to the door of their
hovel calling him out. He had gone with them, and she had not seen him since; so
she had left the food she had been preparing half-cooked on the extinct embers
and had crawled out as far as the harbour, where she had heard that some town
mozos had been killed on the morning of the riot. One of the Cargadores guarding
the Custom House had brought out a lantern, and had helped her to look at the
few dead left lying about there. Now she was creeping back, having failed in her
search. So she sat down on the stone seat under the arch, moaning, because she
was very tired. The Capataz had questioned her, and after hearing her broken and
groaning tale had advised her to go and look amongst the wounded in the patio of
the Casa Gould. He had also given her a quarter dollar, he mentioned carelessly.
    Why did you do that? I asked. Do you know her?
    No, señor. I don't suppose I have ever seen her before. How should I? She
has not probably been out in the streets for years. She is one of those old
women that you find in this country at the back of huts, crouching over
fireplaces, with a stick on the ground by their side, and almost too feeble to
drive away the stray dogs from their cooking-pots. Caramba! I could tell by her
voice that death had forgotten her. But, old or young, they like money, and will
speak well of the man who gives it to them. He laughed a little. Señor, you
should have felt the clutch of her paw as I put the piece in her palm. He
paused. My last, too, he added.
    I made no comment. He's known for his liberality and his bad luck at the
game of monte, which keeps him as poor as when he first came here.
    I suppose, Don Martin, he began, in a thoughtful, speculative tone, that the
Señor Administrator of San Tomé will reward me some day if I save his silver?
    I said that it could not be otherwise, surely. He walked on, muttering to
himself. Si, si, without doubt, without doubt; and, look you, Señor Martin, what
it is to be well spoken of! There is not another man that could have been even
thought of for such a thing. I shall get something great for it some day. And
let it come soon, he mumbled. Time passes in this country as quick as anywhere
else.
    This, soeur chérie, is my companion in the great escape for the sake of the
great cause. He is more naïve than shrewd, more masterful than crafty, more
generous with his personality than the people who make use of him are with their
money. At least, that is what he thinks himself with more pride than sentiment.
I am glad I have made friends with him. As a companion he acquires more
importance than he ever had as a sort of minor genius in his way - as an
original Italian sailor whom I allowed to come in in the small hours and talk
familiarly to the editor of the Porvenir while the paper was going through the
press. And it is curious to have met a man for whom the value of life seems to
consist in personal prestige.
    I am waiting for him here now. On arriving at the posada kept by Viola we
found the children alone down below, and the old Genoese shouted to his
countryman to go and fetch the doctor. Otherwise we would have gone on to the
wharf, where it appears Captain Mitchell with some volunteer Europeans and a few
picked Cargadores are loading the lighter with the silver that must be saved
from Montero's clutches in order to be used for Montero's defeat. Nostromo
galloped furiously back towards the town. He has been long gone already. This
delay gives me time to talk to you. By the time this pocket-book reaches your
hands much will have happened. But now it is a pause under the hovering wing of
death in that silent house buried in the black night, with this dying woman, the
two children crouching without a sound, and that old man whom I can hear through
the thickness of the wall passing up and down with a light rubbing noise no
louder than a mouse. And I, the only other with them, don't really know whether
to count myself with the living or with the dead. Quien sabe? as the people here
are prone to say in answer to every question. But no! feeling for you is
certainly not dead, and the whole thing, the house, the dark night, the silent
children in this dim room, my very presence here - all this is life, must be
life, since it is so much like a dream.«
    With the writing of the last line there came upon Decoud a moment of sudden
and complete oblivion. He swayed over the table as if struck by a bullet. The
next moment he sat up, confused, with the idea that he had heard his pencil roll
on the floor. The low door of the café, wide open, was filled with the glare of
a torch in which was visible half of a horse, switching its tail against the leg
of a rider with a long iron spur strapped to the naked heel. The two girls were
gone, and Nostromo, standing in the middle of the room, looked at him from under
the round brim of the sombrero low down over his brow.
    »I have brought that sour-faced English doctor in Señora Gould's carriage,«
said Nostromo. »I doubt if, with all his wisdom, he can save the Padrona this
time. They have sent for the children. A bad sign that.«
    He sat down on the end of a bench. »She wants to give them her blessing, I
suppose.«
    Dazedly Decoud observed that he must have fallen sound asleep, and Nostromo
said, with a vague smile, that he had looked in at the window and had seen him
lying still across the table with his head on his arms. The English señora had
also come in the carriage, and went upstairs at once with the doctor. She had
told him not to wake up Don Martin yet; but when they sent for the children he
had come into the café.
    The half of the horse with its half of the rider swung round outside the
door; the torch of tow and resin in the iron basket which was carried on a stick
at the saddlebow flared right into the room for a moment, and Mrs. Gould entered
hastily with a very white, tired face. The hood of her dark, blue cloak had
fallen back. Both men rose.
    »Teresa wants to see you, Nostromo,« she said.
    The Capataz did not move. Decoud, with his back to the table, began to
button up his coat.
    »The silver, Mrs. Gould, the silver,« he murmured in English. »Don't forget
that the Esmeralda garrison have got a steamer. They may appear at any moment at
the harbour entrance.«
    »The doctor says there is no hope,« Mrs. Gould spoke rapidly, also in
English. »I shall take you down to the wharf in my carriage and then come back
to fetch away the girls.« She changed swiftly into Spanish to address Nostromo.
»Why are you wasting time? Old Giorgio's wife wishes to see you.«
    »I am going to her, señora,« muttered the Capataz.
    Dr. Monygham now showed himself, bringing back the children. To Mrs. Gould's
inquiring glance he only shook his head and went outside at once, followed by
Nostromo.
    The horse of the torch-bearer, motionless, hung his head low, and the rider
had dropped the reins to light a cigarette. The glare of the torch played on the
front of the house crossed by the big black letters of its inscription in which
only the word ITALIA was lighted fully. The patch of wavering glare reached as
far as Mrs. Gould's carriage waiting on the road, with the yellow-faced, portly
Ignacio apparently dozing on the box. By his side Basilio, dark and skinny, held
a Winchester carbine in front of him, with both hands, and peered fearfully into
the darkness. Nostromo touched lightly the doctor's shoulder.
    »Is she really dying, señor doctor?«
    »Yes,« said the doctor, with a strange twitch of his scarred cheek. »And why
she wants to see you I cannot imagine.«
    »She has been like that before,« suggested Nostromo, looking away.
    »Well, Capataz, I can assure you she will never be like that again,« snarled
Dr. Monygham. »You may go to her or stay away. There is very little to be got
from talking to the dying. But she told Doña Emilia in my hearing that she has
been like a mother to you ever since you first set foot ashore here.«
    »Si! And she never had a good word to say for me to anybody. It is more as
if she could not forgive me for being alive, and such a man, too, as she would
have liked her son to be.«
    »Maybe!« exclaimed a mournful deep voice near them. »Women have their own
ways of tormenting themselves.« Giorgio Viola had come out of the house. He
threw a heavy black shadow in the torchlight, and the glare fell on his big
face, on the great bushy head of white hair. He motioned the Capataz indoors
with his extended arm.
    Dr. Monygham, after busying himself with a little medicament box of polished
wood on the seat of the landau, turned to old Giorgio and thrust into his big,
trembling hand one of the glass-stoppered bottles out of the case.
    »Give her a spoonful of this now and then, in water,« he said. »It will make
her easier.«
    »And there is nothing more for her?« asked the old man, patiently.
    »No. Not on earth,« said the doctor, with his back to him, clicking the lock
of the medicine case.
    Nostromo slowly crossed the large kitchen, all dark but for the glow of a
heap of charcoal under the heavy mantel of the cooking-range, where water was
boiling in an iron pot with a loud bubbling sound. Between the two walls of a
narrow staircase a bright light streamed from the sick-room above; and the
magnificent Capataz de Cargadores stepping noiselessly in soft leather sandals,
bushy whiskered, his muscular neck and bronzed chest bare in the open check
shirt, resembled a Mediterranean sailor just come ashore from some wine or
fruit-laden felucca. At the top he paused, broad shouldered, narrow hipped and
supple, looking at the large bed, like a white couch of state, with a profusion
of snowy linen, amongst which the Padrona sat unpropped and bowed, her handsome,
black-browed face bent over her chest. A mass of raven hair with only a few
white threads in it covered her shoulders; one thick strand fallen forward half
veiled her cheek. Perfectly motionless in that pose, expressing physical anxiety
and unrest, she turned her eyes alone towards Nostromo.
    The Capataz had a red sash wound many times round his waist, and a heavy
silver ring on the forefinger of the hand he raised to give a twist to his
moustache.
    »Their revolutions, their revolutions,« gasped Señora Teresa. »Look, Gian'
Battista, it has killed me at last!«
    Nostromo said nothing, and the sick woman with an upward glance insisted.
»Look, this one has killed me, while you were away fighting for what did not
concern you, foolish man.«
    »Why talk like this?« mumbled the Capataz between his teeth. »Will you never
believe in my good sense? It concerns me to keep on being what I am: every day
alike.«
    »You never change, indeed,« she said, bitterly. »Always thinking of yourself
and taking your pay out in fine words from those who care nothing for you.«
    There was between them an intimacy of antagonism as close in its way as the
intimacy of accord and affection. He had not walked along the way of Teresa's
expectations. It was she who had encouraged him to leave his ship, in the hope
of securing a friend and defender for the girls. The wife of old Giorgio was
aware of her precarious health, and was haunted by the fear of her aged
husband's loneliness and the unprotected state of the children. She had wanted
to annex that apparently quiet and steady young man, affectionate and pliable,
an orphan from his tenderest age, as he had told her, with no ties in Italy
except an uncle, owner and master of a felucca, from whose ill-usage he had run
away before he was fourteen. He had seemed to her courageous, a hard worker,
determined to make his way in the world. From gratitude and the ties of habit he
would become like a son to herself and Giorgio; and then, who knows, when Linda
had grown up. ... Ten years' difference between husband and wife was not so
much. Her own great man was nearly twenty years older than herself. Gian'
Battista was an attractive young fellow, besides; attractive to men, women, and
children, just by that profound quietness of personality which, like a serene
twilight, rendered more seductive the promise of his vigorous form and the
resolution of his conduct.
    Old Giorgio, in profound ignorance of his wife's views and hopes, had a
great regard for his young countryman. »A man ought not to be tame,« he used to
tell her, quoting the Spanish proverb in defence of the splendid Capataz. She
was growing jealous of his success. He was escaping from her, she feared. She
was practical, and he seemed to her to be an absurd spendthrift of these
qualities which made him so valuable. He got too little for them. He scattered
them with both hands amongst too many people, she thought. He laid no money by.
She railed at his poverty, his exploits, his adventures, his loves and his
reputation; but in her heart she had never given him up, as though, indeed, he
had been her son.
    Even now, ill as she was, ill enough to feel the chill, black breath of the
approaching end, she had wished to see him. It was like putting out her benumbed
hand to regain her hold. But she had presumed too much on her strength. She
could not command her thoughts; they had become dim, like her vision. The words
faltered on her lips, and only the paramount anxiety and desire of her life
seemed to be too strong for death.
    The Capataz said, »I have heard these things many times. You are unjust, but
it does not hurt me. Only now you do not seem to have much strength to talk, and
I have but little time to listen. I am engaged in a work of very great moment.«
    She made an effort to ask him whether it was true that he had found time to
go and fetch a doctor for her. Nostromo nodded affirmatively.
    She was pleased: it relieved her sufferings to know that the man had
condescended to do so much for those who really wanted his help. It was a proof
of his friendship. Her voice become stronger.
    »I want a priest more than a doctor,« she said, pathetically. She did not
move her head; only her eyes ran into the corners to watch the Capataz standing
by the side of her bed. »Would you go to fetch a priest for me now? Think! A
dying woman asks you!«
    Nostromo shook his head resolutely. He did not believe in priests in their
sacerdotal character. A doctor was an efficacious person; but a priest, as
priest, was nothing, incapable of doing either good or harm. Nostromo did not
even dislike the sight of them as old Giorgio did. The utter uselessness of the
errand was what struck him most.
    »Padrona,« he said, »you have been like this before, and got better after a
few days. I have given you already the very last moments I can spare. Ask Señora
Gould to send you one.«
    He was feeling uneasy at the impiety of this refusal. The Padrona believed
in priests, and confessed herself to them. But all women did that. It could not
be of much consequence. And yet his heart felt oppressed for a moment - at the
thought what absolution would mean to her if she believed in it only ever so
little. No matter. It was quite true that he had given her already the very last
moment he could spare.
    »You refuse to go?« she gasped. »Ah! you are always yourself, indeed.«
    »Listen to reason, Padrona,« he said. »I am needed to save the silver of the
mine. Do you hear? A greater treasure than the one which they say is guarded by
ghosts and devils in Azuera. It is true. I am resolved to make this the most
desperate affair I was ever engaged on in my whole life.«
    She felt a despairing indignation. The supreme test had failed. Standing
above her, Nostromo did not see the distorted features of her face, distorted by
a paroxysm of pain and anger. Only she began to tremble all over. Her bowed head
shook. The broad shoulders quivered.
    »Then God, perhaps, will have mercy upon me! But do you look to it, man,
that you get something for yourself out of it, besides the remorse that shall
overtake you some day.«
    She laughed feebly. »Get riches at least for once, you indispensable,
admired Gian' Battista, to whom the peace of a dying woman is less than the
praise of people who have given you a silly name - and nothing besides - in
exchange for your soul and body.«
    The Capataz de Cargadores swore to himself under his breath.
    »Leave my soul alone, Padrona, and I shall know how to take care of my body.
Where is the harm of people having need of me? What are you envying me that I
have robbed you and the children of? Those very people you are throwing in my
teeth have done more for old Giorgio than they ever thought of doing for me.«
    He struck his breast with his open palm; his voice had remained low though
he had spoken in a forcible tone. He twisted his moustaches one after another,
and his eyes wandered a little about the room.
    »Is it my fault that I am the only man for their purposes? What angry
nonsense are you talking, mother? Would you rather have me timid and foolish,
selling water-melons on the market-place or rowing a boat for passengers along
the harbour, like a soft Neapolitan without courage or reputation? Would you
have a young man live like a monk? I do not believe it. Would you want a monk
for your eldest girl? Let her grow. What are you afraid of? You have been angry
with me for everything I did for years; ever since you first spoke to me, in
secret from old Giorgio, about your Linda. Husband to one and brother to the
other, did you say? Well, why not! I like the little ones, and a man must marry
some time. But ever since that time you have been making little of me to
everyone. Why? Did you think you could put a collar and chain on me as if I were
one of the watch-dogs they keep over there in the railway yards? Look here,
Padrona, I am the same man who came ashore one evening and sat down in the
thatched ranche you lived in at that time on the other side of the town and told
you all about himself. You were not unjust to me then. What has happened since?
I am no longer an insignificant youth. A good name, Giorgio says, is a treasure,
Padrona.«
    »They have turned your head with their praises,« gasped the sick woman.
»They have been paying you with words. Your folly shall betray you into poverty,
misery, starvation. The very leperos shall laugh at you - the great Capataz.«
    Nostromo stood for a time as if struck dumb. She never looked at him. A
self-confident, mirthless smile passed quickly from his lips, and then he backed
away. His disregarded figure sank down beyond the doorway. He descended the
stairs backwards, with the usual sense of having been somehow baffled by this
woman's disparagement of this reputation he had obtained and desired to keep.
    Downstairs in the big kitchen a candle was burning, surrounded by the
shadows of the walls, of the ceiling, but no ruddy glare filled the open square
of the outer door. The carriage with Mrs. Gould and Don Martin, preceded by the
horseman bearing the torch, had gone on to the jetty. Dr. Monygham, who had
remained, sat on the corner of a hard wood table near the candlestick, his
seamed, shaven face inclined sideways, his arms crossed on his breast, his lips
pursed up, and his prominent eyes glaring stonily upon the floor of black earth.
Near the overhanging mantel of the fireplace, where the pot of water was still
boiling violently, old Giorgio held his chin in his hand, one foot advanced, as
if arrested by a sudden thought.
    »Adios, viejo,« said Nostromo, feeling the handle of his revolver in the
belt and loosening his knife in its sheath. He picked up a blue poncho lined
with red from the table, and put it over his head. »Adios, look after the things
in my sleeping-room, and if you hear from me no more, give up the box to
Paquita. There is not much of value there, except my new serape from Mexico, and
a few silver buttons on my best jacket. No matter! The things will look well
enough on the next lover she gets, and the man need not be afraid I shall linger
on earth after I am dead, like those Gringos that haunt the Azuera.«
    Dr. Monygham twisted his lips into a bitter smile. After old Giorgio, with
an almost imperceptible nod and without a word, had gone up the narrow stairs,
he said -
    »Why, Capataz! I thought you could never fail in anything.«
    Nostromo, glancing contemptuously at the doctor, lingered in the doorway
rolling a cigarette, then struck a match, and, after lighting it, held the
burning piece of wood above his head till the flame nearly touched his fingers.
    »No wind!« he muttered to himself. »Look here, señor - do you know the
nature of my undertaking?«
    Dr. Monygham nodded sourly.
    »It is as if I were taking up a curse upon me, señor doctor. A man with a
treasure on this coast will have every knife raised against him in every place
upon the shore. You see that, señor doctor? I shall float along with a spell
upon my life till I meet somewhere the north-bound steamer of the Company, and
then indeed they will talk about the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores from one
end of America to another.«
    Dr. Monygham laughed his short, throaty laugh. Nostromo turned round in the
doorway.
    »But if your worship can find any other man ready and fit for such business
I will stand back. I am not exactly tired of my life, though I am so poor that I
can carry all I have with myself on my horse's back.«
    »You gamble too much, and never say no to a pretty face, Capataz,« said Dr.
Monygham, with sly simplicity. »That's not the way to make a fortune. But nobody
that I know ever suspected you of being poor. I hope you have made a good
bargain in case you come back safe from this adventure.«
    »What bargain would your worship have made?« asked Nostromo, blowing the
smoke out of his lips through the doorway.
    Dr. Monygham listened up the staircase for a moment before he answered, with
another of his short, abrupt laughs -
    »Illustrious Capataz, for taking the curse of death upon my back, as you
call it, nothing else but the whole treasure would do.«
    Nostromo vanished out of the doorway with a grunt of discontent at this
jeering answer. Dr. Monygham heard him gallop away. Nostromo rode furiously in
the dark. There were lights in the buildings of the O.S.N. Company near the
wharf, but before he got there he met the Gould carriage. The horseman preceded
it with the torch, whose light showed the white mules trotting, the portly
Ignacio driving, and Basilio with the carbine on the box. From the dark body of
the landau Mrs. Gould's voice cried, »They are waiting for you, Capataz!« She
was returning, chilly and excited, with Decoud's pocket-book still held in her
hand. He had confided it to her to send to his sister. »Perhaps my last words to
her,« he had said, pressing Mrs. Gould's hand.
    The Capataz never checked his speed. At the head of the wharf vague figures
with rifles leapt to the head of his horse; others closed upon him - cargadores
of the company posted by Captain Mitchell on the watch. At a word from him they
fell back with subservient murmurs, recognizing his voice. At the other end of
the jetty, near a cargo crane, in a dark group with glowing cigars, his name was
pronounced in a tone of relief. Most of the Europeans in Sulaco were there,
rallied round Charles Gould, as if the silver of the mine had been the emblem of
a common cause, the symbol of the supreme importance of material interests. They
had loaded it into the lighter with their own hands. Nostromo recognized Don
Carlos Gould, a thin, tall shape, standing a little apart and silent, to whom
another tall shape, the engineer-in-chief, said aloud, »If it must be lost, it
is a million times better that it should go to the bottom of the sea.«
    Martin Decoud called out from the lighter, »Au revoir, messieurs, till we
clasp hands again over the new-born Occidental Republic.« Only a subdued murmur
responded to his clear, ringing tones; and then it seemed to him that the wharf
was floating away into the night; but it was Nostromo, who was already pushing
against a pile with one of the heavy sweeps. Decoud did not move; the effect was
that of being launched into space. After a splash or two there was not a sound
but the thud of Nostromo's feet leaping about the boat. He hoisted the big sail;
a breath of wind fanned Decoud's cheek. Everything had vanished but the light of
the lantern Captain Mitchell had hoisted upon the post at the end of the jetty
to guide Nostromo out of the harbour.
    The two men, unable to see each other, kept silent till the lighter,
slipping before the fitful breeze, passed out between almost invisible headlands
into the still deeper darkness of the gulf. For a time the lantern on the jetty
shone after them. The wind failed, then fanned up again, but so faintly that the
big, half-decked boat slipped along with no more noise than if she had been
suspended in the air.
    »We are out in the gulf now,« said the calm voice of Nostromo. A moment
after he added, »Señor Mitchell has lowered the light.«
    »Yes,« said Decoud; »nobody can find us now.«
    A great recrudescence of obscurity embraced the boat. The sea in the gulf
was as black as the clouds above. Nostromo, after striking a couple of matches
to get a glimpse of the boat-compass he had with him in the lighter, steered by
the feel of the wind on his cheek.
    It was a new experience for Decoud, this mysteriousness of the great waters
spread out strangely smooth, as if their restlessness had been crushed by the
weight of that dense night. The Placido was sleeping profoundly under its black
poncho.
    The main thing now for success was to get away from the coast and gain the
middle of the gulf before day broke. The Isabels were somewhere at hand. »On
your left as you look forward, señor,« said Nostromo, suddenly. When his voice
ceased, the enormous stillness, without light or sound, seemed to affect
Decoud's senses like a powerful drug. He didn't even know at times whether he
were asleep or awake. Like a man lost in slumber, he heard nothing, he saw
nothing. Even his hand held before his face did not exist for his eyes. The
change from the agitation, the passions and the dangers, from the sights and
sounds of the shore, was so complete that it would have resembled death had it
not been for the survival of his thoughts. In this foretaste of eternal peace
they floated vivid and light, like unearthly clear dreams of earthly things that
may haunt the souls freed by death from the misty atmosphere of regrets and
hopes. Decoud shook himself, shuddered a bit, though the air that drifted past
him was warm. He had the strangest sensation of his soul having just returned
into his body from the circumambient darkness in which land, sea, sky, the
mountains, and the rocks were as if they had not been.
    Nostromo's voice was speaking, though he, at the tiller, was also as if he
were not. »Have you been asleep, Don Martin? Caramba! If it were possible I
would think that I, too, have dozed off. I have a strange notion somehow of
having dreamt that there was a sound of blubbering, a sound a sorrowing man
could make, somewhere near this boat. Something between a sigh and a sob.«
    »Strange!« muttered Decoud, stretched upon the pile of treasure boxes
covered by many tarpaulins. »Could it be that there is another boat near us in
the gulf? We could not see it, you know.«
    Nostromo laughed a little at the absurdity of the idea. They dismissed it
from their minds. The solitude could almost be felt. And when the breeze ceased,
the blackness seemed to weigh upon Decoud like a stone.
    »This is overpowering,« he muttered. »Do we move at all, Capataz?«
    »Not so fast as a crawling beetle tangled in the grass,« answered Nostromo,
and his voice seemed deadened by the thick veil of obscurity that felt warm and
hopeless all about them. There were long periods when he made no sound,
invisible and inaudible as if he had mysteriously stepped out of the lighter.
    In the featureless night Nostromo was not even certain which way the lighter
headed after the wind had completely died out. He peered for the islands. There
was not a hint of them to be seen, as if they had sunk to the bottom of the
gulf. He threw himself down by the side of Decoud at last, and whispered into
his ear that if daylight caught them near the Sulaco shore through want of wind,
it would be possible to sweep the lighter behind the cliff at the high end of
the Great Isabel, where she would lie concealed. Decoud was surprised at the
grimness of his anxiety. To him the removal of the treasure was a political
move. It was necessary for several reasons that it should not fall into the
hands of Montero, but here was a man who took another view of this enterprise.
The Caballeros over there did not seem to have the slightest idea of what they
had given him to do. Nostromo, as if affected by the gloom around, seemed
nervously resentful. Decoud was surprised. The Capataz, indifferent to those
dangers that seemed obvious to his companion, allowed himself to become
scornfully exasperated by the deadly nature of the trust put, as a matter of
course, into his hands. It was more dangerous, Nostromo said, with a laugh and a
curse, than sending a man to get the treasure that people said was guarded by
devils and ghosts in the deep ravines of Azuera. »Señor,« he said, »we must
catch the steamer at sea. We must keep out in the open looking for her till we
have eaten and drunk all that has been put on board here. And if we miss her by
some mischance, we must keep away from the land till we grow weak, and perhaps
mad, and die, and drift dead, until one or another of the steamers of the
Compania comes upon the boat with the two dead men who have saved the treasure.
That, señor, is the only way to save it; for, don't you see? for us to come to
the land anywhere in a hundred miles along this coast with this silver in our
possession is to run the naked breast against the point of a knife. This thing
has been given to me like a deadly disease. If men discover it I am dead, and
you, too, señor, since you would come with me. There is enough silver to make a
whole province rich, let alone a seaboard pueblo inhabited by thieves and
vagabonds. Señor, they would think that heaven itself sent these riches into
their hands, and would cut our throats without hesitation. I would trust no fair
words from the best man around the shores of this wild gulf. Reflect that, even
by giving up the treasure at the first demand, we would not be able to save our
lives. Do you understand this, or must I explain?«
    »No, you needn't explain,« said Decoud, a little listlessly. »I can see it
well enough myself, that the possession of this treasure is very much like a
deadly disease for men situated as we are. But it had to be removed from Sulaco,
and you were the man for the task.«
    »I was; but I cannot believe,« said Nostromo, »that its loss would have
impoverished Don Carlos Gould very much. There is more wealth in the mountain. I
have heard it rolling down the shoots on quiet nights when I used to ride to
Rincon to see a certain girl, after my work at the harbour was done. For years
the rich rocks have been pouring down with a noise like thunder, and the miners
say that there is enough at the heart of the mountain to thunder on for years
and years to come. And yet, the day before yesterday, we have been fighting to
save it from the mob, and to-night I am sent out with it into this darkness,
where there is no wind to get away with; as if it were the last lot of silver on
earth to get bread for the hungry with. Ha! ha! Well, I am going to make it the
most famous and desperate affair of my life - wind or no wind. It shall be
talked about when the little children are grown up and the grown men are old.
Aha! the Monterists must not get hold of it, I am told, whatever happens to
Nostromo the Capataz; and they shall not have it, I tell you, since it has been
tied for safety round Nostromo's neck.«
    »I see it,« murmured Decoud. He saw, indeed, that his companion had his own
peculiar view of this enterprise.
    Nostromo interrupted his reflections upon the way men's qualities are made
use of, without any fundamental knowledge of their nature, by the proposal they
should slip the long oars out and sweep the lighter in the direction of the
Isabels. It wouldn't do for daylight to reveal the treasure floating within a
mile or so of the harbour entrance. The denser the darkness generally, the
smarter were the puffs of wind on which he had reckoned to make his way; but
to-night the gulf, under its poncho of clouds, remained breathless, as if dead
rather than asleep.
    Don Martin's soft hands suffered cruelly, tugging at the thick handle of the
enormous oar. He stuck to it manfully, setting his teeth. He, too, was in the
toils of an imaginative existence, and that strange work of pulling a lighter
seemed to belong naturally to the inception of a new state, acquired an ideal
meaning from his love for Antonia. For all their efforts, the heavily laden
lighter hardly moved. Nostromo could be heard swearing to himself between the
regular splashes of the sweeps. »We are making a crooked path,« he muttered to
himself. »I wish I could see the islands.«
    In his unskilfulness Don Martin over-exerted himself. Now and then a sort of
muscular faintness would run from the tips of his aching fingers through every
fibre of his body, and pass off in a flush of heat. He had fought, talked,
suffered mentally and physically, exerting his mind and body for the last
forty-eight hours without intermission. He had had no rest, very little food, no
pause in the stress of his thoughts and his feelings. Even his love for Antonia,
whence he drew his strength and his inspiration, had reached the point of tragic
tension during their hurried interview by Don José's bedside. And now, suddenly,
he was thrown out of all this into a dark gulf, whose very gloom, silence, and
breathless peace added a torment to the necessity for physical exertion. He
imagined the lighter sinking to the bottom with an extraordinary shudder of
delight. »I am on the verge of delirium,« he thought. He mastered the trembling
of all his limbs, of his breast, the inward trembling of all his body exhausted
of its nervous force.
    »Shall we rest, Capataz?« he proposed in a careless tone. »There are many
hours of night yet before us.«
    »True. It is but a mile or so, I suppose. Rest your arms, señor, if that is
what you mean. You will find no other sort of rest, I can promise you, since you
let yourself be bound to this treasure whose loss would make no poor man poorer.
No, señor; there is no rest till we find a north-bound steamer, or else some
ship finds us drifting about stretched out dead upon the Englishman's silver. Or
rather - no; por Dios! I shall cut down the gunwale with the axe right to the
water's edge before thirst and hunger rob me of my strength. By all the saints
and devils I shall let the sea have the treasure rather than give it up to any
stranger. Since it was the good pleasure of the Caballeros to send me off on
such an errand, they shall learn I am just the man they take me for.«
    Decoud lay on the silver boxes panting. All his active sensations and
feelings from as far back as he could remember seemed to him the maddest of
dreams. Even his passionate devotion to Antonia into which he had worked himself
up out of the depths of his scepticism had lost all appearance of reality. For a
moment he was the prey of an extremely languid but not unpleasant indifference.
    »I am sure they didn't mean you to take such a desperate view of this
affair,« he said.
    »What was it, then? A joke?« snarled the man, who on the pay-sheets of the
O.S.N. Company's establishment in Sulaco was described as »Foreman of the wharf«
against the figure of his wages. »Was it for a joke they woke me up from my
sleep after two days of street fighting to make me stake my life upon a bad
card? Everybody knows, too, that I am not a lucky gambler.«
    »Yes, everybody knows of your good luck with women, Capataz,« Decoud
propitiated his companion in a weary drawl.
    »Look here, señor,« Nostromo went on. »I never even remonstrated about this
affair. Directly I heard what was wanted I saw what a desperate affair it must
be, and I made up my mind to see it out. Every minute was of importance. I had
to wait for you first. Then, when we arrived at the Italia Una, old Giorgio
shouted to me to go for the English doctor. Later on, that poor dying woman
wanted to see me, as you know. Señor, I was reluctant to go. I felt already this
cursed silver growing heavy upon my back, and I was afraid that, knowing herself
to be dying, she would ask me to ride off again for a priest. Father Corbelàn,
who is fearless, would have come at a word; but Father Corbelàn is far away,
safe with the band of Hernandez, and the populace, that would have liked to tear
him to pieces, are much incensed against the priests. Not a single fat padre
would have consented to put his head out of his hiding-place to-night to save a
Christian soul, except, perhaps, under my protection. That was in her mind. I
pretended I did not believe she was going to die. Señor, I refused to fetch a
priest for a dying woman ...«
    Decoud was heard to stir.
    »You did, Capataz!« he exclaimed. His tone changed. »Well, you know - it was
rather fine.«
    »You do not believe in priests, Don Martin? Neither do I. What was the use
of wasting time? But she - she believes in them. The thing sticks in my throat.
She may be dead already, and here we are floating helpless with no wind at all.
Curse on all superstition. She died thinking I deprived her of Paradise, I
suppose. It shall be the most desperate affair of my life.«
    Decoud remained lost in reflection. He tried to analyse the sensations
awake by what he had been told. The voice of the Capataz was heard again:
    »Now, Don Martin, let us take up the sweeps and try to find the Isabels. It
is either that or sinking the lighter if the day overtakes us. We must not
forget that the steamer from Esmeralda with the soldiers may be coming along. We
will pull straight on now. I have discovered a bit of a candle here, and we must
take the risk of a small light to make a course by the boat compass. There is
not enough wind to blow it out - may the curse of Heaven fall upon this blind
gulf!«
    A small flame appeared burning quite straight. It showed fragmentarily the
stout ribs and planking in the hollow, empty part of the lighter. Decoud could
see Nostromo standing up to pull. He saw him as high as the red sash on his
waist, with a gleam of a white-handled revolver and the wooden haft of a long
knife protruding on his left side. Decoud nerved himself for the effort of
rowing. Certainly there was not enough wind to blow the candle out, but its
flame swayed a little to the slow movement of the heavy boat. It was so big that
with their utmost efforts they could not move it quicker than about a mile an
hour. This was sufficient, however, to sweep them amongst the Isabels long
before daylight came. There was a good six hours of darkness before them, and
the distance from the harbour to the Great Isabel did not exceed two miles.
Decoud put this heavy toil to the account of the Capataz's impatience. Sometimes
they paused, and then strained their ears to hear the boat from Esmeralda. In
this perfect quietness a steamer moving would have been heard from far off. As
to seeing anything it was out of the question. They could not see each other.
Even the lighter's sail, which remained set, was invisible. Very often they
rested.
    »Caramba!« said Nostromo, suddenly, during one of those intervals when they
lolled idly against the heavy handles of the sweeps. »What is it? Are you
distressed, Don Martin?«
    Decoud assured him that he was not distressed in the least. Nostromo for a
time kept perfectly still, and then in a whisper invited Martin to come aft.
    With lips touching Decoud's ear he declared his belief that there was
somebody else besides themselves upon the lighter. Twice now he had heard the
sound of stifled sobbing.
    »Señor,« he whispered with awed wonder, »I am certain that there is somebody
weeping in this lighter.«
    Decoud had heard nothing. He expressed his incredulity. However, it was easy
to ascertain the truth of the matter.
    »It is most amazing,« muttered Nostromo. »Could anybody have concealed
himself on board while the lighter was lying alongside the wharf?«
    »And you say it was like sobbing?« asked Decoud, lowering his voice, too.
»If he is weeping, whoever he is he cannot be very dangerous.«
    Clambering over the precious pile in the middle, they crouched low on the
foreside of the mast and groped under the half-deck. Right forward, in the
narrowest part, their hands came upon the limbs of a man, who remained as silent
as death. Too startled themselves to make a sound, they dragged him aft by one
arm and the collar of his coat. He was limp - lifeless.
    The light of the bit of candle fell upon a round, hook-nosed face with black
moustaches and little side-whiskers. He was extremely dirty. A greasy growth of
beard was sprouting on the shaven parts of the cheeks. The thick lips were
slightly parted, but the eyes remained closed. Decoud, to his immense
astonishment, recognized Señor Hirsch, the hide merchant from Esmeralda.
Nostromo, too, had recognized him. And they gazed at each other across the body,
lying with its naked feet higher than its head, in an absurd pretence of sleep,
faintness, or death.
 

                                 Chapter Eight

For a moment, before this extraordinary find, they forgot their own concerns and
sensations. Señor Hirsch's sensations as he lay there must have been those of
extreme terror. For a long time he refused to give a sign of life, till at last
Decoud's objurgations, and, perhaps more, Nostromo's impatient suggestion that
he should be thrown overboard, as he seemed to be dead, induced him to raise one
eyelid first, and then the other.
    It appeared that he had never found a safe opportunity to leave Sulaco. He
lodged with Anzani, the universal storekeeper, on the Plaza Mayor. But when the
riot broke out he had made his escape from his host's house before daylight, and
in such a hurry that he had forgotten to put on his shoes. He had run out
impulsively in his socks, and with his hat in his hand, into the garden of
Anzani's house. Fear gave him the necessary agility to climb over several low
walls, and afterwards he blundered into the overgrown cloisters of the ruined
Franciscan convent in one of the by-streets. He forced himself into the midst of
matted bushes with the recklessness of desperation, and this accounted for his
scratched body and his torn clothing. He lay hidden there all day, his tongue
cleaving to the roof of his mouth with all the intensity of thirst engendered by
heat and fear. Three times different bands of men invaded the place with shouts
and imprecations, looking for Father Corbelàn; but towards the evening, still
lying on his face in the bushes, he thought he would die from the fear of
silence. He was not very clear as to what had induced him to leave the place,
but evidently he had got out and slunk successfully out of town along the
deserted back lanes. He wandered in the darkness near the railway, so maddened
by apprehension that he dared not even approach the fires of the pickets of
Italian workmen guarding the line. He had a vague idea evidently of finding
refuge in the railway yards, but the dogs rushed upon him, barking; men began to
shout; a shot was fired at random. He fled away from the gates. By the merest
accident, as it happened, he took the direction of the O.S.N. Company's offices.
Twice he stumbled upon the bodies of men killed during the day. But everything
living frightened him much more. He crouched, crept, crawled, made dashes,
guided by a sort of animal instinct, keeping away from every light and from
every sound of voices. His idea was to throw himself at the feet of Captain
Mitchell and beg for shelter in the Company's offices. It was all dark there as
he approached on his hands and knees, but suddenly someone on guard challenged
loudly, »Quien vive?« There were more dead men lying about, and he flattened
himself down at once by the side of a cold corpse. He heard a voice saying,
»Here is one of those wounded rascals crawling about. Shall I go and finish
him?« And another voice objected that it was not safe to go out without a
lantern upon such an errand; perhaps it was only some negro Liberal looking for
a chance to stick a knife into the stomach of an honest man. Hirsch didn't stay
to hear any more, but crawling away to the end of the wharf, hid himself amongst
a lot of empty casks. After a while some people came along, talking, and with
glowing cigarettes. He did not stop to ask himself whether they would be likely
to do him any harm, but bolted incontinently along the jetty, saw a lighter
lying moored at the end, and threw himself into it. In his desire to find cover
he crept right forward under the half-deck, and he had remained there more dead
than alive, suffering agonies of hunger and thirst, and almost fainting with
terror, when he heard numerous footsteps and the voices of the Europeans who
came in a body escorting the wagon-load of treasure, pushed along the rails by a
squad of Cargadores. He understood perfectly what was being done from the talk,
but did not disclose his presence from the fear that he would not be allowed to
remain. His only idea at the time, overpowering and masterful, was to get away
from this terrible Sulaco. And now he regretted it very much. He had heard
Nostromo talk to Decoud, and wished himself back on shore. He did not desire to
be involved in any desperate affair - in a situation where one could not run
away. The involuntary groans of his anguished spirit had betrayed him to the
sharp ears of the Capataz.
    They had propped him up in a sitting posture against the side of the
lighter, and he went on with the moaning account of his adventures till his
voice broke, his head fell forward. »Water,« he whispered, with difficulty.
Decoud held one of the cans to his lips. He revived after an extraordinarily
short time, and scrambled up to his feet wildly. Nostromo, in an angry and
threatening voice, ordered him forward. Hirsch was one of those men whom fear
lashes like a whip, and he must have had an appalling idea of the Capataz's
ferocity. He displayed an extraordinary agility in disappearing forward into the
darkness. They heard him getting over the tarpaulin; then there was the sound of
a heavy fall, followed by a weary sigh. Afterwards all was still in the
fore-part of the lighter, as though he had killed himself in his headlong
tumble. Nostromo shouted in a menacing voice -
    »Lie still there! Do not move a limb. If I hear as much as a loud breath
from you I shall come over there and put a bullet through your head.«
    The mere presence of a coward, however passive, brings an element of
treachery into a dangerous situation. Nostromo's nervous impatience passed into
gloomy thoughtfulness. Decoud, in an undertone, as if speaking to himself,
remarked that, after all, this bizarre event made no great difference. He could
not conceive what harm the man could do. At most he would be in the way, like an
inanimate and useless object - like a block of wood, for instance.
    »I would think twice before getting rid of a piece of wood,« said Nostromo,
calmly. »Something may happen unexpectedly where you could make use of it. But
in an affair like ours a man like this ought to be thrown overboard. Even if he
were as brave as a lion we would not want him here. We are not running away for
our lives. Señor, there is no harm in a brave man trying to save himself with
ingenuity and courage; but you have heard his tale, Don Martin. His being here
is a miracle of fear -« Nostromo paused. »There is no room for fear in this
lighter,« he added through his teeth.
    Decoud had no answer to make. It was not a position for argument, for a
display of scruples or feelings. There were a thousand ways in which a
panic-stricken man could make himself dangerous. It was evident that Hirsch
could not be spoken to, reasoned with, or persuaded into a rational line of
conduct. The story of his own escape demonstrated that clearly enough. Decoud
thought that it was a thousand pities the wretch had not died of fright. Nature,
who had made him what he was, seemed to have calculated cruelly how much he
could bear in the way of atrocious anguish without actually expiring. Some
compassion was due to so much terror. Decoud, though imaginative enough for
sympathy, resolved not to interfere with any action that Nostromo would take.
But Nostromo did nothing. And the fate of Señor Hirsch remained suspended in the
darkness of the gulf at the mercy of events which could not be foreseen.
    The Capataz, extending his hand, put out the candle suddenly. It was to
Decoud as if his companion had destroyed, by a single touch, the world of
affairs, of loves, of revolution, where his complacent superiority analyzed
fearlessly all motives and all passions, including his own.
    He gasped a little. Decoud was affected by the novelty of his position.
Intellectually self-confident, he suffered from being deprived of the only
weapon he could use with effect. No intelligence could penetrate the darkness of
the Placid Gulf. There remained only one thing he was certain of, and that was
the overweening vanity of his companion. It was direct, uncomplicated, naïve,
and effectual. Decoud, who had been making use of him, had tried to understand
his man thoroughly. He had discovered a complete singleness of motive behind the
varied manifestations of a consistent character. This was why the man remained
so astonishingly simple in the jealous greatness of his conceit. And now there
was a complication. It was evident that he resented having been given a task in
which there were so many chances of failure. »I wonder,« thought Decoud, »how he
would behave if I were not here.«
    He heard Nostromo mutter again, »No! there is no room for fear on this
lighter. Courage itself does not seem good enough. I have a good eye and a
steady hand; no man can say he ever saw me tired or uncertain what to do; but
por Dios, Don Martin, I have been sent out into this black calm on a business
where neither a good eye, nor a steady hand, nor judgment are any use. ...« He
swore a string of oaths in Spanish and Italian under his breath. »Nothing but
sheer desperation will do for this affair.«
    These words were in strange contrast to the prevailing peace - to this
almost solid stillness of the gulf. A shower fell with an abrupt whispering
sound all round the boat, and Decoud took off his hat, and, letting his head get
wet, felt greatly refreshed. Presently a steady little draught of air caressed
his cheek. The lighter began to move, but the shower distanced it. The drops
ceased to fall upon his head and hands, the whispering died out in the distance.
Nostromo emitted a grunt of satisfaction, and grasping the tiller, chirruped
softly, as sailors do, to encourage the wind. Never for the last three days had
Decoud felt less the need for what the Capataz would call desperation.
    »I fancy I hear another shower on the water,« he observed in a tone of quiet
content. »I hope it will catch us up.«
    Nostromo ceased chirruping at once. »You hear another shower?« he said,
doubtfully. A sort of thinning of the darkness seemed to have taken place, and
Decoud could see now the outline of his companion's figure, and even the sail
came out of the night like a square block of dense snow.
    The sound which Decoud had detected came along the water harshly. Nostromo
recognized that noise partaking of a hiss and a rustle which spreads out on all
sides of a steamer making her way through a smooth water on a quiet night. It
could be nothing else but the captured transport with troops from Esmeralda. She
carried no lights. The noise of her steaming, growing louder every minute, would
stop at times altogether, and then begin again abruptly, and sound startlingly
nearer, as if that invisible vessel, whose position could not be precisely
guessed, were making straight for the lighter. Meantime, that last kept on
sailing slowly and noiselessly before a breeze so faint that it was only by
leaning over the side and feeling the water slip through his fingers that Decoud
convinced himself they were moving at all. His drowsy feeling had departed. He
was glad to know that the lighter was moving. After so much stillness the noise
of the steamer seemed uproarious and distracting. There was a weirdness in not
being able to see her. Suddenly all was still. She had stopped, but so close to
them that the steam, blowing off, sent its rumbling vibration right over their
heads.
    »They are trying to make out where they are,« said Decoud in a whisper.
Again he leaned over and put his fingers into the water. »We are moving quite
smartly,« he informed Nostromo.
    »We seem to be crossing her bows,« said the Capataz in a cautious tone. »But
this is a blind game with death. Moving on is of no use. We mustn't be seen or
heard.«
    His whisper was hoarse with excitement. Of all his face there was nothing
visible but a gleam of white eyeballs. His fingers gripped Decoud's shoulder.
»That is the only way to save this treasure from this steamer full of soldiers.
Any other would have carried lights. But you observe there is not a gleam to
show us where she is.«
    Decoud stood as if paralysed; only his thoughts were wildly active. In the
space of a second he remembered the desolate glance of Antonia as he left her at
the bedside of her father in the gloomy house of Avellanos, with shuttered
windows, but all the doors standing open, and deserted by all the servants
except an old negro at the gate. He remembered the Casa Gould on his last visit
the arguments, the tones of his voice, the impenetrable attitude of Charles,
Mrs. Gould's face so blanched with anxiety and fatigue that her eyes seemed to
have changed colour, appearing nearly black by contrast. Even whole sentences of
the proclamation which he meant to make Barrios issue from his headquarters at
Cayta as soon as he got there passed through his mind; the very germ of the new
State, the Separationist proclamation which he had tried before he left to read
hurriedly to Don José, stretched out on his bed under the fixed gaze of his
daughter. God knows whether the old statesman had understood it; he was unable
to speak, but he had certainly lifted his arm off the coverlet; his hand had
moved as if to make the sign of the cross in the air, a gesture of blessing, of
consent. Decoud had that very draft in his pocket, written in pencil on several
loose sheets of paper, with the heavily-printed heading, Administration of the
San Tomé Silver Mine. Sulaco. Republic of Costaguana. He had written it
furiously, snatching page after page on Charles Gould's table. Mrs. Gould had
looked several times over his shoulder as he wrote; but the Señor Administrator,
standing straddle-legged, would not even glance at it when it was finished. He
had waved it away firmly. It must have been scorn, and not caution, since he
never made a remark about the use of the Administration's paper for such a
compromising document. And that showed his disdain, the true English disdain of
common prudence, as if everything outside the range of their own thoughts and
feelings were unworthy of serious recognition. Decoud had the time in a second
or two to become furiously angry with Charles Gould, and even resentful against
Mrs. Gould, in whose care, tacitly it is true, he had left the safety of
Antonia. Better perish a thousand times than owe your preservation to such
people, he exclaimed mentally. The grip of Nostromo's fingers never removed from
his shoulder, tightening fiercely, recalled him to himself.
    »The darkness is our friend,« the Capataz murmured into his ear. »I am going
to lower the sail, and trust our escape to this black gulf. No eyes could make
us out lying silent with a naked mast. I will do it now, before this steamer
closes still more upon us. The faint creak of a block would betray us and the
San Tomé treasure into the hands of those thieves.«
    He moved about as warily as a cat. Decoud heard no sound; and it was only by
the disappearance of the square blotch of darkness that he knew the yard had
come down, lowered as carefully as if it had been made of glass. Next moment he
heard Nostromo's quiet breathing by his side.
    »You had better not move at all from where you are, Don Martin,« advised the
Capataz, earnestly. »You might stumble or displace something which would make a
noise. The sweeps and the punting poles are lying about. Move not for your life.
Por Dios, Don Martin,« he went on in a keen but friendly whisper, »I am so
desperate that if I didn't know your worship to be a man of courage, capable of
standing stock still whatever happens, I would drive my knife into your heart.«
    A deathlike stillness surrounded the lighter. It was difficult to believe
that there was near a steamer full of men with many pairs of eyes peering from
her bridge for some hint of land in the night. Her steam had ceased blowing off,
and she remained stopped too far off apparently for any other sound to reach the
lighter.
    »Perhaps you would, Capataz,« Decoud began in a whisper. »However, you need
not trouble. There are other things than the fear of your knife to keep my heart
steady. It shall not betray you. Only, have you forgotten -«
    »I spoke to you openly as to a man as desperate as myself,« explained the
Capataz. »The silver must be saved from the Monterists. I told Captain Mitchell
three times that I preferred to go alone. I told Don Carlos Gould, too. It was
in the Casa Gould. They had sent for me. The ladies were there; and when I tried
to explain why I did not wish to have you with me, they promised me, both of
them, great rewards for your safety. A strange way to talk to a man you are
sending out to an almost certain death. Those gentlefolk do not seem to have
sense enough to understand what they are giving one to do. I told them I could
do nothing for you. You would have been safer with the bandit Hernandez. It
would have been possible to ride out of the town with no greater risk than a
chance shot sent after you in the dark. But it was as if they had been deaf. I
had to promise I would wait for you under the harbour gate. I did wait. And now
because you are a brave man you are as safe as the silver. Neither more nor
less.«
    At that moment, as if by way of comment upon Nostromo's words, the invisible
steamer went ahead at half speed only, as could be judged by the leisurely beat
of her propeller. The sound shifted its place markedly, but without coming
nearer. It even grew a little more distant right abeam of the lighter, and then
ceased again.
    »They are trying for a sight of the Isabels,« muttered Nostromo, »in order
to make for the harbour in a straight line and seize the Custom House with the
treasure in it. Have you ever seen the Commandant of Esmeralda, Sotillo? A
handsome fellow, with a soft voice. When I first came here I used to see him in
the Calle talking to the señoritas at the windows of the houses, and showing his
white teeth all the time. But one of my Cargadores, who had been a soldier, told
me that he had once ordered a man to be flayed alive in the remote Campo, where
he was sent recruiting amongst the people of the Estancias. It has never entered
his head that the Compania had a man capable of baffling his game.«
    The murmuring loquacity of the Capataz disturbed Decoud like a hint of
weakness. And yet, talkative resolution may be as genuine as grim silence.
    »Sotillo is not baffled so far,« he said. »Have you forgotten that crazy man
forward?«
    Nostromo had not forgotten Señor Hirsch. He reproached himself bitterly for
not having visited the lighter carefully before leaving the wharf. He reproached
himself for not having stabbed and flung Hirsch overboard at the very moment of
discovery without even looking at his face. That would have been consistent with
the desperate character of the affair. Whatever happened, Sotillo was already
baffled. Even if that wretch, now as silent as death, did anything to betray the
nearness of the lighter, Sotillo - if Sotillo it was in command of the troops on
board - would be still baffled of his plunder.
    »I have an axe in my hand,« Nostromo whispered, wrathfully, »that in three
strokes would cut through the side down to the water's edge. Moreover, each
lighter has a plug in the stern, and I know exactly where it is. I feel it under
the sole of my foot.«
    Decoud recognized the ring of genuine determination in the nervous murmurs,
the vindictive excitement of the famous Capataz. Before the steamer, guided by a
shriek or two (for there could be no more than that, Nostromo said, gnashing his
teeth audibly), could find the lighter there would be plenty of time to sink
this treasure, tied up round his neck.
    The last words he hissed into Decoud's ear. Decoud said nothing. He was
perfectly convinced. The usual characteristic quietness of the man was gone. It
was not equal to the situation as he conceived it. Something deeper, something
unsuspected by everyone, had come to the surface. Decoud, with careful
movements, slipped off his overcoat and divested himself of his boots; he did
not consider himself bound in honour to sink with the treasure. His object was
to get down to Barrios, in Cayta, as the Capataz knew very well; and he, too,
meant, in his own way, to put into that attempt all the desperation of which he
was capable. Nostromo muttered, »True, true! You are a politician, señor. Rejoin
the army, and start another revolution.« He pointed out, however, that there was
a little boat belonging to every lighter fit to carry two men, if not more.
Theirs was towing behind.
    Of that Decoud had not been aware. Of course, it was too dark to see, and it
was only when Nostromo put his hand upon its painter fastened to a cleat in the
stern that he experienced a full measure of relief. The prospect of finding
himself in the water and swimming, overwhelmed by ignorance and darkness,
probably in a circle, till he sank from exhaustion, was revolting. The barren
and cruel futility of such an end intimidated his affectation of careless
pessimism. In comparison to it, the chance of being left floating in a boat,
exposed to thirst, hunger, discovery, imprisonment, execution, presented itself
with an aspect of amenity worth securing even at the cost of some self-contempt.
He did not accept Nostromo's proposal that he should get into the boat at once.
»Something sudden may overwhelm us, señor,« the Capataz remarked promising
faithfully, at the same time, to let go the painter at the moment when the
necessity became manifest.
    But Decoud assured him lightly that he did not mean to take to the boat till
the very last moment, and that then he meant the Capataz to come along, too. The
darkness of the gulf was no longer for him the end of all things. It was part of
a living world since, pervading it, failure and death could be felt at your
elbow. And at the same time it was a shelter. He exulted in its impenetrable
obscurity. »Like a wall, like a wall,« he muttered to himself.
    The only thing which checked his confidence was the thought of Señor Hirsch.
Not to have bound and gagged him seemed to Decoud now the height of improvident
folly. As long as the miserable creature had the power to raise a yell he was a
constant danger. His abject terror was mute now, but there was no saying from
what cause it might suddenly find vent in shrieks.
    This very madness of fear which both Decoud and Nostromo had seen in the
wild and irrational glances, and in the continuous twitchings of his mouth,
protected Señor Hirsch from the cruel necessities of this desperate affair. The
moment of silencing him for ever had passed. As Nostromo remarked, in answer to
Decoud's regrets, it was too late! It could not be done without noise,
especially in the ignorance of the man's exact position. Wherever he had elected
to crouch and tremble, it was too hazardous to go near him. He would begin
probably to yell for mercy. It was much better to leave him quite alone since he
was keeping so still. But to trust to his silence became every moment a greater
strain upon Decoud's composure.
    »I wish, Capataz, you had not let the right moment pass,« he murmured.
    »What! To silence him for ever! I thought it good to hear first how he came
to be here. It was too strange. Who could imagine that it was all an accident?
Afterwards, señor, when I saw you giving him water to drink, I could not do it.
Not after I had seen you holding up the can to his lips as though he were your
brother. Señor, that sort of necessity must not be thought of too long. And yet
it would have been no cruelty to take away from him his wretched life. It is
nothing but fear. Your compassion saved him then, Don Martin, and now it is too
late. It couldn't be done without noise.«
    In the steamer they were keeping a perfect silence, and the stillness was so
profound that Decoud felt as if the slightest sound conceivable must travel
unchecked and audible to the end of the world. What if Hirsch coughed or
sneezed? To feel himself at the mercy of such an idiotic contingency was too
exasperating to be looked upon with irony. Nostromo, too, seemed to be getting
restless. Was it possible, he asked himself, that the steamer, finding the night
too dark altogether, intended to remain stopped where she was till daylight? He
began to think that this, after all, was the real danger. He was afraid that the
darkness, which was his protection, would, in the end, cause his undoing.
    Sotillo, as Nostromo had surmised, was in command on board the transport.
The events of the last forty-eight hours in Sulaco were not known to him;
neither was he aware that the telegraphist in Esmeralda had managed to warn his
colleague in Sulaco. Like a good many officers of the troops garrisoning the
province, Sotillo had been influenced in his adoption of the Ribierist cause by
the belief that it had the enormous wealth of the Gould Concession on its side.
He had been one of the frequenters of the Casa Gould, where he had aired his
Blanco convictions and his ardour for reform before Don José Avellanos, casting
frank, honest glances towards Mrs. Gould and Antonia the while. He was known to
belong to a good family persecuted and impoverished during the tyranny of Guzman
Bento. The opinions he expressed appeared eminently natural and proper in a man
of his parentage and antecedents. And he was not a deceiver; it was perfectly
natural for him to express elevated sentiments while his whole faculties were
taken up with what seemed then a solid and practical notion - the notion that
the husband of Antonia Avellanos would be, naturally, the intimate friend of the
Gould Concession. He even pointed this out to Anzani once, when negotiating the
sixth or seventh small loan in the gloomy, damp apartment with enormous iron
bars, behind the principal shop in the whole row under the Arcades. He hinted to
the universal shopkeeper at the excellent terms he was on with the emancipated
señorita, who was like a sister to the Englishwoman. He would advance one leg
and put his arms akimbo, posing for Anzani's inspection, and fixing him with a
haughty stare.
    »Look, miserable shopkeeper! How can a man like me fail with any woman, let
alone an emancipated girl living in scandalous freedom?« he seemed to say.
    His manner in the Casa Gould was, of course, very different - devoid of all
truculence, and even slightly mournful. Like most of his countrymen, he was
carried away by the sound of fine words, especially if uttered by himself. He
had no convictions of any sort upon anything except as to the irresistible power
of his personal advantages. But that was so firm that even Decoud's appearance
in Sulaco, and his intimacy with the Goulds and the Avellanos, did not disquiet
him. On the contrary, he tried to make friends with that rich Costaguanero from
Europe in the hope of borrowing a large sum by-and-by. The only guiding motive
of his life was to get money for the satisfaction of his expensive tastes, which
he indulged recklessly, having no self-control. He imagined himself a master of
intrigue, but his corruption was as simple as an animal instinct. At times, in
solitude, he had his moments of ferocity, and also on such occasions as, for
instance, when alone in a room with Anzani trying to get a loan.
    He had talked himself into the command of the Esmeralda garrison. That small
seaport had its importance as the station of the main submarine cable connecting
the Occidental Provinces with the outer world, and the junction with it of the
Sulaco branch. Don José Avellanos proposed him, and Barrios, with a rude and
jeering guffaw, had said, »Oh, let Sotillo go. He is a very good man to keep
guard over the cable, and the ladies of Esmeralda ought to have their turn.«
Barrios, an indubitably brave man, had no great opinion of Sotillo.
    It was through the Esmeralda cable alone that the San Tomé mine could be
kept in constant touch with the great financier, whose tacit approval made the
strength of the Ribierist movement. This movement had its adversaries even
there. Sotillo governed Esmeralda with repressive severity till the adverse
course of events upon the distant theatre of civil war forced upon him the
reflection that, after all, the great silver mine was fated to become the spoil
of the victors. But caution was necessary. He began by assuming a dark and
mysterious attitude towards the faithful Ribierist municipality of Esmeralda.
Later on, the information that the commandant was holding assemblies of officers
in the dead of night (which had leaked out somehow) caused those gentlemen to
neglect their civil duties altogether, and remain shut up in their houses.
Suddenly one day all the letters from Sulaco by the overland courier were
carried off by a file of soldiers from the post-office to the Commandancia,
without disguise, concealment, or apology. Sotillo had heard through Cayta of
the final defeat of Ribiera.
    This was the first open sign of the change in his convictions. Presently
notorious democrats, who had been living till then in constant fear of arrest,
leg irons, and even floggings, could be observed going in and out at the great
door of the Commandancia, where the horses of the orderlies doze under their
heavy saddles, while the men, in ragged uniforms and pointed straw hats, lounge
on a bench, with their naked feet stuck out beyond the strip of shade; and a
sentry, in a red baize coat with holes at the elbows, stands at the top of the
steps glaring haughtily at the common people, who uncover their heads to him as
they pass.
    Sotillo's ideas did not soar above the care for his personal safety and the
chance of plundering the town in his charge, but he feared that such a late
adhesion would earn but scant gratitude from the victors. He had believed just a
little too long in the power of the San Tomé mine. The seized correspondence had
confirmed his previous information of a large amount of silver ingots lying in
the Sulaco Custom House. To gain possession of it would be a clear Monterist
move; a sort of service that would have to be rewarded. With the silver in his
hands he could make terms for himself and his soldiers. He was aware neither of
the riots, nor of the President's escape to Sulaco and the close pursuit led by
Montero's brother, the guerrillero. The game seemed in his own hands. The
initial moves were the seizure of the cable telegraph office and the securing of
the Government steamer lying in the narrow creek which is the harbour of
Esmeralda. The last was effected without difficulty by a company of soldiers
swarming with a rush over the gangways as she lay alongside the quay; but the
lieutenant charged with the duty of arresting the telegraphist halted on the way
before the only café in Esmeralda, where he distributed some brandy to his men,
and refreshed himself at the expense of the owner, a known Ribierist. The whole
party became intoxicated, and proceeded on their mission up the street yelling
and firing random shots at the windows. This little festivity, which might have
turned out dangerous to the telegraphist's life, enabled him in the end to send
his warning to Sulaco. The lieutenant, staggering upstairs with a drawn sabre,
was before long kissing him on both cheeks in one of those swift changes of mood
peculiar to a state of drunkenness. He clasped the telegraphist close round the
neck, assuring him that all the officers of the Esmeralda garrison were going to
be made colonels, while tears of happiness streamed down his sodden face. Thus
it came about that the town major, coming along later, found the whole party
sleeping on the stairs and in passages, and the telegraphist (who scorned this
chance of escape) very busy clicking the key of the transmitter. The major led
him away bareheaded, with his hands tied behind his back, but concealed the
truth from Sotillo, who remained in ignorance of the warning despatched to
Sulaco.
    The colonel was not the man to let any sort of darkness stand in the way of
the planned surprise. It appeared to him a dead certainty; his heart was set
upon his object with an ungovernable, childlike impatience. Ever since the
steamer had rounded Punta Mala, to enter the deeper shadow of the gulf, he had
remained on the bridge in a group of officers as excited as himself. Distracted
between the coaxings and menaces of Sotillo and his Staff, the miserable
commander of the steamer kept her moving with as much prudence as they would let
him exercise. Some of them had been drinking heavily, no doubt; but the prospect
of laying hands on so much wealth made them absurdly foolhardy, and, at the same
time, extremely anxious. The old major of the battalion, a stupid, suspicious
man, who had never been afloat in his life, distinguished himself by putting out
suddenly the binnacle light, the only one allowed on board for the necessities
of navigation. He could not understand of what use it could be for finding the
way. To the vehement protestations of the ship's captain, he stamped his foot
and tapped the handle of his sword. »Aha! I have unmasked you,« he cried,
triumphantly. »You are tearing your hair from despair at my acuteness. Am I a
child to believe that a light in that brass box can show you where the harbour
is? I am an old soldier, I am. I can smell a traitor a league off. You wanted
that gleam to betray our approach to your friend the Englishman. A thing like
that show you the way! What a miserable lie! Que picardia! You Sulaco people are
all in the pay of those foreigners. You deserve to be run through the body with
my sword.« Other officers, crowding round, tried to calm his indignation,
repeating persuasively, »No, no! This is an appliance of the mariners, major.
This is no treachery.« The captain of the transport flung himself face downwards
on the bridge, and refused to rise. »Put an end to me at once,« he repeated in a
stifled voice. Sotillo had to interfere.
    The uproar and confusion on the bridge became so great that the helmsman
fled from the wheel. He took refuge in the engine-room, and alarmed the
engineers, who, disregarding the threats of the soldiers set on guard over them,
stopped the engines, protesting that they would rather be shot than run the risk
of being drowned down below.
    This was the first time Nostromo and Decoud heard the steamer stop. After
order had been restored, and the binnacle lamp relighted, she went ahead again,
passing wide of the lighter in her search for the Isabels. The group could not
be made out, and, at the pitiful entreaties of the captain, Sotillo allowed the
engines to be stopped again to wait for one of those periodical lightenings of
darkness caused by the shifting of the cloud canopy spread above the waters of
the gulf.
    Sotillo, on the bridge, muttered from time to time angrily to the captain.
The other, in an apologetic and cringing tone, begged su merced the colonel to
take into consideration the limitations put upon human faculties by the darkness
of the night. Sotillo swelled with rage and impatience. It was the chance of a
lifetime.
    »If your eyes are of no more use to you than this, I shall have them put
out,« he burst out.
    The captain of the steamer made no answer, for just then the mass of the
Great Isabel loomed up darkly after a passing shower, then vanished, as if swept
away by a wave of greater obscurity preceding another downpour. This was enough
for him. In the voice of a man come back to life again, he informed Sotillo that
in an hour he would be alongside the Sulaco wharf. The ship was put then full
speed on the course, and a great bustle of preparation for landing arose among
the soldiers on her deck.
    It was heard distinctly by Decoud and Nostromo. The Capataz understood its
meaning. They had made out the Isabels, and were going on now in a straight line
for Sulaco. He judged that they would pass close; but believed that lying still
like this, with the sail lowered, the lighter could not be seen. »No, not even
if they rubbed sides with us,« he muttered.
    The rain began to fall again; first like a wet mist, then with a heavier
touch, thickening into a smart, perpendicular downpour; and the hiss and thump
of the approaching steamer was coming extremely near. Decoud, with his eyes full
of water, and lowered head, asked himself how long it would be before she drew
past, when unexpectedly he felt a lurch. An inrush of foam broke swishing over
the stern, simultaneously with a crack of timbers and a staggering shock. He had
the impression of an angry hand laying hold of the lighter and dragging it along
to destruction. The shock, of course, had knocked him down, and he found himself
rolling in a lot of water at the bottom of the lighter. A violent churning went
on alongside; a strange and amazed voice cried out something above him in the
night. He heard a piercing shriek for help from Señor Hirsch. He kept his teeth
hard set all the time. It was a collision!
    The steamer had struck the lighter obliquely, heeling her over till she was
half swamped, starting some of her timbers, and swinging her head parallel to
her own course with the force of the blow. The shock of it on board of her was
hardly perceptible. All the violence of that collision was, as usual, felt only
on board the smaller craft. Even Nostromo himself thought that this was perhaps
the end of his desperate adventure. He, too, had been flung away from the long
tiller, which took charge in the lurch. Next moment the steamer would have
passed on, leaving the lighter to sink or swim after having shouldered her thus
out of her way, and without even getting a glimpse of her form, had it not been
that, being deeply laden with stores and the great number of people on board,
her anchor was low enough to hook itself into one of the wire shrouds of the
lighter's mast. For the space of two or three gasping breaths that new rope held
against the sudden strain. It was this that gave Decoud the sensation of the
snatching pull, dragging the lighter away to destruction. The cause of it, of
course, was inexplicable to him. The whole thing was so sudden that he had no
time to think. But all his sensations were perfectly clear; he had kept complete
possession of himself; in fact, he was even pleasantly aware of that calmness at
the very moment of being pitched head first over the transom, to struggle on his
back in a lot of water. Señor Hirsch's shriek he had heard and recognized while
he was regaining his feet, always with that mysterious sensation of being
dragged headlong through the darkness. Not a word, not a cry escaped him; he had
no time to see anything; and following upon the despairing screams for help, the
dragging motion ceased so suddenly that he staggered forward with open arms and
fell against the pile of the treasure boxes. He clung to them instinctively, in
the vague apprehension of being flung about again; and immediately he heard
another lot of shrieks for help, prolonged and despairing, not near him at all,
but unaccountably in the distance, away from the lighter altogether, as if some
spirit in the night were mocking at Señor Hirsch's terror and despair.
    Then all was still - as still as when you wake up in your bed in a dark room
from a bizarre and agitated dream. The lighter rocked slightly; the rain was
still falling. Two groping hands took hold of his bruised sides from behind, and
the Capataz's voice whispered, in his ear, »Silence, for your life! Silence! The
steamer has stopped.«
    Decoud listened. The gulf was dumb. He felt the water nearly up to his
knees. »Are we sinking?« he asked in a faint breath.
    »I don't know,« Nostromo breathed back to him. »Señor, make not the
slightest sound.«
    Hirsch, when ordered forward by Nostromo, had not returned into his first
hiding-place. He had fallen near the mast, and had no strength to rise;
moreover, he feared to move. He had given himself up for dead, but not on any
rational grounds. It was simply a cruel and terrifying feeling. Whenever he
tried to think what would become of him his teeth would start chattering
violently. He was too absorbed in the utter misery of his fear to take notice of
anything.
    Though he was stifling under the lighter's sail which Nostromo had
unwittingly lowered on top of him, he did not even dare to put out his head till
the very moment of the steamer striking. Then, indeed, he leaped right out,
spurred on to new miracles of bodily vigour by this new shape of danger. The
inrush of water when the lighter heeled over unsealed his lips. His shriek,
»Save me!« was the first distinct warning of the collision for the people on
board the steamer. Next moment the wire shroud parted, and the released anchor
swept over the lighter's forecastle. It came against the breast of Señor Hirsch,
who simply seized hold of it, without in the least knowing what it was, but
curling his arms and legs upon the part above the fluke with an invincible,
unreasonable tenacity. The lighter yawed off wide, and the steamer, moving on,
carried him away, clinging hard, and shouting for help. It was some time,
however, after the steamer had stopped that his position was discovered. His
sustained yelping for help seemed to come from somebody swimming in the water.
At last a couple of men went over the bows and hauled him on board. He was
carried straight off to Sotillo on the bridge. His examination confirmed the
impression that some craft had been run over and sunk, but it was impracticable
on such a dark night to look for the positive proof of floating wreckage.
Sotillo was more anxious than ever now to enter the harbour without loss of
time; the idea that he had destroyed the principal object of his expedition was
too intolerable to be accepted. This feeling made the story he had heard appear
the more incredible. Señor Hirsch, after being beaten a little for telling lies,
was thrust into the chart-room. But he was beaten only a little. His tale had
taken the heart out of Sotillo's Staff, though they all repeated round their
chief, »Impossible! impossible!« with the exception of the old major, who
triumphed gloomily.
    »I told you; I told you,« he mumbled. »I could smell some treachery, some
diableria a league off.«
    Meantime, the steamer had kept on her way towards Sulaco, where only the
truth of that matter could be ascertained. Decoud and Nostromo heard the loud
churning of her propeller diminish and die out; and then, with no useless words,
busied themselves in making for the Isabels. The last shower had brought with it
a gentle but steady breeze. The danger was not over yet, and there was no time
for talk. The lighter was leaking like a sieve. They splashed in the water at
every step. The Capataz put into Decoud's hands the handle of the pump which was
fitted at the side aft, and at once, without question or remark, Decoud began to
pump in utter forgetfulness of every desire but that of keeping the treasure
afloat. Nostromo hoisted the sail, flew back to the tiller, pulled at the sheet
like mad. The short flare of a match (they had been kept dry in a tight tin box,
though the man himself was completely wet), the vivid flare of a match,
disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box
of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was,
and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the
high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep
and overgrown ravine.
    Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a
second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly
alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in
common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly
but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their
desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had
discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would
not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their
differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute
prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of
common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure,
involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to
say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which
they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers.
    There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made
the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague
gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the
cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself
in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn,
undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide
box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the
caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth
trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst
the loose stones.
    A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone,
exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and
they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and
their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and
their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense.
    »Yes,« Nostromo repeated, »I never forget a place I have carefully looked at
once.« He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely
life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence
of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of
secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future
conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the
great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a
partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had
subsided.
    »You never know what may be of use,« he pursued with his usual quietness of
tone and manner. »I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of
land.«
    »A misanthropic sort of occupation,« muttered Decoud, viciously. »You had no
money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your
usual haunts, Capataz.«
    »E vero!« exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue
by so much perspicacity. »I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst
those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the
Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros
amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to
those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I
wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say.
They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful
information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that
everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that.
On that particular Sunday, señor, she scolded so that I went out of the house
swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my
hammock and my chest of clothes. Señor, there is nothing more exasperating than
to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not
a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled
myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me
spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your
feet is cool and sweet and good, señor, both before and after a smoke.« He was
silent for a while, then added reflectively, »That was the first Sunday after I
brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains
from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass - and in the coach, too! No coach
had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, señor, till I
brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes,
pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as
people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me.
But my wages were not due till the end of the month.«
    He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the
brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the
bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens
in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been
frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning
though there were no signs of daylight as yet.
    The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly,
half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a
black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had
carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening
of the ravine.
    There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from
Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on
board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on
their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be
left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull
out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the
islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the
ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was
possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port
altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the
time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no
steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his
chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging
over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter
leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the
harbour.
    He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades
which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships.
By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud
could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had
deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It
would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the
footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes.
    »Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?«
Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. »Nobody
is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as
long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country
are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship.
All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Señor,
if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you,
do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where
they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain.
And, señor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the
officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone
is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man.
And always remember, señor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that
this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its
side, señor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep
its value for ever. ... An incorruptible metal,« he repeated, as if the idea had
given him a profound pleasure.
    »As some men are said to be,« Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the
Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went
on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible
in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that
this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of
egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue.
    Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the
bucket with a clatter into the lighter.
    »Have you any message?« he asked in a lowered voice. »Remember, I shall be
asked questions.«
    »You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in
town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You
understand?«
    »Si, señor. ... For the ladies.«
    »Yes, yes,« said Decoud, hastily. »Your wonderful reputation will make them
attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am
looking forward,« he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself
to which his complex nature was subject, »I am looking forward to a glorious and
successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious
and successful when you speak to the señorita. Your own mission is accomplished
gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine.
Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of
it.«
    Nostromo detected the ironic tone. »I dare say, Señor Don Martin,« he said,
moodily. »There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign
signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But
as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it
in greater safety if you had not been with me at all.«
    An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. »Shall I go back
with you to Sulaco?« he asked in an angry tone.
    »Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?« retorted Nostromo,
contemptuously. »It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come,
señor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate
of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my
knowledge? I wanted no one with me, señor.«
    »You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me,« Decoud almost
shouted. »You would have gone to the bottom with her.«
    »Yes,« uttered Nostromo, slowly; »alone.«
    Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have
preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man
was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo
cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found
himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a
human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly
distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated.
    »What do you think has become of Hirsch?« he shouted.
    »Knocked overboard and drowned,« cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of
the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. »Keep close in the ravine,
señor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two.«
    A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It
filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back
to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the
vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the
uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw
nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall.
    Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily
on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the
island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground
upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly
to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel
lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which
he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen to-morrow in Sulaco.
To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far,
Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores
had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House
store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made,
and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left
Sulaco, and who it was that took it out.
    Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this
thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and
checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise
suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He
himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what
they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to
look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table,
with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges
noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once.
    He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal
of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and,
letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening
the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a
little iron ballast - enough to make her go down when full of water. When he
stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost
inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour
entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was
nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the
earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar
fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through
after so many sleepless nights.
    With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the
plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water
welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There,
upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When
he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash.
    At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the
mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark
wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if
jerked under, and then struck out for the shore.
 

                           Part Third: The Lighthouse

                                  Chapter One

Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the
darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the
coming of the Monterist régime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains,
as well as from the sea.
    This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted
action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the
newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the
calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell
said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the
wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway
staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the
railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of
the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted
themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous three days of Sulaco. In a
great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence
rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had
pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the
cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that
the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been
uniformly bad from the first.
    Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat
marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of
material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions.
    Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their
penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of
the house, made the letters of the inscription, Albergo d'Italia Una, leap out
black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze.
Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed
heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him
familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them
wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they
tramped on, following the line of rails.
    »Withdrawing your people from the harbour?« said the doctor, addressing
himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould
so far in his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand
on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the
workmen cross the road.
    »As quick as I can. We are not a political faction,« answered the engineer,
meaningly. »And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the
railway. You approve me, Gould?«
    »Absolutely,« said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the
dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door.
    With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the
engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either.
Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great
accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property,
but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit
of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of
the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying
about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a
white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club.
    He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy
all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to
hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the
intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the
victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time
now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Señor
Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two
deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off
to meet the great man. »I have misled them a little as to the time,« the chief
engineer confessed. »However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the
morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the
losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they
would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either
to oppose him or welcome him - there's no saying which. There was Gould's
silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be
thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without
compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves.«
    »Costaguana for the Costaguaneros,« interjected the doctor, sardonically.
»It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance,
murder, and rapine - those sons of the country.«
    »Well, I am one of them,« Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, »and I must
be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on,
doctor?«
    »Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with
her.«
    Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor
indoors.
    »That man is calmness personified,« he said, appreciatively, dropping on a
bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across
the doorway. »He must be extremely sure of himself.«
    »If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing,« said the doctor.
He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the
palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. »It is the last thing a
man ought to be sure of.« The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a
long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by
the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an
exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating
upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he
protested.
    »I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However -«
    He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort
of paradox; in fact, Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His
outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's
drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his
intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the
pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in
self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of
some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years
before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer
of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been
so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator.
    Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the
innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is
lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and
troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he
had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost
unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great
rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written
nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of
the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about
Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of
the sea.
    It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the
arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Doña Emilia had taken up the
mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence
he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In
years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in
Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as
the medical officer of the San Tomé mine he became a recognized personality. He
was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and
such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of
judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some
account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace
and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great
Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators.
Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great
Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana
that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the
Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most
distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that
accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class
like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed
kinsmen had been punished with death. Don José Avellanos was perhaps the only
one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had
suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous,
jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every
allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the
administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners,
and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the
pale.
    It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had
lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come
to look upon the Albergo d'Italia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of
his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family
conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of
workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino
upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe,
soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a
battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and
brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty.
    »Poor old chap!« he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa.
»He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry.«
    »He's quite alone up there,« grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his
heavy head towards the narrow staircase. »Every living soul has cleared out, and
Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out
here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but
she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to
the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without
me in the town.«
    »I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything
happens to-night at the harbour,« declared the engineer-in-chief. »He must not
be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once.
Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that
man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face I can't imagine.«
    »He'll no doubt begin by shooting some of them to get over the first
awkwardness,« said the doctor. »Nothing in this country serves better your
military man who has changed sides than a few summary executions.« He spoke with
a gloomy positiveness that left no room for protest. The engineer-in-chief did
not attempt any. He simply nodded several times regretfully, then said -
    »I think we shall be able to mount you in the morning, doctor. Our peons
have recovered some of our stampeded horses. By riding hard and taking a wide
circuit by Los Hatos and along the edge of the forest, clear of Rincon
altogether, you may hope to reach the San Tomé bridge without being interfered
with. The mine is just now, to my mind, the safest place for anybody at all
compromised. I only wish the railway was as difficult to touch.«
    »Am I compromised?« Doctor Monygham brought out slowly after a short
silence.
    »The whole Gould Concession is compromised. I could not have remained for
ever outside the political life of the country - if those convulsions may be
called life. The thing is - can it be touched? The moment was bound to come when
neutrality would become impossible, and Charles Gould understood this well. I
believe he is prepared for every extremity. A man of his sort has never
contemplated remaining indefinitely at the mercy of ignorance and corruption. It
was like being a prisoner in a cavern of banditti with the price of your ransom
in your pocket, and buying your life from day to day. Your mere safety, not your
liberty, mind, doctor. I know what I am talking about. The image at which you
shrug your shoulders is perfectly correct, especially if you conceive such a
prisoner endowed with the power of replenishing his pocket by means as remote
from the faculties of his captors as if they were magic. You must have
understood that as well as I do, doctor. He was in the position of the goose
with the golden eggs. I broached this matter to him as far back as Sir John's
visit here. The prisoner of stupid and greedy banditti is always at the mercy of
the first imbecile ruffian, who may blow out his brains in a fit of temper or
for some prospect of an immediate big haul. The tale of killing the goose with
the golden eggs has not been evolved for nothing out of the wisdom of mankind.
It is a story that will never grow old. That is why Charles Gould in his deep,
dumb way has countenanced the Ribierist Mandate, the first public act that
promised him safety on other than venal grounds. Ribierism has failed, as
everything merely rational fails in this country. But Gould remains logical in
wishing to save this big lot of silver. Decoud's plan of a counter-revolution
may be practicable or not, it may have a chance, or it may not have a chance.
With all my experience of this revolutionary continent, I can hardly yet look at
their methods seriously. Decoud has been reading to us his draft of a
proclamation, and talking very well for two hours about his plan of action. He
had arguments which should have appeared solid enough if we, members of old,
stable political and national organizations, were not startled by the mere idea
of a new State evolved like this out of the head of a scoffing young man fleeing
for his life, with a proclamation in his pocket, to a rough, jeering, half-bred
swashbuckler, who in this part of the world is called a general. It sounds like
a comic fairy tale - and behold, it may come off; because it is true to the very
spirit of the country.«
    »Is the silver gone off, then?« asked the doctor, moodily.
    The chief engineer pulled out his watch. »By Captain Mitchell's reckoning -
and he ought to know - it has been gone long enough now to be some three or four
miles outside the harbour; and, as Mitchell says, Nostromo is the sort of seaman
to make the best of his opportunities.« Here the doctor grunted so heavily that
the other changed his tone.
    »You have a poor opinion of that move, doctor? But why? Charles Gould has
got to play his game out, though he is not the man to formulate his conduct even
to himself, perhaps, let alone to others. It may be that the game has been
partly suggested to him by Holroyd; but it accords with his character, too; and
that is why it has been so successful. Haven't they come to calling him El Rey
de Sulaco in Sta. Marta? A nickname may be the best record of a success. That's
what I call putting the face of a joke upon the body of a truth. My dear sir,
when I first arrived in Sta. Marta I was struck by the way all those
journalists, demagogues, members of Congress, and all those generals and judges
cringed before a sleepy-eyed advocate without practice simply because he was the
plenipotentiary of the Gould Concession. Sir John when he came out was
impressed, too.«
    »A new State, with that plump dandy, Decoud, for the first President,« mused
Dr. Monygham, nursing his cheek and swinging his legs all the time.
    »Upon my word, and why not?« the chief engineer retorted in an unexpectedly
earnest and confidential voice. It was as if something subtle in the air of
Costaguana had inoculated him with the local faith in pronunciamientos. All at
once he began to talk, like an expert revolutionist, of the instrument ready to
hand in the intact army at Cayta, which could be brought back in a few days to
Sulaco if only Decoud managed to make his way at once down the coast. For the
military chief there was Barrios, who had nothing but a bullet to expect from
Montero, his former professional rival and bitter enemy. Barrios's concurrence
was assured. As to his army, it had nothing to expect from Montero either; not
even a month's pay. From that point of view the existence of the treasure was of
enormous importance. The mere knowledge that it had been saved from the
Monterists would be a strong inducement for the Cayta troops to embrace the
cause of the new State.
    The doctor turned round and contemplated his companion for some time.
    »This Decoud, I see, is a persuasive young beggar,« he remarked at last.
»And pray is it for this, then, that Charles Gould has let the whole lot of
ingots go out to sea in charge of that Nostromo?«
    »Charles Gould,« said the engineer-in-chief, »has said no more about his
motive than usual. You know, he doesn't't talk. But we all here know his motive,
and he has only one - the safety of the San Tomé mine with the preservation of
the Gould Concession in the spirit of his compact with Holroyd. Holroyd is
another uncommon man. They understand each other's imaginative side. One is
thirty, the other nearly sixty, and they have been made for each other. To be a
millionaire, and such a millionaire as Holroyd, is like being eternally young.
The audacity of youth reckons upon what it fancies an unlimited time at its
disposal; but a millionaire has unlimited means in his hand - which is better.
One's time on earth is an uncertain quantity, but about the long reach of
millions there is no doubt. The introduction of a pure form of Christianity into
this continent is a dream for a youthful enthusiast, and I have been trying to
explain to you why Holroyd at fifty-eight is like a man on the threshold of
life, and better, too. He's not a missionary, but the San Tomé mine holds just
that for him. I assure you, in sober truth, that he could not manage to keep
this out of a strictly business conference upon the finances of Costaguana he
had with Sir John a couple of years ago. Sir John mentioned it with amazement in
a letter he wrote to me here, from San Francisco, when on his way home. Upon my
word, doctor, things seem to be worth nothing by what they are in themselves. I
begin to believe that the only solid thing about them is the spiritual value
which everyone discovers in his own form of activity -«
    »Bah!« interrupted the doctor, without stopping for an instant the idle
swinging movement of his legs. »Self-flattery. Food for that vanity which makes
the world go round. Meantime, what do you think is going to happen to the
treasure floating about the gulf with the great Capataz and the great
politician?«
    »Why are you uneasy about it, doctor?«
    »I uneasy! And what the devil is it to me? I put no spiritual value into my
desires, or my opinions, or my actions. They have not enough vastness to give me
room for self-flattery. Look, for instance, I should certainly have liked to
ease the last moments of that poor woman. And I can't. It's impossible. Have you
met the impossible face to face - or have you, the Napoleon of railways, no such
word in your dictionary?«
    »Is she bound to have a very bad time of it?« asked the chief engineer, with
humane concern.
    Slow, heavy footsteps moved across the planks above the heavy hard wood
beams of the kitchen. Then down the narrow opening of the staircase made in the
thickness of the wall, and narrow enough to be defended by one man against
twenty enemies, came the murmur of two voices, one faint and broken, the other
deep and gentle answering it, and in its graver tone covering the weaker sound.
    The two men remained still and silent till the murmurs ceased, then the
doctor shrugged his shoulders and muttered -
    »Yes, she's bound to. And I could do nothing if I went up now.«
    A long period of silence above and below ensued.
    »I fancy,« began the engineer, in a subdued voice, »that you mistrust
Captain Mitchell's Capataz.«
    »Mistrust him!« muttered the doctor through his teeth. »I believe him
capable of anything - even of the most absurd fidelity. I am the last person he
spoke to before he left the wharf, you know. The poor woman up there wanted to
see him, and I let him go up to her. The dying must not be contradicted, you
know. She seemed then fairly calm and resigned, but the scoundrel in those ten
minutes or so has done or said something which seems to have driven her into
despair. You know,« went on the doctor, hesitatingly, »women are so very
unaccountable in every position, and at all times of life, that I thought
sometimes she was in a way, don't you see? in love with him - the Capataz. The
rascal has his own charm indubitably, or he would not have made the conquest of
all the populace of the town. No, no, I am not absurd. I may have given a wrong
name to some strong sentiment for him on her part, to an unreasonable and simple
attitude a woman is apt to take up emotionally towards a man. She used to abuse
him to me frequently, which, of course, is not inconsistent with my idea. Not at
all. It looked to me as if she were always thinking of him. He was something
important in her life. You know, I have seen a lot of those people. Whenever I
came down from the mine Mrs. Gould used to ask me to keep my eye on them. She
likes Italians; she has lived a long time in Italy, I believe, and she took a
special fancy to that old Garibaldino. A remarkable chap enough. A rugged and
dreamy character, living in the republicanism of his young days as if in a
cloud. He has encouraged much of the Capataz's confounded nonsense - the
high-strung, exalted old beggar!«
    »What sort of nonsense?« wondered the chief engineer. »I found the Capataz
always a very shrewd and sensible fellow, absolutely fearless, and remarkably
useful. A perfect handy man. Sir John was greatly impressed by his
resourcefulness and attention when he made that overland journey from Sta.
Marta. Later on, as you might have heard, he rendered us a service by disclosing
to the then chief of police the presence in the town of some professional
thieves, who came from a distance to wreck and rob our monthly pay train. He has
certainly organized the lighterage service of the harbour for the O.S.N. Company
with great ability. He knows how to make himself obeyed, foreigner though he is.
It is true that the Cargadores are strangers here, too, for the most part -
immigrants, Isleños.«
    »His prestige is his fortune,« muttered the doctor, sourly.
    »The man has proved his trustworthiness up to the hilt on innumerable
occasions and in all sorts of ways,« argued the engineer. »When this question of
the silver arose, Captain Mitchell naturally was very warmly of the opinion that
his Capataz was the only man fit for the trust. As a sailor, of course, I
suppose so. But as a man, don't you know, Gould, Decoud, and myself judged that
it didn't matter in the least who went. Any boatman would have done just as
well. Pray, what could a thief do with such a lot of ingots? If he ran off with
them he would have in the end to land somewhere, and how could he conceal his
cargo from the knowledge of the people ashore? We dismissed that consideration
from our minds. Moreover, Decoud was going. There have been occasions when the
Capataz has been more implicitly trusted.«
    »He took a slightly different view,« the doctor said. »I heard him declare
in this very room that it would be the most desperate affair of his life. He
made a sort of verbal will here in my hearing, appointing old Viola his
executor; and, by Jove! do you know, he - he's not grown rich by his fidelity to
you good people of the railway and the harbour. I suppose he obtains some - how
do you say that? - some spiritual value for his labours, or else I don't know
why the devil he should be faithful to you, Gould, Mitchell, or anybody else. He
knows this country well. He knows, for instance, that Gamacho, the Deputy from
Javira, has been nothing else but a tramposo of the commonest sort, a petty
pedlar of the Campo, till he managed to get enough goods on credit from Anzani
to open a little store in the wilds, and got himself elected by the drunken
mozos that hang about the Estancias and the poorest sort of rancheros who were
in his debt. And Gamacho, who to-morrow will be probably one of our high
officials, is a stranger, too - an Isleño. He might have been a Cargador on the
O.S.N. wharf had he not (the posadero of Rincon is ready to swear it) murdered a
pedlar in the woods and stolen his pack to begin life on. And do you think that
Gamacho, then, would have ever become a hero with the democracy of this place,
like our Capataz? Of course not. He isn't half the man. No; decidedly, I think
that Nostromo is a fool.«
    The doctor's talk was distasteful to the builder of railways. »It is
impossible to argue that point,« he said, philosophically. »Each man has his
gifts. You should have heard Gamacho haranguing his friends in the street. He
has a howling voice, and he shouted like mad, lifting his clenched fist right
above his head, and throwing his body half out of the window. At every pause the
rabble below yelled, Down with the Oligarchs! Viva la Libertad! Fuentes inside
looked extremely miserable. You know, he is the brother of Jorge Fuentes, who
has been Minister of the Interior for six months or so, some few years back. Of
course, he has no conscience; but he is a man of birth and education - at one
time the director of the Customs of Cayta. That idiot-brute Gamacho fastened
himself upon him with his following of the lowest rabble. His sickly fear of
that ruffian was the most rejoicing sight imaginable.«
    He got up and went to the door to look out towards the harbour. »All quiet,«
he said; »I wonder if Sotillo really means to turn up here?«
 

                                  Chapter Two

Captain Mitchell, pacing the wharf, was asking himself the same question. There
was always the doubt whether the warning of the Esmeralda telegraphist - a
fragmentary and interrupted message - had been properly understood. However, the
good man had made up his mind not to go to bed till daylight, if even then. He
imagined himself to have rendered an enormous service to Charles Gould. When he
thought of the saved silver he rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. In
his simple way he was proud at being a party to this extremely clever expedient.
It was he who had given it a practical shape by suggesting the possibility of
intercepting at sea the north-bound steamer. And it was advantageous to his
Company, too, which would have lost a valuable freight if the treasure had been
left ashore to be confiscated. The pleasure of disappointing the Monterists was
also very great. Authoritative by temperament and the long habit of command,
Captain Mitchell was no democrat. He even went so far as to profess a contempt
for parliamentarism itself. »His Excellency Don Vincente Ribiera,« he used to
say, »whom I and that fellow of mine, Nostromo, had the honour, sir, and the
pleasure of saving from a cruel death, deferred too much to his Congress. It was
a mistake - a distinct mistake, sir.«
    The guileless old seaman superintending the O.S.N. service imagined that the
last three days had exhausted every startling surprise the political life of
Costaguana could offer. He used to confess afterwards that the events which
followed surpassed his imagination. To begin with, Sulaco (because of the
seizure of the cables and the disorganization of the steam service) remained for
a whole fortnight cut off from the rest of the world like a besieged city.
    »One would not have believed it possible; but so it was, sir. A full
fortnight.«
    The account of the extraordinary things that happened during that time, and
the powerful emotions he experienced, acquired a comic impressiveness from the
pompous manner of his personal narrative. He opened it always by assuring his
hearer that he was in the thick of things from first to last. Then he would
begin by describing the getting away of the silver, and his natural anxiety lest
his fellow in charge of the lighter should make some mistake. Apart from the
loss of so much precious metal, the life of Señor Martin Decoud, an agreeable,
wealthy, and well-informed young gentleman, would have been jeopardized through
his falling into the hands of his political enemies. Captain Mitchell also
admitted that in his solitary vigil on the wharf he had felt a certain measure
of concern for the future of the whole country.
    »A feeling, sir,« he explained, »perfectly comprehensible in a man properly
grateful for the many kindnesses received from the best families of merchants
and other native gentlemen of independent means, who, barely saved by us from
the excesses of the mob, seemed, to my mind's eye, destined to become the prey
in person and fortune of the native soldiery, which, as is well known, behave
with regrettable barbarity to the inhabitants during their civil commotions. And
then, sir, there were the Goulds, for both of whom, man and wife, I could not
but entertain the warmest feelings deserved by their hospitality and kindness. I
felt, too, the dangers of the gentlemen of the Amarilla Club, who had made me
honorary member, and had treated me with uniform regard and civility, both in my
capacity of Consular Agent and as Superintendent of an important Steam Service.
Miss Antonia Avellanos, the most beautiful and accomplished young lady whom it
had ever been my privilege to speak to, was not a little in my mind, I confess.
How the interests of my Company would be affected by the impending change of
officials claimed a large share of my attention, too. In short, sir, I was
extremely anxious and very tired, as you may suppose, by the exciting and
memorable events in which I had taken my little part. The Company's building
containing my residence was within five minutes' walk, with the attraction of
some supper and of my hammock (I always take my nightly rest in a hammock, as
the most suitable to the climate); but somehow, sir, though evidently I could do
nothing for any one by remaining about, I could not tear myself away from that
wharf, where the fatigue made me stumble painfully at times. The night was
excessively dark - the darkest I remember in my life; so that I began to think
that the arrival of the transport from Esmeralda could not possibly take place
before daylight, owing to the difficulty of navigating the gulf. The mosquitoes
bit like fury. We have been infested here with mosquitoes before the late
improvements; a peculiar harbour brand, sir, renowned for its ferocity. They
were like a cloud about my head, and I shouldn't wonder that but for their
attacks I would have dozed off as I walked up and down, and got a heavy fall. I
kept on smoking cigar after cigar, more to protect myself from being eaten up
alive than from any real relish for the weed. Then, sir, when perhaps for the
twentieth time I was approaching my watch to the lighted end in order to see the
time, and observing with surprise that it wanted yet ten minutes to midnight, I
heard the splash of a ship's propeller - an unmistakable sound to a sailor's ear
on such a calm night. It was faint indeed, because they were advancing with
precaution and dead slow, both on account of the darkness and from their desire
of not revealing too soon their presence: a very unnecessary care, because, I
verily believe, in all the enormous extent of this harbour I was the only living
soul about. Even the usual staff of watchmen and others had been absent from
their posts for several nights owing to the disturbances. I stood stock still,
after dropping and stamping out my cigar - a circumstance highly agreeable, I
should think, to the mosquitoes, if I may judge from the state of my face next
morning. But that was a trifling inconvenience in comparison with the brutal
proceedings I became victim of on the part of Sotillo. Something utterly
inconceivable, sir; more like the proceedings of a maniac than the action of a
sane man, however lost to all sense of honour and decency. But Sotillo was
furious at the failure of his thievish scheme.«
    In this Captain Mitchell was right. Sotillo was indeed infuriated. Captain
Mitchell, however, had not been arrested at once; a vivid curiosity induced him
to remain on the wharf (which is nearly four hundred feet long) to see, or
rather hear, the whole process of disembarkation. Concealed by the railway truck
used for the silver, which had been run back afterwards to the shore end of the
jetty, Captain Mitchell saw the small detachment thrown forward, pass by, taking
different directions upon the plain. Meantime, the troops were being landed and
formed into a column, whose head crept up gradually so close to him that he made
it out, barring nearly the whole width of the wharf, only a very few yards from
him. Then the low, shuffling, murmuring, clinking sounds ceased, and the whole
mass remained for about an hour motionless and silent, awaiting the return of
the scouts. On land nothing was to be heard except the deep baying of the
mastiffs at the railway yards, answered by the faint barking of the curs
infesting the outer limits of the town. A detached knot of dark shapes stood in
front of the head of the column.
    Presently the picket at the end of the wharf began to challenge in
undertones single figures approaching from the plain. Those messengers sent back
from the scouting parties flung to their comrades brief sentences and passed on
rapidly, becoming lost in the great motionless mass, to make their report to the
Staff. It occurred to Captain Mitchell that his position could become
disagreeable and perhaps dangerous, when suddenly, at the head of the jetty,
there was a shout of command, a bugle call, followed by a stir and a rattling of
arms, and a murmuring noise that ran right up the column. Near by a loud voice
directed hurriedly, »Push that railway car out of the way!« At the rush of bare
feet to execute the order Captain Mitchell skipped back a pace or two; the car,
suddenly impelled by many hands, flew away from him along the rails, and before
he knew what had happened he found himself surrounded and seized by his arms and
the collar of his coat.
    »We have caught a man hiding here, mi teniente!« cried one of his captors.
    »Hold him on one side till the rearguard comes along,« answered the voice.
The whole column streamed past Captain Mitchell at a run, the thundering noise
of their feet dying away suddenly on the shore. His captors held him tightly,
disregarding his declaration that he was an Englishman and his loud demands to
be taken at once before their commanding officer. Finally he lapsed into
dignified silence. With a hollow rumble of wheels on the planks a couple of
field guns, dragged by hand, rolled by. Then, after a small body of men had
marched past escorting four or five figures which walked in advance, with a
jingle of steel scabbards, he felt a tug at his arms, and was ordered to come
along. During the passage from the wharf to the Custom House it is to be feared
that Captain Mitchell was subjected to certain indignities at the hands of the
soldiers - such as jerks, thumps on the neck, forcible application of the butt
of a rifle to the small of his back. Their ideas of speed were not in accord
with his notion of his dignity. He became flustered, flushed, and helpless. It
was as if the world were coming to an end.
    The long building was surrounded by troops, which were already piling arms
by companies and preparing to pass the night lying on the ground in their
ponchos with their sacks under their heads. Corporals moved with swinging
lanterns posting sentries all round the walls wherever there was a door or an
opening. Sotillo was taking his measures to protect his conquest as if it had
indeed contained the treasure. His desire to make his fortune at one audacious
stroke of genius had overmastered his reasoning faculties. He would not believe
in the possibility of failure; the mere hint of such a thing made his brain reel
with rage. Every circumstance pointing to it appeared incredible. The statement
of Hirsch, which was so absolutely fatal to his hopes, could by no means be
admitted. It is true, too, that Hirsch's story had been told so incoherently,
with such excessive signs of distraction, that it really looked improbable. It
was extremely difficult, as the saying is, to make head or tail of it. On the
bridge of the steamer, directly after his rescue, Sotillo and his officers, in
their impatience and excitement, would not give the wretched man time to collect
such few wits as remained to him. He ought to have been quieted, soothed, and
reassured, whereas he had been roughly handled, cuffed, shaken, and addressed in
menacing tones. His struggles, his wriggles, his attempts to get down on his
knees, followed by the most violent efforts to break away, as if he meant
incontinently to jump overboard, his shrieks and shrinkings and cowering wild
glances had filled them first with amazement, then with a doubt of his
genuineness, as men are wont to suspect the sincerity of every great passion.
His Spanish, too, became so mixed up with German that the better half of his
statements remained incomprehensible. He tried to propitiate them by calling
them hochwohlgeboren herren, which in itself sounded suspicious. When admonished
sternly not to trifle he repeated his entreaties and protestations of loyalty
and innocence again in German, obstinately, because he was not aware in what
language he was speaking. His identity, of course, was perfectly known as an
inhabitant of Esmeralda, but this made the matter no clearer. As he kept on
forgetting Decoud's name, mixing him up with several other people he had seen in
the Casa Gould, it looked as if they all had been in the lighter together; and
for a moment Sotillo thought that he had drowned every prominent Ribierist of
Sulaco. The improbability of such a thing threw a doubt upon the whole
statement. Hirsch was either mad or playing a part - pretending fear and
distraction on the spur of the moment to cover the truth. Sotillo's rapacity,
excited to the highest pitch by the prospect of an immense booty, could believe
in nothing adverse. This Jew might have been very much frightened by the
accident, but he knew where the silver was concealed, and had invented this
story, with his Jewish cunning, to put him entirely off the track as to what had
been done.
    Sotillo had taken up his quarters on the upper floor in a vast apartment
with heavy black beams. But there was no ceiling, and the eye lost itself in the
darkness under the high pitch of the roof. The thick shutters stood open. On a
long table could be seen a large inkstand, some stumpy, inky quill pens, and two
square wooden boxes, each holding half a hundred-weight of sand. Sheets of grey
coarse official paper bestrewed the floor. It must have been a room occupied by
some higher official of the Customs, because a large leathern armchair stood
behind the table, with other high-backed chairs scattered about. A net hammock
was swung under one of the beams - for the official's afternoon siesta, no
doubt. A couple of candles stuck into tall iron candlesticks gave a dim reddish
light. The colonel's hat, sword, and revolver lay between them, and a couple of
his more trusty officers lounged gloomily against the table. The colonel threw
himself into the armchair, and a big negro with a sergeant's stripes on his
ragged sleeve, kneeling down, pulled off his boots. Sotillo's ebony moustache
contrasted violently with the livid colouring of his cheeks. His eyes were
sombre and as if sunk very far into his head. He seemed exhausted by his
perplexities, languid with disappointment; but when the sentry on the landing
thrust his head in to announce the arrival of a prisoner, he revived at once.
    »Let him be brought in,« he shouted, fiercely.
    The door flew open, and Captain Mitchell, bareheaded, his waistcoat open,
the bow of his tie under his ear, was hustled into the room.
    Sotillo recognized him at once. He could not have hoped for a more precious
capture; here was a man who could tell him, if he chose, everything he wished to
know - and directly the problem of how best to make him talk to the point
presented itself to his mind. The resentment of a foreign nation had no terrors
for Sotillo. The might of the whole armed Europe would not have protected
Captain Mitchell from insults and ill-usage, so well as the quick reflection of
Sotillo that this was an Englishman who would most likely turn obstinate under
bad treatment, and become quite unmanageable. At all events, the colonel
smoothed the scowl on his brow.
    »What! The excellent Señor Mitchell!« he cried, in affected dismay. The
pretended anger of his swift advance and of his shout, »Release the caballero at
once,« was so effective that the astounded soldiers positively sprang away from
their prisoner. Thus suddenly deprived of forcible support, Captain Mitchell
reeled as though about to fall. Sotillo took him familiarly under the arm, led
him to a chair, waved his hand at the room. »Go out, all of you,« he commanded.
    When they had been left alone he stood looking down, irresolute and silent,
watching till Captain Mitchell had recovered his power of speech.
    Here in his very grasp was one of the men concerned in the removal of the
silver. Sotillo's temperament was of that sort that he experienced an ardent
desire to beat him; just as formerly when negotiating with difficulty a loan
from the cautious Anzani, his fingers always itched to take the shopkeeper by
the throat. As to Captain Mitchell, the suddenness, unexpectedness, and general
inconceivableness of this experience had confused his thoughts. Moreover, he was
physically out of breath.
    »I've been knocked down three times between this and the wharf,« he gasped
out at last. »Somebody shall be made to pay for this.« He had certainly stumbled
more than once, and had been dragged along for some distance before he could
regain his stride. With his recovered breath his indignation seemed to madden
him. He jumped up, crimson, all his white hair bristling, his eyes glaring
vengefully, and shook violently the flaps of his ruined waistcoat before the
disconcerted Sotillo. »Look! Those uniformed thieves of yours downstairs have
robbed me of my watch.«
    The old sailor's aspect was very threatening. Sotillo saw himself cut off
from the table on which his sabre and revolver were lying.
    »I demand restitution and apologies,« Mitchell thundered at him, quite
beside himself. »From you! Yes, from you!«
    For the space of a second or so the colonel stood with a perfectly stony
expression of face; then, as Captain Mitchell flung out an arm towards the table
as if to snatch up the revolver, Sotillo, with a yell of alarm, bounded to the
door and was gone in a flash, slamming it after him. Surprise calmed Captain
Mitchell's fury. Behind the closed door Sotillo shouted on the landing, and
there was a great tumult of feet on the wooden staircase.
    »Disarm him! Bind him!« the colonel could be heard vociferating.
    Captain Mitchell had just the time to glance once at the windows, with three
perpendicular bars of iron each and some twenty feet from the ground, as he well
knew, before the door flew open and the rush upon him took place. In an
incredibly short time he found himself bound with many turns of a hide rope to a
high-backed chair, so that his head alone remained free. Not till then did
Sotillo, who had been leaning in the doorway trembling visibly, venture again
within. The soldiers, picking up from the floor the rifles they had dropped to
grapple with the prisoner, filed out of the room. The officers remained leaning
on their swords and looking on.
    »The watch! the watch!« raved the colonel, pacing to and fro like a tiger in
a cage. »Give me that man's watch.«
    It was true, that when searched for arms in the hall downstairs, before
being taken into Sotillo's presence, Captain Mitchell had been relieved of his
watch and chain; but at the colonel's clamour it was produced quickly enough, a
corporal bringing it up, carried carefully in the palms of his joined hands.
Sotillo snatched it, and pushed the clenched fist from which it dangled close to
Captain Mitchell's face.
    »Now then! You arrogant Englishman! You dare to call the soldiers of the
army thieves! Behold your watch.«
    He flourished his fist as if aiming blows at the prisoner's nose. Captain
Mitchell, helpless as a swathed infant, looked anxiously at the sixty-guinea
gold half-chronometer, presented to him years ago by a Committee of Underwriters
for saving a ship from total loss by fire. Sotillo, too, seemed to perceive its
valuable appearance. He became silent suddenly, stepped aside to the table, and
began a careful examination in the light of the candles. He had never seen
anything so fine. His officers closed in and craned their necks behind his back.
    He became so interested that for an instant he forgot his precious prisoner.
There is always something childish in the rapacity of the passionate,
clear-minded, Southern races, wanting in the misty idealism of the Northerners,
who at the smallest encouragement dream of nothing less than the conquest of the
earth. Sotillo was fond of jewels, gold trinkets, of personal adornment. After a
moment he turned about, and with a commanding gesture made all his officers fall
back. He laid down the watch on the table, then, negligently, pushed his hat
over it.
    »Ha!« he began, going up very close to the chair. »You dare call my valiant
soldiers of the Esmeralda regiment, thieves. You dare! What impudence! You
foreigners come here to rob our country of its wealth. You never have enough!
Your audacity knows no bounds.«
    He looked towards the officers, amongst whom there was an approving murmur.
The older major was moved to declare -
    »Si, mi colonel. They are all traitors.«
    »I shall say nothing,« continued Sotillo, fixing the motionless and
powerless Mitchell with an angry but uneasy stare. »I shall say nothing of your
treacherous attempt to get possession of my revolver to shoot me while I was
trying to treat you with consideration you did not deserve. You have forfeited
your life. Your only hope is in my clemency.«
    He watched for the effect of his words, but there was no obvious sign of
fear on Captain Mitchell's face. His white hair was full of dust, which covered
also the rest of his helpless person. As if he had heard nothing, he twitched an
eyebrow to get rid of a bit of straw which hung amongst the hairs.
    Sotillo advanced one leg and put his arms akimbo. »It is you, Mitchell,« he
said, emphatically, »who are the thief, not my soldiers!« He pointed at his
prisoner a forefinger with a long, almond-shaped nail. »Where is the silver of
the San Tomé mine? I ask you, Mitchell, where is the silver that was deposited
in this Custom House? Answer me that! You stole it. You were a party to stealing
it. It was stolen from the Government. Aha! you think I do not know what I say;
but I am up to your foreign tricks. It is gone, the silver! No? Gone in one of
your lanchas, you miserable man! How dared you?«
    This time he produced his effect. »How on earth could Sotillo know that?«
thought Mitchell. His head, the only part of his body that could move, betrayed
his surprise by a sudden jerk.
    »Ha! you tremble,« Sotillo shouted, suddenly. »It is a conspiracy. It is a
crime against the State. Did you not know that the silver belongs to the
Republic till the Government claims are satisfied? Where is it? Where have you
hidden it, you miserable thief?«
    At this question Captain Mitchell's sinking spirits revived. In whatever
incomprehensible manner Sotillo had already got his information about the
lighter, he had not captured it. That was clear. In his outraged heart, Captain
Mitchell had resolved that nothing would induce him to say a word while he
remained so disgracefully bound, but his desire to help the escape of the silver
made him depart from this resolution. His wits were very much at work. He
detected in Sotillo a certain air of doubt, of irresolution.
    »That man,« he said to himself, »is not certain of what he advances.« For
all his pomposity in social intercourse, Captain Mitchell could meet the
realities of life in a resolute and ready spirit. Now he had got over the first
shock of the abominable treatment he was cool and collected enough. The immense
contempt he felt for Sotillo steadied him, and he said oracularly, »No doubt it
is well concealed by this time.«
    Sotillo, too, had time to cool down. »Muy bien, Mitchell,« he said in a cold
and threatening manner. »But can you produce the Government receipt for the
royalty and the Custom House permit of embarkation, hey? Can you? No. Then the
silver has been removed illegally, and the guilty shall be made to suffer,
unless it is produced within five days from this.« He gave orders for the
prisoner to be unbound and locked up in one of the smaller rooms downstairs. He
walked about the room, moody and silent, till Captain Mitchell, with each of his
arms held by a couple of men, stood up, shook himself, and stamped his feet.
    »How did you like to be tied up, Mitchell?« he asked, derisively.
    »It is the most incredible, abominable use of power!« Captain Mitchell
declared in a loud voice. »And whatever your purpose, you shall gain nothing
from it, I can promise you.«
    The tall colonel, livid, with his coal-black ringlets and moustache,
crouched, as it were, to look into the eyes of the short, thick-set, red-faced
prisoner with rumpled white hair.
    »That we shall see. You shall know my power a little better when I tie you
up to a potalon outside in the sun for a whole day.« He drew himself up
haughtily, and made a sign for Captain Mitchell to be led away.
    »What about my watch?« cried Captain Mitchell, hanging back from the efforts
of the men pulling him towards the door.
    Sotillo turned to his officers. »No! But only listen to this picaro,
caballeros,« he pronounced with affected scorn, and was answered by a chorus of
derisive laughter. »He demands his watch!« ... He ran up again to Captain
Mitchell, for the desire to relieve his feelings by inflicting blows and pain
upon this Englishman was very strong within him. »Your watch! You are a prisoner
in war time, Mitchell! In war time! You have no rights and no property! Caramba!
The very breath in your body belongs to me. Remember that.«
    »Bosh!« said Captain Mitchell, concealing a disagreeable impression.
    Down below, in a great hall, with the earthen floor and with a tall mound
thrown up by white ants in a corner, the soldiers had kindled a small fire with
broken chairs and tables near the arched gateway, through which the faint murmur
of the harbour waters on the beach could be heard. While Captain Mitchell was
being led down the staircase, an officer passed him, running up to report to
Sotillo the capture of more prisoners. A lot of smoke hung about in the vast
gloomy place, the fire crackled, and, as if through a haze, Captain Mitchell
made out, surrounded by short soldiers with fixed bayonets, the heads of three
tall prisoners - the doctor, the engineer-in-chief, and the white leonine mane
of old Viola, who stood half-turned away from the others with his chin on his
breast and his arms crossed. Mitchell's astonishment knew no bounds. He cried
out; the other two exclaimed also. But he hurried on, diagonally, across the big
cavern-like hall. Lots of thoughts, surmises, hints of caution, and so on,
crowded his head to distraction.
    »Is he actually keeping you?« shouted the chief engineer, whose single
eyeglass glittered in the firelight.
    An officer from the top of the stairs was shouting urgently, »Bring them all
up - all three.«
    In the clamour of voices and the rattle of arms, Captain Mitchell made
himself heard imperfectly: »By heavens! the fellow has stolen my watch.«
    The engineer-in-chief on the staircase resisted the pressure long enough to
shout, »What? What did you say?«
    »My chronometer!« Captain Mitchell yelled violently at the very moment of
being thrust head foremost through a small door into a sort of cell, perfectly
black, and so narrow that he fetched up against the opposite wall. The door had
been instantly slammed. He knew where they had put him. This was the strong room
of the Custom House, whence the silver had been removed only a few hours
earlier. It was almost as narrow as a corridor, with a small square aperture,
barred by a heavy grating, at the distant end. Captain Mitchell staggered for a
few steps, then sat down on the earthen floor with his back to the wall.
Nothing, not even a gleam of light from anywhere, interfered with Captain
Mitchell's meditation. He did some hard but not very extensive thinking. It was
not of a gloomy cast. The old sailor, with all his small weaknesses and
absurdities, was constitutionally incapable of entertaining for any length of
time a fear of his personal safety. It was not so much firmness of soul as the
lack of a certain kind of imagination - the kind whose undue development caused
intense suffering to Señor Hirsch; that sort of imagination which adds the blind
terror of bodily suffering and of death, envisaged as an accident to the body
alone, strictly - to all the other apprehensions on which the sense of one's
existence is based. Unfortunately, Captain Mitchell had not much penetration of
any kind; characteristic, illuminating trifles of expression, action, or
movement, escaped him completely. He was too pompously and innocently aware of
his own existence to observe that of others. For instance, he could not believe
that Sotillo had been really afraid of him, and this simply because it would
never have entered into his head to shoot any one except in the most pressing
case of self-defence. Anybody could see he was not a murdering kind of man, he
reflected quite gravely. Then why this preposterous and insulting charge? he
asked himself. But his thoughts mainly clung around the astounding and
unanswerable question: How the devil the fellow got to know that the silver had
gone off in the lighter? It was obvious that he had not captured it. And,
obviously, he could not have captured it! In this last conclusion Captain
Mitchell was misled by the assumption drawn from his observation of the weather
during his long vigil on the wharf. He thought that there had been much more
wind than usual that night in the gulf; whereas, as a matter of fact, the
reverse was the case.
    »How in the name of all that's marvellous did that confounded fellow get
wind of the affair?« was the first question he asked directly after the bang,
clatter, and flash of the open door (which was closed again almost before he
could lift his dropped head) informed him that he had a companion of captivity.
Dr. Monygham's voice stopped muttering curses in English and Spanish.
    »Is that you, Mitchell?« he made answer, surlily. »I struck my forehead
against this confounded wall with enough force to fell an ox. Where are you?«
    Captain Mitchell, accustomed to the darkness, could make out the doctor
stretching out his hands blindly.
    »I am sitting here on the floor. Don't fall over my legs,« Captain
Mitchell's voice announced with great dignity of tone. The doctor, entreated not
to walk about in the dark, sank down to the ground, too. The two prisoners of
Sotillo, with their heads nearly touching, began to exchange confidences.
    »Yes,« the doctor related in a low tone to Captain Mitchell's vehement
curiosity, »we have been nabbed in old Viola's place. It seems that one of their
pickets, commanded by an officer, pushed as far as the town gate. They had
orders not to enter, but to bring along every soul they could find on the plain.
We had been talking in there with the door open, and no doubt they saw the
glimmer of our light. They must have been making their approaches for some time.
The engineer laid himself on a bench in a recess by the fire-place, and I went
upstairs to have a look. I hadn't heard any sound from there for a long time.
Old Viola, as soon as he saw me come up, lifted his arm for silence. I stole in
on tiptoe. By Jove, his wife was lying down and had gone to sleep. The woman had
actually dropped off to sleep! Señor Doctor, Viola whispers to me, it looks as
if her oppression was going to get better. Yes, I said, very much surprised;
your wife is a wonderful woman, Giorgio. Just then a shot was fired in the
kitchen, which made us jump and cower as if at a thunder-clap. It seems that the
party of soldiers had stolen quite close up, and one of them had crept up to the
door. He looked in, thought there was no one there, and, holding his rifle
ready, entered quietly. The chief told me that he had just closed his eyes for a
moment. When he opened them, he saw the man already in the middle of the room
peering into the dark corners. The chief was so startled that, without thinking,
he made one leap from the recess right out in front of the fire-place. The
soldier, no less startled, up with his rifle and pulls the trigger, deafening
and singeing the engineer, but in his flurry missing him completely. But, look
what happens! At the noise of the report the sleeping woman sat up, as if moved
by a spring, with a shriek, The children, Gian' Battista! Save the children! I
have it in my ears now. It was the truest cry of distress I ever heard. I stood
as if paralysed, but the old husband ran across to the bedside, stretching out
his hands. She clung to them! I could see her eyes go glazed; the old fellow
lowered her down on the pillows and then looked round at me. She was dead! All
this took less than five minutes, and then I ran down to see what was the
matter. It was no use thinking of any resistance. Nothing we two could say
availed with the officer, so I volunteered to go up with a couple of soldiers
and fetch down old Viola. He was sitting at the foot of the bed, looking at his
wife's face, and did not seem to hear what I said; but after I had pulled the
sheet over her head, he got up and followed us downstairs quietly, in a sort of
thoughtful way. They marched us off along the road, leaving the door open and
the candle burning. The chief engineer strode on without a word, but I looked
back once or twice at the feeble gleam. After we had gone some considerable
distance, the Garibaldino, who was walking by my side, suddenly said, I have
buried many men on battlefields on this continent. The priests talk of
consecrated ground! Bah! All the earth made by God is holy; but the sea, which
knows nothing of kings and priests and tyrants, is the holiest of all. Doctor! I
should like to bury her in the sea. No mummeries, candles, incense, no holy
water mumbled over by priests. The spirit of liberty is upon the waters. ...
Amazing old man. He was saying all this in an undertone as if talking to
himself.«
    »Yes, yes,« interrupted Captain Mitchell, impatiently. »Poor old chap! But
have you any idea how that ruffian Sotillo obtained his information? He did not
get hold of any of our Cargadores who helped with the truck, did he? But no, it
is impossible! These were picked men we've had in our boats for these five
years, and I paid them myself specially for the job, with instructions to keep
out of the way for twenty-four hours at least. I saw them with my own eyes march
on with the Italians to the railway yards. The chief promised to give them
rations as long as they wanted to remain there.«
    »Well,« said the doctor, slowly, »I can tell you that you may say good-bye
for ever to your best lighter, and to the Capataz of Cargadores.«
    At this, Captain Mitchell scrambled up to his feet in the excess of his
excitement. The doctor, without giving him time to exclaim, stated briefly the
part played by Hirsch during the night.
    Captain Mitchell was overcome. »Drowned!« he muttered, in a bewildered and
appalled whisper. »Drowned!« Afterwards he kept still, apparently listening, but
too absorbed in the news of the catastrophe to follow the doctor's narrative
with attention.
    The doctor had taken up an attitude of perfect ignorance, till at last
Sotillo was induced to have Hirsch brought in to repeat the whole story, which
was got out of him again with the greatest difficulty, because every moment he
would break out into lamentations. At last, Hirsch was led away, looking more
dead than alive, and shut up in one of the upstairs rooms to be close at hand.
Then the doctor, keeping up his character of a man not admitted to the inner
councils of the San Tomé Administration, remarked that the story sounded
incredible. Of course, he said, he couldn't tell what had been the action of the
Europeans, as he had been exclusively occupied with his own work in looking
after the wounded, and also in attending Don José Avellanos. He had succeeded in
assuming so well a tone of impartial indifference, that Sotillo seemed to be
completely deceived. Till then a show of regular inquiry had been kept up; one
of the officers sitting at the table wrote down the questions and the answers,
the others, lounging about the room, listened attentively, puffing at their long
cigars and keeping their eyes on the doctor. But at that point Sotillo ordered
everybody out.
 

                                 Chapter Three

Directly they were alone, the colonel's severe official manner changed. He rose
and approached the doctor. His eyes shone with rapacity and hope; he became
confidential. »The silver might have been indeed put on board the lighter, but
it was not conceivable that it should have been taken out to sea.« The doctor,
watching every word, nodded slightly, smoking with apparent relish the cigar
which Sotillo had offered him as a sign of his friendly intentions. The doctor's
manner of cold detachment from the rest of the Europeans led Sotillo on, till,
from conjecture to conjecture, he arrived at hinting that in his opinion this
was a put-up job on the part of Charles Gould, in order to get hold of that
immense treasure all to himself. The doctor, observant and self-possessed,
muttered, »He is very capable of that.«
    Here Captain Mitchell exclaimed with amazement, amusement, and indignation,
»You said that of Charles Gould!« Disgust, and even some suspicion, crept into
his tone, for to him, too, as to other Europeans, there appeared to be something
dubious about the doctor's personality.
    »What on earth made you say that to this watch-stealing scoundrel?« he
asked. »What's the object of an infernal lie of that sort? That confounded
pickpocket was quite capable of believing you.«
    He snorted. For a time the doctor remained silent in the dark.
    »Yes, that is exactly what I did say,« he uttered at last, in a tone which
would have made it clear enough to a third party that the pause was not of a
reluctant but of a reflective character. Captain Mitchell thought that he had
never heard anything so brazenly impudent in his life.
    »Well, well!« he muttered to himself, but he had not the heart to voice his
thoughts. They were swept away by others full of astonishment and regret. A
heavy sense of discomfiture crushed him: the loss of the silver, the death of
Nostromo, which was really quite a blow to his sensibilities, because he had
become attached to his Capataz as people get attached to their inferiors from
love of ease and almost unconscious gratitude. And when he thought of Decoud
being drowned, too, his sensibility was almost overcome by this miserable end.
What a heavy blow for that poor young woman! Captain Mitchell did not belong to
the species of crabbed old bachelors; on the contrary, he liked to see young men
paying attentions to young women. It seemed to him a natural and proper thing.
Proper especially. As to sailors, it was different; it was not their place to
marry, he maintained, but it was on moral grounds as a matter of self-denial,
for, he explained, life on board ship is not fit for a woman even at best, and
if you leave her on shore, first of all it is not fair, and next she either
suffers from it or doesn't't care a bit, which, in both cases, is bad. He couldn't
have told what upset him most - Charles Gould's immense material loss, the death
of Nostromo, which was a heavy loss to himself, or the idea of that beautiful
and accomplished young woman being plunged into mourning.
    »Yes,« the doctor, who had been apparently reflecting some more, began
again, »he believed me right enough. I thought he would have hugged me. Si, si,
he said, he will write to that partner of his, the rich Americano in San
Francisco, that it is all lost. Why not? There is enough to share with many
people.«
    »But this is perfectly imbecile!« cried Captain Mitchell.
    The doctor remarked that Sotillo was imbecile, and that his imbecility was
ingenious enough to lead him completely astray. He had helped him only but a
little way.
    »I mentioned,« the doctor said, »in a sort of casual way, that treasure is
generally buried in the earth rather than being set afloat upon the sea. At this
my Sotillo slapped his forehead.s Por Dios, yes, he said; they must have buried
it on the shores of this harbour somewhere before they sailed out.«
    »Heavens and earth!« muttered Captain Mitchell, »I should not have believed
that anybody could be ass enough -« He paused, then went on mournfully: »But
what's the good of all this? It would have been a clever enough lie if the
lighter had been still afloat. It would have kept that inconceivable idiot
perhaps from sending out the steamer to cruise in the gulf. That was the danger
that worried me no end.« Captain Mitchell sighed profoundly.
    »I had an object,« the doctor pronounced, slowly.
    »Had you?« muttered Captain Mitchell. »Well, that's lucky, or else I would
have thought that you went on fooling him for the fun of the thing. And perhaps
that was your object. Well, I must say I personally wouldn't condescend to that
sort of thing. It is not to my taste. No, no. Blackening a friend's character is
not my idea of fun, if it were to fool the greatest blackguard on earth.«
    Had it not been for Captain Mitchell's depression, caused by the fatal news,
his disgust of Dr. Monygham would have taken a more outspoken shape; but he
thought to himself that now it really did not matter what that man, whom he had
never liked, would say and do.
    »I wonder,« he grumbled, »why they have shut us up together, or why Sotillo
should have shut you up at all, since it seems to me you have been fairly chummy
up there?«
    »Yes, I wonder?« said the doctor, grimly.
    Captain Mitchell's heart was so heavy that he would have preferred for the
time being a complete solitude to the best of company. But any company would
have been preferable to the doctor's, at whom he had always looked askance as a
sort of beachcomber of superior intelligence partly reclaimed from his abased
state. That feeling led him to ask -
    »What has that ruffian done with the other two?«
    »The chief engineer he would have let go in any case,« said the doctor. »He
wouldn't like to have a quarrel with the railway upon his hands. Not just yet,
at any rate. I don't think, Captain Mitchell, that you understand exactly what
Sotillo's position is -«
    »I don't see why I should bother my head about it,« snarled Captain
Mitchell.
    »No,« assented the doctor, with the same grim composure. »I don't see why
you should. It wouldn't help a single human being in the world if you thought
ever so hard upon any subject whatever.«
    »No,« said Captain Mitchell, simply, and with evident depression. »A man
locked up in a confounded dark hole is not much use to anybody.«
    »As to old Viola,« the doctor continued, as though he had not heard,
»Sotillo released him for the same reason he is presently going to release you.«
    »Eh? What?« exclaimed Captain Mitchell, staring like an owl in the darkness.
»What is there in common between me and old Viola? More likely because the old
chap has no watch and chain for the pickpocket to steal. And I tell you what,
Dr. Monygham,« he went on with rising choler, »he will find it more difficult
than he thinks to get rid of me. He will burn his fingers over that job yet, I
can tell you. To begin with, I won't go without my watch, and as to the rest -
we shall see. I dare say it is no great matter for you to be locked up. But Joe
Mitchell is a different kind of man, sir. I don't mean to submit tamely to
insult and robbery. I am a public character, sir.«
    And then Captain Mitchell became aware that the bars of the opening had
become visible, a black grating upon a square of grey. The coming of the day
silenced Captain Mitchell as if by the reflection that now in all the future
days he would be deprived of the invaluable services of his Capataz. He leaned
against the wall with his arms folded on his breast, and the doctor walked up
and down the whole length of the place with his peculiar hobbling gait, as if
slinking about on damaged feet. At the end furthest from the grating he would be
lost altogether in the darkness. Only the slight limping shuffle could be heard.
There was an air of moody detachment in that painful prowl kept up without a
pause. When the door of the prison was suddenly flung open and his name shouted
out he showed no surprise. He swerved sharply in his walk, and passed out at
once, as though much depended upon his speed; but Captain Mitchell remained for
some time with his shoulders against the wall, quite undecided in the bitterness
of his spirit whether it wouldn't be better to refuse to stir a limb in the way
of protest. He had half a mind to get himself carried out, but after the officer
at the door had shouted three or four times in tones of remonstrance and
surprise he condescended to walk out.
    Sotillo's manner had changed. The colonel's off-hand civility was slightly
irresolute, as though he were in doubt if civility were the proper course in
this case. He observed Captain Mitchell attentively before he spoke from the big
armchair behind the table in a condescending voice -
    »I have concluded not to detain you, Señor Mitchell. I am of a forgiving
disposition. I make allowances. Let this be a lesson to you, however.«
    The peculiar dawn of Sulaco, which seems to break far away to the westward
and creep back into the shade of the mountains, mingled with the reddish light
of the candles. Captain Mitchell, in sign of contempt and indifference, let his
eyes roam all over the room, and he gave a hard stare to the doctor, perched
already on the casement of one of the windows, with his eyelids lowered,
careless and thoughtful - or perhaps ashamed.
    Sotillo, ensconced in the vast armchair, remarked, »I should have thought
that the feelings of a caballero would have dictated to you an appropriate
reply.«
    He waited for it, but Captain Mitchell remaining mute, more from extreme
resentment than from reasoned intention, Sotillo hesitated, glanced towards the
doctor, who looked up and nodded, then went on with a slight effort -
    »Here, Señor Mitchell, is your watch. Learn how hasty and unjust has been
your judgment of my patriotic soldiers.«
    Lying back in his seat, he extended his arm over the table and pushed the
watch away slightly. Captain Mitchell walked up with undisguised eagerness, put
it to his ear, then slipped it into his pocket coolly.
    Sotillo seemed to overcome an immense reluctance. Again he looked aside at
the doctor, who stared at him unwinkingly.
    But as Captain Mitchell was turning away, without as much as a nod or a
glance, he hastened to say -
    »You may go and wait downstairs for the señor doctor, whom I am going to
liberate, too. You foreigners are insignificant, to my mind.«
    He forced a slight, discordant laugh out of himself, while Captain Mitchell,
for the first time, looked at him with some interest.
    »The law shall take note later on of your transgressions,« Sotillo hurried
on. »But as for me, you can live free, unguarded, unobserved. Do you hear, Señor
Mitchell? You may depart to your affairs. You are beneath my notice. My
attention is claimed by matters of the very highest importance.«
    Captain Mitchell was very nearly provoked to an answer. It displeased him to
be liberated insultingly; but want of sleep, prolonged anxieties, a profound
disappointment with the fatal ending of the silver-saving business weighed upon
his spirits. It was as much as he could do to conceal his uneasiness, not about
himself perhaps, but about things in general. It occurred to him distinctly that
something underhand was going on. As he went out he ignored the doctor
pointedly.
    »A brute!« said Sotillo, as the door shut.
    Dr. Monygham slipped off the window-sill, and, thrusting his hands into the
pockets of the long, grey dust coat he was wearing, made a few steps into the
room.
    Sotillo got up, too, and, putting himself in the way, examined him from head
to foot.
    »So your countrymen do not confide in you very much, señor doctor. They do
not love you, eh? Why is that, I wonder?«
    The doctor, lifting his head, answered by a long, lifeless stare and the
words, »Perhaps because I have lived too long in Costaguana.«
    Sotillo had a gleam of white teeth under the black moustache.
    »Aha! But you love yourself,« he said, encouragingly.
    »If you leave them alone,« the doctor said, looking with the same lifeless
stare at Sotillo's handsome face, »they will betray themselves very soon.
Meantime, I may try to make Don Carlos speak?«
    »Ah! señor doctor,« said Sotillo, wagging his head, »you are a man of quick
intelligence. We were made to understand each other.« He turned away. He could
bear no longer that expressionless and motionless stare, which seemed to have a
sort of impenetrable emptiness like the black depth of an abyss.
    Even in a man utterly devoid of moral sense there remains an appreciation of
rascality which, being conventional, is perfectly clear. Sotillo thought that
Dr. Monygham, so different from all Europeans, was ready to sell his countrymen
and Charles Gould, his employer, for some share of the San Tomé silver. Sotillo
did not despise him for that. The colonel's want of moral sense was of a
profound and innocent character. It bordered upon stupidity, moral stupidity.
Nothing that served his ends could appear to him really reprehensible.
Nevertheless, he despised Dr. Monygham. He had for him an immense and
satisfactory contempt. He despised him with all his heart because he did not
mean to let the doctor have any reward at all. He despised him, not as a man
without faith and honour, but as a fool. Dr. Monygham's insight into his
character had deceived Sotillo completely. Therefore he thought the doctor a
fool.
    Since his arrival in Sulaco the colonel's ideas had undergone some
modification.
    He no longer wished for a political career in Montero's administration. He
had always doubted the safety of that course. Since he had learned from the
chief engineer that at daylight most likely he would be confronted by Pedro
Montero his misgivings on that point had considerably increased. The guerrillero
brother of the general - the Pedrito of popular speech - had a reputation of his
own. He wasn't't safe to deal with. Sotillo had vaguely planned seizing not only
the treasure but the town itself, and then negotiating at leisure. But in the
face of facts learned from the chief engineer (who had frankly disclosed to him
the whole situation) his audacity, never of a very dashing kind, had been
replaced by a most cautious hesitation.
    »An army - an army crossed the mountains under Pedrito already,« he had
repeated, unable to hide his consternation. »If it had not been that I am given
the news by a man of your position I would never have believed it. Astonishing!«
    »An armed force,« corrected the engineer, suavely.
    His aim was attained. It was to keep Sulaco clear of any armed occupation
for a few hours longer, to let those whom fear impelled leave the town. In the
general dismay there were families hopeful enough to fly upon the road towards
Los Hatos, which was left open by the withdrawal of the armed rabble under
Señores Fuentes and Gamacho, to Rincon, with their enthusiastic welcome for
Pedro Montero. It was a hasty and risky exodus, and it was said that Hernandez,
occupying with his band the woods about Los Hatos, was receiving the fugitives.
That a good many people he knew were contemplating such a flight had been well
known to the chief engineer.
    Father Corbelàn's efforts in the cause of that most pious robber had not
been altogether fruitless. The political chief of Sulaco had yielded at the last
moment to the urgent entreaties of the priest, had signed a provisional
nomination appointing Hernandez a general, and calling upon him officially in
this new capacity to preserve order in the town. The fact is that the political
chief, seeing the situation desperate, did not care what he signed. It was the
last official document he signed before he left the palace of the Intendencia
for the refuge of the O.S.N. Company's office. But even had he meant his act to
be effective it was already too late. The riot which he feared and expected
broke out in less than an hour after Father Corbelàn had left him. Indeed,
Father Corbelàn, who had appointed a meeting with Nostromo in the Dominican
Convent, where he had his residence in one of the cells, never managed to reach
the place. From the Intendencia he had gone straight on to the Avellanos's house
to tell his brother-in-law, and though he stayed there no more than half an hour
he had found himself cut off from his ascetic abode. Nostromo, after waiting
there for some time, watching uneasily the increasing uproar in the street, had
made his way to the offices of the Porvenir, and stayed there till daylight, as
Decoud had mentioned in the letter to his sister. Thus the Capataz, instead of
riding towards the Los Hatos woods as bearer of Hernandez's nomination, had
remained in town to save the life of the President Dictator, to assist in
repressing the outbreak of the mob, and at last to sail out with the silver of
the mine.
    But Father Corbelàn, escaping to Hernandez, had the document in his pocket,
a piece of official writing turning a bandit into a general in a memorable last
official act of the Ribierist party, whose watchwords were honesty, peace, and
progress. Probably neither the priest nor the bandit saw the irony of it. Father
Corbelàn must have found messengers to send into the town, for early on the
second day of the disturbances there were rumours of Hernandez being on the road
to Los Hatos ready to receive those who would put themselves under his
protection. A strange-looking horseman, elderly and audacious, had appeared in
the town, riding slowly while his eyes examined the fronts of the houses, as
though he had never seen such high buildings before. Before the cathedral he had
dismounted, and, kneeling in the middle of the Plaza, his bridle over his arm
and his hat lying in front of him on the ground, had bowed his head, crossing
himself and beating his breast for some little time. Remounting his horse, with
a fearless but not unfriendly look round the little gathering formed about his
public devotions, he had asked for the Casa Avellanos. A score of hands were
extended in answer, with fingers pointing up the Calle de la Constitucion.
    The horseman had gone on with only a glance of casual curiosity upwards to
the windows of the Amarilla Club at the corner. His stentorian voice shouted
periodically in the empty street, »Which is the Casa Avellanos?« till an answer
came from the scared porter, and he disappeared under the gate. The letter he
was bringing, written by Father Corbelàn with a pencil by the camp-fire of
Hernandez, was addressed to Don José, of whose critical state the priest was not
aware. Antonia read it, and, after consulting Charles Gould, sent it on for the
information of the gentlemen garrisoning the Amarilla Club. For herself, her
mind was made up; she would rejoin her uncle; she would entrust the last day -
the last hours perhaps - of her father's life to the keeping of the bandit,
whose existence was a protest against the irresponsible tyranny of all parties
alike, against the moral darkness of the land. The gloom of Los Hatos woods was
preferable; a life of hardships in the train of a robber band less debasing.
Antonia embraced with all her soul her uncle's obstinate defiance of misfortune.
It was grounded in the belief in the man whom she loved.
    In his message the Vicar-General answered upon his head for Hernandez's
fidelity. As to his power, he pointed out that he had remained unsubdued for so
many years. In that letter Decoud's idea of the new Occidental State (whose
flourishing and stable condition is a matter of common knowledge now) was for
the first time made public and used as an argument. Hernandez, ex-bandit and the
last general of Ribierist creation, was confident of being able to hold the
tract of country between the woods of Los Hatos and the coast range till that
devoted patriot, Don Martin Decoud, could bring General Barrios back to Sulaco
for the reconquest of the town.
    »Heaven itself wills it. Providence is on our side,« wrote Father Corbelàn;
there was no time to reflect upon or to controvert his statement; and if the
discussion started upon the reading of that letter in the Amarilla Club was
violent, it was also shortlived. In the general bewilderment of the collapse
some jumped at the idea with joyful astonishment as upon the amazing discovery
of a new hope. Others became fascinated by the prospect of immediate personal
safety for their women and children. The majority caught at it as a drowning man
catches at a straw. Father Corbelàn was unexpectedly offering them a refuge from
Pedrito Montero with his llaneros allied to Señores Fuentes and Gamacho with
their armed rabble.
    All the latter part of the afternoon an animated discussion went on in the
big rooms of the Amarilla Club. Even those members posted at the windows with
rifles and carbines to guard the end of the street in case of an offensive
return of the populace shouted their opinions and arguments over their
shoulders. As dusk fell Don Juste Lopez, inviting those caballeros who were of
his way of thinking to follow him, withdrew into the corridor, where at a little
table in the light of two candles he busied himself in composing an address, or
rather a solemn declaration to be presented to Pedrito Montero by a deputation
of such members of Assembly as had elected to remain in town. His idea was to
propitiate him in order to save the form at least of parliamentary institutions.
Seated before a blank sheet of paper, a goose-quill pen in his hand and surged
upon from all sides, he turned to the right and to the left, repeating with
solemn insistence -
    »Caballeros, a moment of silence! A moment of silence! We ought to make it
clear that we bow in all good faith to the accomplished facts.«
    The utterance of that phrase seemed to give him a melancholy satisfaction.
The hubbub of voices round him was growing strained and hoarse. In the sudden
pauses the excited grimacing of the faces would sink all at once into the
stillness of profound dejection.
    Meantime, the exodus had begun. Carretas full of ladies and children rolled
swaying across the Plaza, with men walking or riding by their side; mounted
parties followed on mules and horses; the poorest were setting out on foot, men
and women carrying bundles, clasping babies in their arms, leading old people,
dragging along the bigger children. When Charles Gould, after leaving the doctor
and the engineer at the Casa Viola, entered the town by the harbour gate, all
those that had meant to go were gone, and the others had barricaded themselves
in their houses. In the whole dark street there was only one spot of flickering
lights and moving figures, where the Señor Administrator recognized his wife's
carriage waiting at the door of the Avellanos's house. He rode up, almost
unnoticed, and looked on without a word while some of his own servants came out
of the gate carrying Don José Avellanos, who, with closed eyes and motionless
features, appeared perfectly lifeless. His wife and Antonia walked on each side
of the improvised stretcher, which was put at once into the carriage. The two
women embraced; while from the other side of the landau Father Corbelàn's
emissary, with his ragged beard all streaked with grey, and high, bronzed
cheek-bones, stared, sitting upright in the saddle. Then Antonia, dry-eyed, got
in by the side of the stretcher, and, after making the sign of the cross
rapidly, lowered a thick veil upon her face. The servants and the three or four
neighbours who had come to assist, stood back, uncovering their heads. On the
box, Ignacio, resigned now to driving all night (and to having perhaps his
throat cut before daylight) looked back surlily over his shoulder.
    »Drive carefully,« cried Mrs. Gould in a tremulous voice.
    »Si, carefully, si nina,« he mumbled, chewing his lips, his round leathery
cheeks quivering. And the landau rolled slowly out of the light.
    »I will see them as far as the ford,« said Charles Gould to his wife. She
stood on the edge of the side-walk with her hands clasped lightly, and nodded to
him as he followed after the carriage. And now the windows of the Amarilla Club
were dark. The last spark of resistance had died out. Turning his head at the
corner, Charles Gould saw his wife crossing over to their own gate in the
lighted patch of the street. One of their neighbours, a well-known merchant and
landowner of the province, followed at her elbow, talking with great gestures.
As she passed in all the lights went out in the street, which remained dark and
empty from end to end.
    The houses of the vast Plaza were lost in the night. High up, like a star,
there was a small gleam in one of the towers of the cathedral; and the
equestrian statue gleamed pale against the black trees of the Alameda, like a
ghost of royalty haunting the scenes of revolution. The rare prowlers they met
ranged themselves against the wall. Beyond the last houses the carriage rolled
noiselessly on the soft cushion of dust, and with a greater obscurity a feeling
of freshness seemed to fall from the foliage of the trees bordering the country
road. The emissary from Hernandez's camp pushed his horse close to Charles
Gould.
    »Caballero,« he said in an interested voice, »you are he whom they call the
King of Sulaco, the master of the mine? Is it not so?«
    »Yes, I am the master of the mine,« answered Charles Gould.
    The man cantered for a time in silence, then said, »I have a brother, a
sereño in your service in the San Tomé valley. You have proved yourself a just
man. There had been no wrong done to any one since you called upon the people to
work in the mountains. My brother says that no official of the Government, no
oppressor of the Campo, had been seen on your side of the stream. Your own
officials do not oppress the people in the gorge. Doubtless they are afraid of
your severity. You are a just man and a powerful one,« he added.
    He spoke in an abrupt, independent tone, but evidently he was communicative
with a purpose. He told Charles Gould that he had been a ranchero in one of the
lower valleys, far south, a neighbour of Hernandez in the old days, and
godfather to his eldest boy; one of those who joined him in his resistance to
the recruiting raid which was the beginning of all their misfortunes. It was he
that, when his compadre had been carried off, had buried his wife and children,
murdered by the soldiers.
    »Si, señor,« he muttered, hoarsely, »I and two or three others, the lucky
ones left at liberty, buried them all in one grave near the ashes of their
ranch, under the tree that had shaded its roof.«
    It was to him, too, that Hernandez came after he had deserted, three years
afterwards. He had still his uniform on with the sergeant's stripes on the
sleeve, and the blood of his colonel upon his hands and breast. Three troopers
followed him, of those who had started in pursuit but had ridden on for liberty.
And he told Charles Gould how he and a few friends, seeing those soldiers, lay
in ambush behind some rocks ready to pull the trigger on them, when he
recognized his compadre and jumped up from cover, shouting his name, because he
knew that Hernandez could not have been coming back on an errand of injustice
and oppression. Those three soldiers, together with the party who lay behind the
rocks, had formed the nucleus of the famous band; and he, the narrator, had been
the favourite lieutenant of Hernandez for many, many years. He mentioned proudly
that the officials had put a price upon his head, too; but it did not prevent it
getting sprinkled with grey upon his shoulders. And now he had lived long enough
to see his compadre made a general.
    He had a burst of muffled laughter. »And now from robbers we have become
soldiers. But look, Caballero, at those who made us soldiers and him a general!
Look at these people!«
    Ignacio shouted. The light of the carriage lamps, running along the nopal
hedges that crowned the bank on each side, flashed upon the scared faces of
people standing aside in the road, sunk deep, like an English country lane, into
the soft soil of the Campo. They cowered; their eyes glistened very big for a
second; and then the light, running on, fell upon the half-denuded roots of a
big tree, on another stretch of nopal hedge, caught up another bunch of faces
glaring back apprehensively. Three women - of whom one was carrying a child -
and a couple of men in civilian dress - one armed with a sabre and another with
a gun - were grouped about a donkey carrying two bundles tied up in blankets.
Further on Ignacio shouted again to pass a carreta, a long wooden box on two
high wheels, with the door at the back swinging open. Some ladies in it must
have recognized the white mules, because they screamed out, »Is it you, Doña
Emilia?«
    At the turn of the road the glare of a big fire filled the short stretch
vaulted over by the branches meeting overhead. Near the ford of a shallow stream
a roadside rancho of woven rushes and a roof of grass had been set on fire by
accident, and the flames, roaring viciously, lit up an open space blocked with
horses, mules, and a distracted, shouting crowd of people. When Ignacio pulled
up, several ladies on foot assailed the carriage, begging Antonia for a seat. To
their clamour she answered by pointing silently to her father.
    »I must leave you here,« said Charles Gould, in the uproar. The flames
leaped up sky-high, and in the recoil from the scorching heat across the road
the stream of fugitives pressed against the carriage. A middle-aged lady dressed
in black silk, but with a coarse manta over her head and a rough branch for a
stick in her hand, staggered against the front wheel. Two young girls,
frightened and silent, were clinging to her arms. Charles Gould knew her very
well.
    »Misericordia! We are getting terribly bruised in this crowd!« she
exclaimed, smiling up courageously to him. »We have started on foot. All our
servants ran away yesterday to join the democrats. We are going to put ourselves
under the protection of Father Corbelàn, of your sainted uncle, Antonia. He has
wrought a miracle in the heart of a most merciless robber. A miracle!«
    She raised her voice gradually up to a scream as she was borne along by the
pressure of people getting out of the way of some carts coming up out of the
ford at a gallop, with loud yells and cracking of whips. Great masses of sparks
mingled with black smoke flew over the road; the bamboos of the walls detonated
in the fire with the sound of an irregular fusillade. And then the bright blaze
sank suddenly, leaving only a red dusk crowded with aimless dark shadows
drifting in contrary directions; the noise of voices seemed to die away with the
flame; and the tumult of heads, arms, quarrelling, and imprecations passed on
fleeing into the darkness.
    »I must leave you now,« repeated Charles Gould to Antonia. She turned her
head slowly and uncovered her face. The emissary and compadre of Hernandez
spurred his horse close up.
    »Has not the master of the mine any message to send to Hernandez, the master
of the Campo?«
    The truth of the comparison struck Charles Gould heavily. In his determined
purpose he held the mine, and the indomitable bandit held the Campo by the same
precarious tenure. They were equals before the lawlessness of the land. It was
impossible to disentangle one's activity from its debasing contacts. A
close-meshed net of crime and corruption lay upon the whole country. An immense
and weary discouragement sealed his lips for a time.
    »You are a just man,« urged the emissary of Hernandez. »Look at those people
who made my compadre a general and have turned us all into soldiers. Look at
those oligarchs fleeing for life, with only the clothes on their backs. My
compadre does not think of that, but our followers may be wondering greatly, and
I would speak for them to you. Listen, señor! For many months now the Campo has
been our own. We need ask no man for anything; but soldiers must have their pay
to live honestly when the wars are over. It is believed that your soul is so
just that a prayer from you would cure the sickness of every beast, like the
orison of the upright judge. Let me have some words from your lips that would
act like a charm upon the doubts of our partida, where all are men.«
    »Do you hear what he says?« Charles Gould said in English to Antonia.
    »Forgive us our misery!« she exclaimed, hurriedly. »It is your character
that is the inexhaustible treasure which may save us all yet; your character,
Carlos, not your wealth. I entreat you to give this man your word that you will
accept any arrangement my uncle may make with their chief. One word. He will
want no more.«
    On the site of the roadside hut there remained nothing but an enormous heap
of embers, throwing afar a darkening red glow, in which Antonia's face appeared
deeply flushed with excitement. Charles Gould, with only a short hesitation,
pronounced the required pledge. He was like a man who had ventured on a
precipitous path with no room to turn, where the only chance of safety is to
press forward. At that moment he understood it thoroughly as he looked down at
Don José stretched out, hardly breathing, by the side of the erect Antonia,
vanquished in a lifelong struggle with the powers of moral darkness, whose
stagnant depths breed monstrous crimes and monstrous illusions. In a few words
the emissary from Hernandez expressed his complete satisfaction. Stoically
Antonia lowered her veil, resisting the longing to inquire about Decoud's
escape. But Ignacio leered morosely over his shoulder.
    »Take a good look at the mules, mi amo,« he grumbled. »You shall never see
them again!«
 

                                  Chapter Four

Charles Gould turned towards the town. Before him jagged peaks of the Sierra
came out all black in the clear dawn. Here and there a muffled lepero whisked
round the corner of a grass-grown street before the ringing hoofs of his horse.
Dogs barked behind the walls of the gardens; and with the colourless light the
chill of the snows seemed to fall from the mountains upon the disjointed
pavements and the shuttered houses with broken cornices and the plaster peeling
in patches between the flat pilasters of the fronts. The daybreak struggled with
the gloom under the arcades on the Plaza, with no signs of country people
disposing their goods for the day's market, piles of fruit, bundles of
vegetables ornamented with flowers, on low benches under enormous mat umbrellas;
with no cheery early morning bustle of villagers, women, children, and loaded
donkeys. Only a few scattered knots of revolutionists stood in the vast space,
looking all one way from under their slouched hats for some sign of news from
Rincon. The largest of those groups turned about like one man as Charles Gould
passed, and shouted, »Viva la libertad!« after him in a menacing tone.
    Charles Gould rode on, and turned into the archway of his house. In the
patio littered with straw, a practicante, one of Dr. Monygham's native
assistants, sat on the ground with his back against the rim of the fountain,
fingering a guitar discreetly, while two girls of the lower class, standing up
before him, shuffled their feet a little and waved their arms, humming a popular
dance tune. Most of the wounded during the two days of rioting had been taken
away already by their friends and relations, but several figures could be seen
sitting up balancing their bandaged heads in time to the music. Charles Gould
dismounted. A sleepy mozo coming out of the bakery door took hold of the horse's
bridle; the practicante endeavoured to conceal his guitar hastily; the girls,
unabashed, stepped back smiling; and Charles Gould, on his way to the staircase,
glanced into a dark corner of the patio at another group, a mortally wounded
Cargador with a woman kneeling by his side; she mumbled prayers rapidly, trying
at the same time to force a piece of orange between the stiffening lips of the
dying man.
    The cruel futility of things stood unveiled in the levity and sufferings of
that incorrigible people; the cruel futility of lives and of deaths thrown away
in the vain endeavour to attain an enduring solution of the problem. Unlike
Decoud, Charles Gould could not play lightly a part in a tragic farce. It was
tragic enough for him in all conscience, but he could see no farcical element.
He suffered too much under a conviction of irremediable folly. He was too
severely practical and too idealistic to look upon its terrible humours with
amusement, as Martin Decoud, the imaginative materialist, was able to do in the
dry light of his scepticism. To him, as to all of us, the compromises with his
conscience appeared uglier than ever in the light of failure. His taciturnity,
assumed with a purpose, had prevented him from tampering openly with his
thoughts; but the Gould Concession had insidiously corrupted his judgment. He
might have known, he said to himself, leaning over the balustrade of the
corridor, that Ribierism could never come to anything. The mine had corrupted
his judgment by making him sick of bribing and intriguing merely to have his
work left alone from day to day. Like his father, he did not like to be robbed.
It exasperated him. He had persuaded himself that, apart from higher
considerations, the backing up of Don José's hopes of reform was good business.
He had gone forth into the senseless fray as his poor uncle, whose sword hung on
the wall of his study, had gone forth - in the defence of the commonest
decencies of organized society. Only his weapon was the wealth of the mine, more
far-reaching and subtle than an honest blade of steel fitted into a simple brass
guard.
    More dangerous to the wielder, too, this weapon of wealth, double-edged with
the cupidity and misery of mankind, steeped in all the voices of self-indulgence
as in a concoction of poisonous roots, tainting the very cause for which it is
drawn, always ready to turn awkwardly in the hand. There was nothing for it now
but to go on using it. But he promised himself to see it shattered into small
bits before he let it be wrenched from his grasp.
    After all, with his English parentage and English upbringing, he perceived
that he was an adventurer in Costaguana, the descendant of adventurers enlisted
in a foreign legion, of men who had sought fortune in a revolutionary war, who
had planned revolutions, who had believed in revolutions. For all the
uprightness of his character, he had something of an adventurer's easy morality
which takes count of personal risk in the ethical appraising of his action. He
was prepared, if need be, to blow up the whole San Tomé mountain sky high out of
the territory of the Republic. This resolution expressed the tenacity of his
character, the remorse of that subtle conjugal infidelity through which his wife
was no longer the sole mistress of his thoughts, something of his father's
imaginative weakness, and something, too, of the spirit of a buccaneer throwing
a lighted match into the magazine rather than surrender his ship.
    Down below in the patio the wounded Cargador had breathed his last. The
woman cried out once, and her cry, unexpected and shrill, made all the wounded
sit up. The practicante scrambled up to his feet, and, guitar in hand, gazed
steadily in her direction with elevated eyebrows. The two girls - sitting now
one on each side of their wounded relative, with their knees drawn up and long
cigars between their lips - nodded at each other significantly.
    Charles Gould, looking down over the balustrade, saw three men dressed
ceremoniously in black frock-coats with white shirts, and wearing European round
hats, enter the patio from the street. One of them, head and shoulders taller
than the two others, advanced with marked gravity, leading the way. This was Don
Juste Lopez, accompanied by two of his friends, members of Assembly, coming to
call upon the Administrator of the San Tomé mine at this early hour. They saw
him, too, waved their hands to him urgently, walking up the stairs as if in
procession.
    Don Juste, astonishingly changed by having shaved off altogether his damaged
beard, had lost with it nine-tenths of his outward dignity. Even at that time of
serious pre-occupation Charles Gould could not help noting the revealed
ineptitude in the aspect of the man. His companions looked crestfallen and
sleepy. One kept on passing the tip of his tongue over his parched lips; the
other's eyes strayed dully over the tiled floor of the corridor, while Don
Juste, standing a little in advance, harangued the Señor Administrator of the
San Tomé mine. It was his firm opinion that forms had to be observed. A new
governor is always visited by deputations from the Cabildo, which is the
Municipal Council, from the Consulado, the commercial Board, and it was proper
that the Provincial Assembly should send a deputation, too, if only to assert
the existence of parliamentary institutions. Don Juste proposed that Don Carlos
Gould, as the most prominent citizen of the province, should join the Assembly's
deputation. His position was exceptional, his personality known through the
length and breadth of the whole Republic. Official courtesies must not be
neglected, if they are gone through with a bleeding heart. The acceptance of
accomplished facts may save yet the precious vestiges of parliamentary
institutions. Don Juste's eyes glowed dully; he believed in parliamentary
institutions - and the convinced drone of his voice lost itself in the stillness
of the house like the deep buzzing of some ponderous insect.
    Charles Gould had turned round to listen patiently, leaning his elbow on the
balustrade. He shook his head a little, refusing, almost touched by the anxious
gaze of the President of the Provincial Assembly. It was not Charles Gould's
policy to make the San Tomé mine a party to any formal proceedings.
    »My advice, señores, is that you should wait for your fate in your houses.
There is no necessity for you to give yourselves up formally into Montero's
hands. Submission to the inevitable, as Don Juste calls it, is all very well,
but when the inevitable is called Pedrito Montero there is no need to exhibit
pointedly the whole extent of your surrender. The fault of this country is the
want of measure in political life. Flat acquiescence in illegality, followed by
sanguinary reaction - that, señores, is not the way to a stable and prosperous
future.«
    Charles Gould stopped before the sad bewilderment of the faces, the
wondering, anxious glances of the eyes. The feeling of pity for those men,
putting all their trust into words of some sort, while murder and rapine stalked
over the land, had betrayed him into what seemed empty loquacity. Don Juste
murmured -
    »You are abandoning us, Don Carlos. ... And yet, parliamentary institutions
-«
    He could not finish from grief. For a moment he put his hand over his eyes.
Charles Gould, in his fear of empty loquacity, made no answer to the charge. He
returned in silence their ceremonious bows. His taciturnity was his refuge. He
understood that what they sought was to get the influence of the San Tomé mine
on their side. They wanted to go on a conciliating errand to the victor under
the wing of the Gould Concession. Other public bodies - the Cabildo, the
Consulado - would be coming, too, presently, seeking the support of the most
stable, the most effective force they had ever known to exist in their province.
    The doctor, arriving with his sharp, jerky walk, found that the master had
retired into his own room with orders not to be disturbed on any account. But
Dr. Monygham was not anxious to see Charles Gould at once. He spent some time in
a rapid examination of his wounded. He gazed down upon each in turn, rubbing his
chin between his thumb and forefinger; his steady stare met without expression
their silently inquisitive look. All these cases were doing well; but when he
came to the dead Cargador he stopped a little longer, surveying not the man who
had ceased to suffer, but the woman kneeling in silent contemplation of the
rigid face, with its pinched nostrils and a white gleam in the imperfectly
closed eyes. She lifted her head slowly, and said in a dull voice -
    »It is not long since he had become a Cargador - only a few weeks. His
worship the Capataz had accepted him after many entreaties.«
    »I am not responsible for the great Capataz,« muttered the doctor, moving
off.
    Directing his course upstairs towards the door of Charles Gould's room, the
doctor at the last moment hesitated; then, turning away from the handle with a
shrug of his uneven shoulders, slunk off hastily along the corridor in search of
Mrs. Gould's camerista.
    Leonarda told him that the señora had not risen yet. The señora had given
into her charge the girls belonging to that Italian posadero. She, Leonarda, had
put them to bed in her own room. The fair girl had cried herself to sleep, but
the dark one - the bigger - had not closed her eyes yet. She sat up in bed
clutching the sheets right up under her chin and staring before her like a
little witch. Leonarda did not approve of the Viola children being admitted to
the house. She made this feeling clear by the indifferent tone in which she
inquired whether their mother was dead yet. As to the señora, she must be
asleep. Ever since she had gone into her room after seeing the departure of Doña
Antonia with her dying father, there had been no sound behind her door.
    The doctor, rousing himself out of profound reflection, told her abruptly to
call her mistress at once. He hobbled off to wait for Mrs. Gould in the sala. He
was very tired, but too excited to sit down. In this great drawing-room, now
empty, in which his withered soul had been refreshed after many arid years and
his outcast spirit had accepted silently the toleration of many side-glances, he
wandered haphazard amongst the chairs and tables till Mrs. Gould, enveloped in a
morning wrapper, came in rapidly.
    »You know that I never approved of the silver being sent away,« the doctor
began at once, as a preliminary to the narrative of his night's adventurers in
association with Captain Mitchell, the engineer-in-chief, and old Viola, at
Sotillo's headquarters. To the doctor, with his special conception of this
political crisis, the removal of the silver had seemed an irrational and
ill-omened measure. It was as if a general were sending the best part of his
troops away on the eve of battle upon some recondite pretext. The whole lot of
ingots might have been concealed somewhere where they could have been got at for
the purpose of staving off the dangers which were menacing the security of the
Gould Concession. The Administrator had acted as if the immense and powerful
prosperity of the mine had been founded on methods of probity, on the sense of
usefulness. And it was nothing of the kind. The method followed had been the
only one possible. The Gould Concession had ransomed its way through all those
years. It was a nauseous process. He quite understood that Charles Gould had got
sick of it and had left the old path to back up that hopeless attempt at reform.
The doctor did not believe in the reform of Costaguana. And now the mine was
back again in its old path, with the disadvantage that henceforth it had to deal
not only with the greed provoked by its wealth, but with the resentment awakened
by the attempt to free itself from its bondage to moral corruption. That was the
penalty of failure. What made him uneasy was that Charles Gould seemed to him to
have weakened at the decisive moment when a frank return to the old methods was
the only chance. Listening to Decoud's wild scheme had been a weakness.
    The doctor flung up his arms, exclaiming, »Decoud! Decoud!« He hobbled about
the room with slight, angry laughs. Many years ago both his ankles had been
seriously damaged in the course of a certain investigation conducted in the
castle of Sta. Marta by a commission composed of military men. Their nomination
had been signified to them unexpectedly at the dead of night, with scowling
brow, flashing eyes, and in a tempestuous voice, by Guzman Bento. The old
tyrant, maddened by one of his sudden accesses of suspicion, mingled spluttering
appeals to their fidelity with imprecations and horrible menaces. The cells and
casements of the castle on the hill had been already filled with prisoners. The
commission was charged now with the task of discovering the iniquitous
conspiracy against the Citizen-Saviour of his country.
    The dread of the raving tyrant translated itself into a hasty ferocity of
procedure. The Citizen-Saviour was not accustomed to wait. A conspiracy had to
be discovered. The courtyards of the castle resounded with the clanking of
leg-irons, sounds of blows, yells of pain; and the commission of high officers
laboured feverishly, concealing their distress and apprehensions from each
other, and especially from their secretary, Father Beron, an army chaplain, at
that time very much in the confidence of the Citizen-Saviour. That priest was a
big round-shouldered man, with an unclean-looking, overgrown tonsure on the top
of his flat head, of a dingy, yellow complexion, softly fat, with greasy stains
all down the front of his lieutenant's uniform, and a small cross embroidered in
white cotton on his left breast. He had a heavy nose and a pendant lip. Dr.
Monygham remembered him still. He remembered him against all the force of his
will striving its utmost to forget. Father Beron had been adjoined to the
commission by Guzman Bento expressly for the purpose that his enlightened zeal
should assist them in their labours. Dr. Monygham could by no manner of means
forget the zeal of Father Beron, or his face, or the pitiless, monotonous voice
in which he pronounced the words, »Will you confess now?«
    The memory did not make him shudder, but it had made of him what he was in
the eyes of respectable people, a man careless of common decencies, something
between a clever vagabond and a disreputable doctor. But not all respectable
people would have had the necessary delicacy of sentiment to understand with
what trouble of mind and accuracy of vision Dr. Monygham, medical officer of the
San Tomé mine, remembered Father Beron, army chaplain, and once a secretary of a
military commission. After all these years Dr. Monygham, in his rooms at the end
of the hospital building in the San Tomé gorge, remembered Father Beron as
distinctly as ever. He remembered that priest at night, sometimes, in his sleep.
On such nights the doctor waited for daylight with a candle lighted, and walking
the whole length of his rooms to and fro, staring down at his bare feet, his
arms hugging his sides tightly. He would dream of Father Beron sitting at the
end of a long black table, behind which, in a row, appeared the heads,
shoulders, and epaulettes of the military members, nibbling the feather of a
quill pen, and listening with weary and impatient scorn to the protestations of
some prisoner calling heaven to witness of his innocence, till he burst out,
»What's the use of wasting time over that miserable nonsense! Let me take him
outside for a while.« And Father Beron would go outside after the clanking
prisoner, led away between two soldiers. Such interludes happened on many days,
many times, with many prisoners. When the prisoner returned he was ready to make
a full confession, Father Beron would declare, leaning forward with that dull,
surfeited look which can be seen in the eyes of gluttonous persons after a heavy
meal.
    The priest's inquisitorial instincts suffered but little from the want of
classical apparatus of the Inquisition. At no time of the world's history have
men been at a loss how to inflict mental and bodily anguish upon their
fellow-creatures. This aptitude came to them in the growing complexity of their
passions and the early refinement of their ingenuity. But it may safely be said
that primeval man did not go to the trouble of inventing tortures. He was
indolent and pure of heart. He brained his neighbour ferociously with a stone
axe from necessity and without malice. The stupidest mind may invent a rankling
phrase or brand the innocent with a cruel aspersion. A piece of string and a
ramrod; a few muskets in combination with a length of hide rope; or even a
simple mallet of heavy, hard wood applied with a swing to human fingers or to
the joints of a human body is enough for the infliction of the most exquisite
torture. The doctor had been a very stubborn prisoner, and, as a natural
consequence of that bad disposition (so Father Beron called it), his subjugation
had been very crushing and very complete. That is why the limp in his walk, the
twist of his shoulders, the scars on his cheeks were so pronounced. His
confessions, when they came at last, were very complete, too. Sometimes on the
nights when he walked the floor, he wondered, grinding his teeth with shame and
rage, at the fertility of his imagination when stimulated by a sort of pain
which makes truth, honour, self-respect, and life itself matters of little
moment.
    And he could not forget Father Beron with his monotonous phrase, »Will you
confess now?« reaching him in an awful iteration and lucidity of meaning through
the delirious incoherence of unbearable pain. He could not forget. But that was
not the worst. Had he met Father Beron in the street after all these years Dr.
Monygham was sure he would have quailed before him. This contingency was not to
be feared now. Father Beron was dead; but the sickening certitude prevented Dr.
Monygham from looking anybody in the face.
    Dr. Monygham had become, in a manner, the slave of a ghost. It was obviously
impossible to take his knowledge of Father Beron home to Europe. When making his
extorted confessions to the Military Board, Dr. Monygham was not seeking to
avoid death. He longed for it. Sitting half-naked for hours on the wet earth of
his prison, and so motionless that the spiders, his companions, attached their
webs to his matted hair, he consoled the misery of his soul with acute
reasonings that he had confessed to crimes enough for a sentence of death - that
they had gone too far with him to let him live to tell the tale.
    But, as if by a refinement of cruelty, Dr. Monygham was left for months to
decay slowly in the darkness of his grave-like prison. It was no doubt hoped
that it would finish him off without the trouble of an execution; but Dr.
Monygham had an iron constitution. It was Guzman Bento who died, not by the
knife thrust of a conspirator, but from a stroke of apoplexy, and Dr. Monygham
was liberated hastily. His fetters were struck off by the light of a candle,
which, after months of gloom, hurt his eyes so much that he had to cover his
face with his hands. He was raised up. His heart was beating violently with the
fear of this liberty. When he tried to walk the extraordinary lightness of his
feet made him giddy, and he fell down. Two sticks were thrust into his hands,
and he was pushed out of the passage. It was dusk; candles glimmered already in
the windows of the officers' quarters round the courtyard; but the twilight sky
dazed him by its enormous and overwhelming brilliance. A thin poncho hung over
his naked, bony shoulders; the rags of his trousers came down no lower than his
knees; an eighteen months' growth of hair fell in dirty grey locks on each side
of his sharp cheek-bones. As he dragged himself past the guard-room door, one of
the soldiers, lolling outside, moved by some obscure impulse, leaped forward
with a strange laugh and rammed a broken old straw hat on his head. And Dr.
Monygham, after having tottered, continued on his way. He advanced one stick,
then one maimed foot, then the other stick; the other foot followed only a very
short distance along the ground, toilfully, as though it were almost too heavy
to be moved at all; and yet his legs under the hanging angles of the poncho
appeared no thicker than the two sticks in his hands. A ceaseless trembling
agitated his bent body, all his wasted limbs, his bony head, the conical, ragged
crown of the sombrero, whose ample flat rim rested on his shoulders.
    In such conditions of manner and attire did Dr. Monygham go forth to take
possession of his liberty. And these conditions seemed to bind him indissolubly
to the land of Costaguana like an awful procedure of naturalization, involving
him deep in the national life, far deeper than any amount of success and honour
could have done. They did away with his Europeanism; for Dr. Monygham had made
himself an ideal conception of his disgrace. It was a conception eminently fit
and proper for an officer and a gentleman. Dr. Monygham, before he went out to
Costaguana, had been surgeon in one of Her Majesty's regiments of foot. It was a
conception which took no account of physiological facts or reasonable arguments;
but it was not stupid for all that. It was simple. A rule of conduct resting
mainly on severe rejections is necessarily simple. Dr. Monygham's view of what
it behoved him to do was severe; it was an ideal view, in so much that it was
the imaginative exaggeration of a correct feeling. It was also, in its force,
influence, and persistency, the view of an eminently loyal nature.
    There was a great fund of loyalty in Dr. Monygham's nature. He had settled
it all on Mrs. Gould's head. He believed her worthy of every devotion. At the
bottom of his heart he felt an angry uneasiness before the prosperity of the San
Tomé mine, because its growth was robbing her of all peace of mind. Costaguana
was no place for a woman of that kind. What could Charles Gould have been
thinking of when he brought her out there! It was outrageous! And the doctor had
watched the course of events with a grim and distant reserve which, he imagined,
his lamentable history imposed upon him.
    Loyalty to Mrs. Gould could not, however, leave out of account the safety of
her husband. The doctor had contrived to be in town at the critical time because
he mistrusted Charles Gould. He considered him hopelessly infected with the
madness of revolutions. That is why he hobbled in distress in the drawing-room
of the Casa Gould on that morning, exclaiming, »Decoud, Decoud!« in a tone of
mournful irritation.
    Mrs. Gould, her colour heightened, and with glistening eyes, looked straight
before her at the sudden enormity of that disaster. The finger-tips on one hand
rested lightly on a low little table by her side, and the arm trembled right up
to the shoulder. The sun, which looks late upon Sulaco, issuing in all the
fullness of its power high up on the sky from behind the dazzling snow-edge of
Higuerota, had precipitated the delicate, smooth, pearly greyness of light, in
which the town lies steeped during the early hours, into sharp-cut masses of
black shade and spaces of hot, blinding glare. Three long rectangles of sunshine
fell through the windows of the sala; while just across the street the front of
the Avellanos's house appeared very sombre in its own shadow seen through the
flood of light.
    A voice said at the door, »What of Decoud?«
    It was Charles Gould. They had not heard him coming along the corridor. His
glance just glided over his wife and struck full at the doctor.
    »You have brought some news, doctor?«
    Dr. Monygham blurted it all at once, in the rough. For some time after he
had done, the Administrator of the San Tomé mine remained looking at him without
a word. Mrs. Gould sank into a low chair with her hands lying on her lap. A
silence reigned between those three motionless persons. Then Charles Gould spoke
-
    »You must want some breakfast.«
    He stood aside to let his wife pass first. She caught up her husband's hand
and pressed it as she went out, raising the handkerchief to her eyes. The sight
of her husband had brought Antonia's position to her mind, and she could not
contain her tears at the thought of the poor girl. When she rejoined the two men
in the dining-room after having bathed her face, Charles Gould was saying to the
doctor across the table -
    »No, there does not seem any room for doubt.«
    And the doctor assented.
    »No, I don't see myself how we could question that wretched Hirsch's tale.
It's only too true, I fear.«
    She sat down desolately at the head of the table and looked from one to the
other. The two men, without absolutely turning their heads away, tried to avoid
her glance. The doctor even made a show of being hungry; he seized his knife and
fork, and began to eat with emphasis, as if on the stage. Charles Gould made no
pretence of the sort; with his elbows raised squarely, he twisted both ends of
his flaming moustaches - they were so long that his hands were quite away from
his face.
    »I am not surprised,« he muttered, abandoning his moustaches and throwing
one arm over the back of his chair. His face was calm with that immobility of
expression which betrays the intensity of a mental struggle. He felt that this
accident had brought to a point all the consequences involved in his line of
conduct, with its conscious and subconscious intentions. There must be an end
now of this silent reserve, of that air of impenetrability behind which he had
been safe-guarding his dignity. It was the least ignoble form of dissembling
forced upon him by that parody of civilized institutions which offended his
intelligence, his uprightness, and his sense of right. He was like his father.
He had no ironic eye. He was not amused at the absurdities that prevail in this
world. They hurt him in his innate gravity. He felt that the miserable death of
that poor Decoud took from him his inaccessible position of a force in the
background. It committed him openly unless he wished to throw up the game - and
that was impossible. The material interests required from him the sacrifice of
his aloofness - perhaps his own safety too. And he reflected that Decoud's
separationist plan had not gone to the bottom with the lost silver.
    The only thing that was not changed was his position towards Mr. Holroyd.
The head of silver and steel interests had entered into Costaguana affairs with
a sort of passion. Costaguana had become necessary to his existence; in the San
Tomé mine he had found the imaginative satisfaction which other minds would get
from drama, from art, or from a risky and fascinating sport. It was a special
form of the great man's extravagance, sanctioned by a moral intention, big
enough to flatter his vanity. Even in this aberration of his genius he served
the progress of the world. Charles Gould felt sure of being understood with
precision and judged with the indulgence of their common passion. Nothing now
could surprise or startle this great man. And Charles Gould imagined himself
writing a letter to San Francisco in some such words: » ... The men at the head
of the movement are dead or have fled; the civil organization of the province is
at an end for the present; the Blanco party in Sulaco has collapsed inexcusably,
but in the characteristic manner of this country. But Barrios, untouched in
Cayta, remains still available. I am forced to take up openly the plan of a
provincial revolution as the only way of placing the enormous material interests
involved in the prosperity and peace of Sulaco in a position of permanent safety
...« That was clear. He saw these words as if written in letters of fire upon
the wall at which he was gazing abstractedly.
    Mrs. Gould watched his abstraction with dread. It was a domestic and
frightful phenomenon that darkened and chilled the house for her like a
thunder-cloud passing over the sun. Charles Gould's fits of abstraction depicted
the energetic concentration of a will haunted by a fixed idea. A man haunted by
a fixed idea is insane. He is dangerous even if that idea is an idea of justice;
for may he not bring the heaven down pitilessly upon a loved head? The eyes of
Mrs. Gould, watching her husband's profile, filled with tears again. And again
she seemed to see the despair of the unfortunate Antonia.
    »What would I have done if Charley had been drowned while we were engaged?«
she exclaimed, mentally, with horror. Her heart turned to ice, while her cheeks
flamed up as if scorched by the blaze of a funeral pyre consuming all her
earthly affections. The tears burst out of her eyes.
    »Antonia will kill herself!« she cried out.
    This cry fell into the silence of the room with strangely little effect.
Only the doctor, crumbling up a piece of bread, with his head inclined on one
side, raised his face, and the few long hairs sticking out of his shaggy
eyebrows stirred in a slight frown. Dr. Monygham thought quite sincerely that
Decoud was a singularly unworthy object for any woman's affection. Then he
lowered his head again, with a curl of his lip, and his heart full of tender
admiration for Mrs. Gould.
    »She thinks of that girl,« he said to himself; »she thinks of the Viola
children; she thinks of me; of the wounded; of the miners; she always thinks of
everybody who is poor and miserable! But what will she do if Charles gets the
worst of it in this infernal scrimmage those confounded Avellanos have drawn him
into? No one seems to be thinking of her.«
    Charles Gould, staring at the wall, pursued his reflections subtly.
    »I shall write to Holroyd that the San Tomé mine is big enough to take in
hand the making of a new State. It'll please him. It'll reconcile him to the
risk.«
    But was Barrios really available? Perhaps. But he was inaccessible. To send
off a boat to Cayta was no longer possible, since Sotillo was master of the
harbour, and had a steamer at his disposal. And now, with all the democrats in
the province up, and every Campo township in a state of disturbance, where could
he find a man who would make his way successfully overland to Cayta with a
message, a ten days' ride at least; a man of courage and resolution, who would
avoid arrest or murder, and if arrested would faithfully eat the paper? The
Capataz de Cargadores would have been just such a man. But the Capataz of the
Cargadores was no more.
    And Charles Gould, withdrawing his eyes from the wall, said gently, »That
Hirsch! What an extraordinary thing! Saved himself by clinging to the anchor,
did he? I had no idea that he was still in Sulaco. I thought he had gone back
overland to Esmeralda more than a week ago. He came here once to talk to me
about his hide business and some other things. I made it clear to him that
nothing could be done.«
    »He was afraid to start back on account of Hernandez being about,« remarked
the doctor.
    »And but for him we might not have known anything of what has happened,«
marvelled Charles Gould.
    Mrs. Gould cried out -
    »Antonia must not know! She must not be told. Not now.«
    »Nobody's likely to carry the news,« remarked the doctor. »It's no one's
interest. Moreover, the people here are afraid of Hernandez as if he were the
devil.« He turned to Charles Gould. »It's even awkward, because if you wanted to
communicate with the refugees you could find no messenger. When Hernandez was
ranging hundreds of miles away from here the Sulaco populace used to shudder at
the tales of him roasting his prisoners alive.«
    »Yes,« murmured Charles Gould; »Captain Mitchell's Capataz was the only man
in the town who had seen Hernandez eye to eye. Father Corbelàn employed him. He
opened the communications first. It is a pity that -«
    His voice was covered by the booming of the great bell of the cathedral.
Three single strokes, one after another, burst out explosively, dying away in
deep and mellow vibrations. And then all the bells in the tower of every church,
convent, or chapel in town, even those that had remained shut up for years,
pealed out together with a crash. In this furious flood of metallic uproar there
was a power of suggesting images of strife and violence which blanched Mrs.
Gould's cheek. Basilio, who had been waiting at table, shrinking within himself,
clung to the sideboard with chattering teeth. It was impossible to hear yourself
speak.
    »Shut these windows!« Charles Gould yelled at him, angrily. All the other
servants, terrified at what they took for the signal of a general massacre, had
rushed upstairs, tumbling over each other, men and women, the obscure and
generally invisible population of the ground floor on the four sides of the
patio. The women, screaming »Misericordia!« ran right into the room, and,
falling on their knees against the walls, began to cross themselves
convulsively. The staring heads of men blocked the doorway in an instant - mozos
from the stable, gardeners, nondescript helpers living on the crumbs of the
munificent house - and Charles Gould beheld all the extent of his domestic
establishment, even to the gatekeeper. This was a half-paralysed old man, whose
long white locks fell down to his shoulders: an heirloom taken up by Charles
Gould's familial piety. He could remember Henry Gould, an Englishman and a
Costaguanero of the second generation, chief of the Sulaco province; he had been
his personal mozo years and years ago in peace and war; had been allowed to
attend his master in prison; had, on the fatal morning, followed the firing
squad; and, peeping from behind one of the cypresses growing along the wall of
the Franciscan Convent, had seen, with his eyes starting out of his head, Don
Enrique throw up his hands and fall with his face in the dust. Charles Gould
noted particularly the big patriarchal head of that witness in the rear of the
other servants. But he was surprised to see a shrivelled old hag or two, of
whose existence within the walls of his house he had not been aware. They must
have been the mothers, or even the grandmothers of some of his people. There
were a few children, too, more or less naked, crying and clinging to the legs of
their elders. He had never before noticed any sign of a child in his patio. Even
Leonarda, the camerista, came in a fright, pushing through, with her spoiled,
pouting face of a favourite maid, leading the Viola girls by the hand. The
crockery rattled on table and sideboard, and the whole house seemed to sway in
the deafening wave of sound.
 

                                  Chapter Five

During the night the expectant populace had taken possession of all the belfries
in the town in order to welcome Pedrito Montero, who was making his entry after
having slept the night in Rincon. And first came straggling in through the land
gate the armed mob of all colours, complexions, types, and states of raggedness,
calling themselves the Sulaco National Guard, and commanded by Señor Gamacho.
Through the middle of the street streamed, like a torrent of rubbish, a mass of
straw hats, ponchos, gun-barrels, with an enormous green and yellow flag
flapping in their midst, in a cloud of dust, to the furious beating of drums.
The spectators recoiled against the walls of the houses shouting their Vivas!
Behind the rabble could be seen the lances of the cavalry, the army of Pedro
Montero. He advanced between Señores Fuentes and Gamacho at the head of his
llaneros, who had accomplished the feat of crossing the Paramos of the Higuerota
in a snow-storm. They rode four abreast, mounted on confiscated Campo horses,
clad in the heterogeneous stock of roadside stores they had looted hurriedly in
their rapid ride through the northern part of the province; for Pedro Montero
had been in a great hurry to occupy Sulaco. The handkerchiefs knotted loosely
around their bare throats were glaringly new, and all the right sleeves of their
cotton shirts had been cut off close to the shoulder for greater freedom in
throwing the lazo. Emaciated greybeards rode by the side of lean dark youths,
marked by all the hardships of campaigning, with strips of raw beef twined round
the crowns of their hats, and huge iron spurs fastened to their naked heels.
Those that in the passes of the mountain had lost their lances had provided
themselves with the goads used by the Campo cattlemen: slender shafts of palm
fully ten feet long, with a lot of loose rings jingling under the ironshod
point. They were armed with knives and revolvers. A haggard fearlessness
characterized the expression of all these sun-blacked countenances; they glared
down haughtily with their scorched eyes at the crowd, or, blinking upwards
insolently, pointed out to each other some particular head amongst the women at
the windows. When they had ridden into the Plaza and caught sight of the
equestrian statue of the King dazzlingly white in the sunshine, towering
enormous and motionless above the surges of the crowd, with its eternal gesture
of saluting, a murmur of surprise ran through their ranks. »What is that saint
in the big hat?« they asked each other.
    They were a good sample of the cavalry of the plains with which Pedro
Montero had helped so much the victorious career of his brother the general. The
influence which that man, brought up in coast towns, acquired in a short time
over the plainsmen of the Republic can be ascribed only to a genius for
treachery of so effective a kind that it must have appeared to those violent men
but little removed from a state of utter savagery, as the perfection of sagacity
and virtue. The popular lore of all nations testifies that duplicity and
cunning, together with bodily strength, were looked upon, even more than
courage, as heroic virtues by primitive mankind. To overcome your adversary was
the great affair of life. Courage was taken for granted. But the use of
intelligence awakened wonder and respect. Stratagems, providing they did not
fail, were honourable; the easy massacre of an unsuspecting enemy evoked no
feelings but those of gladness, pride, and admiration. Not perhaps that
primitive men were more faithless than their descendants of to-day, but that
they went straighter to their aim, and were more artless in their recognition of
success as the only standard of morality.
    We have changed since. The use of intelligence awakens little wonder and
less respect. But the ignorant and barbarous plainsmen engaging in civil strife
followed willingly a leader who often managed to deliver their enemies bound, as
it were, into their hands. Pedro Montero had a talent for lulling his
adversaries into a sense of security. And as men learn wisdom with extreme
slowness, and are always ready to believe promises that flatter their secret
hopes, Pedro Montero was successful time after time. Whether only a servant or
some inferior official in the Costaguana Legation in Paris, he had rushed back
to his country directly he heard that his brother had emerged from the obscurity
of his frontier commandancia. He had managed to deceive by his gift of
plausibility the chiefs of the Ribierist movement in the capital, and even the
acute agent of the San Tomé mine had failed to understand him thoroughly. At
once he had obtained an enormous influence over his brother. They were very much
alike in appearance, both bald, with bunches of crisp hair above their ears,
arguing the presence of some negro blood. Only Pedro was smaller than the
general, more delicate altogether, with an ape-like faculty for imitating all
the outward signs of refinement and distinction, and with a parrot-like talent
for languages. Both brothers had received some elementary instruction by the
munificence of a great European traveller, to whom their father had been a
body-servant during his journeys in the interior of the country. In General
Montero's case it enabled him to rise from the ranks. Pedrito, the younger,
incorrigibly lazy and slovenly, had drifted aimlessly from one coast town to
another, hanging about counting-houses, attaching himself to strangers as a sort
of valet-de-place, picking up an easy and disreputable living. His ability to
read did nothing for him but fill his head with absurd visions. His actions were
usually determined by motives so improbable in themselves as to escape the
penetration of a rational person.
    Thus at first sight the agent of the Gould Concession in Sta. Marta had
credited him with the possession of sane views, and even with a restraining
power over the general's everlastingly discontented vanity. It could never have
entered his head that Pedrito Montero, lackey or inferior scribe, lodged in the
garrets of the various Parisian hotels where the Costaguana Legation used to
shelter its diplomatic dignity, had been devouring the lighter sort of
historical works in the French language, such, for instance as the books of
Imbert de Saint Amand upon the Second Empire. But Pedrito had been struck by the
splendour of a brilliant court, and had conceived the idea of an existence for
himself where, like the Duc de Morny, he would associate the command of every
pleasure with the conduct of political affairs and enjoy power supremely in
every way. Nobody could have guessed that. And yet this was one of the immediate
causes of the Monterist Revolution. This will appear less incredible by the
reflection that the fundamental causes were the same as ever, rooted in the
political immaturity of the people, in the indolence of the upper classes and
the mental darkness of the lower.
    Pedrito Montero saw in the elevation of his brother the road wide open to
his wildest imaginings. This was what made the Monterist pronunciamiento so
unpreventable. The general himself probably could have been bought off, pacified
with flatteries, despatched on a diplomatic mission to Europe. It was his
brother who had egged him on from first to last. He wanted to become the most
brilliant statesman of South America. He did not desire supreme power. He would
have been afraid of its labour and risk, in fact. Before all, Pedrito Montero,
taught by his European experience, meant to acquire a serious fortune for
himself. With this object in view he obtained from his brother, on the very
morrow of the successful battle, the permission to push on over the mountains
and take possession of Sulaco. Sulaco was the land of future prosperity, the
chosen land of material progress, the only province in the Republic of interest
to European capitalists. Pedrito Montero, following the example of the Duc de
Morny, meant to have his share of this prosperity. This is what he meant
literally. Now his brother was master of the country, whether as president,
dictator, or even as Emperor - why not as an Emperor? - he meant to demand a
share in every enterprise - in railways, in mines, in sugar estates, in cotton
mills, in land companies, in each and every undertaking - as the price of his
protection. The desire to be on the spot early was the real cause of the
celebrated ride over the mountains with some two hundred llaneros, an enterprise
of which the dangers had not appeared at first clearly to his impatience. Coming
from a series of victories, it seemed to him that a Montero had only to appear
to be master of the situation. This illusion had betrayed him into a rashness of
which he was becoming aware. As he rode at the head of his llaneros he regretted
that there were so few of them. The enthusiasm of the populace reassured him.
They yelled »Viva Montero! Viva Pedrito!« In order to make them still more
enthusiastic, and from the natural pleasure he had in dissembling, he dropped
the reins on his horse's neck, and with a tremendous effect of familiarity and
confidence slipped his hands under the arms of Señores Fuentes and Gamacho. In
that posture, with a ragged town mozo holding his horse by the bridle, he rode
triumphantly across the Plaza to the door of the Intendencia. Its old gloomy
walls seemed to shake in the acclamations that rent the air and covered the
crashing peals of the cathedral bells.
    Pedro Montero, the brother of the general, dismounted into a shouting and
perspiring throng of enthusiasts whom the ragged Nationals were pushing back
fiercely. Ascending a few steps he surveyed the large crowd gaping at him and
the bullet-speckled walls of the houses opposite lightly veiled by a sunny haze
of dust. The word PORVENIR in immense black capitals, alternating with broken
windows, stared at him across the vast space; and he thought with delight of the
hour of vengeance, because he was very sure of laying his hands upon Decoud. On
his left hand, Gamacho, big and hot, wiping his hairy wet face, uncovered a set
of yellow fangs in a grin of stupid hilarity. On his right, Señor Fuentes, small
and lean, looked on with compressed lips. The crowd stared literally
open-mouthed, lost in eager stillness, as though they had expected the great
guerrillero, the famous Pedrito, to begin scattering at once some sort of
visible largesse. What he began was a speech. He began it with the shouted word
»Citizens!« which reached even those in the middle of the Plaza. Afterwards the
greater part of the citizens remained fascinated by the orator's action alone,
his tip-toeing, the arms flung above his head with the fists clenched, a hand
laid flat upon the heart, the silver gleam of rolling eyes, the sweeping,
pointing, embracing gestures, a hand laid familiarly on Gamacho's shoulder; a
hand waved formally towards the little black-coated person of Señor Fuentes,
advocate and politician and a true friend of the people. The vivas of those
nearest to the orator bursting out suddenly propagated themselves irregularly to
the confines of the crowd, like flames running over dry grass, and expired in
the opening of the streets. In the intervals, over the swarming Plaza brooded a
heavy silence, in which the mouth of the orator went on opening and shutting,
and detached phrases - »The happiness of the people,« »Sons of the country,«
»The entire world, el mundo entiero« - reached even the packed steps of the
cathedral with a feeble clear ring, thin as the buzzing of a mosquito. But the
orator struck his breast; he seemed to prance between his two supporters. It was
the supreme effort of his peroration. Then the two smaller figures disappeared
from the public gaze and the enormous Gamacho, left alone, advanced, raising his
hat high above his head. Then he covered himself proudly and yelled out,
»Ciudadanos!« A dull roar greeted Señor Gamacho, ex-pedlar of the Campo,
Commandante of the National Guards.
    Upstairs Pedrito Montero walked about rapidly from one wrecked room of the
Intendencia to another, snarling incessantly -
    »What stupidity! What destruction!«
    Señor Fuentes, following, would relax his taciturn disposition to murmur -
    »It is all the work of Gamacho and his Nationals;« and then, inclining his
head on his left shoulder, would press together his lips so firmly that a little
hollow would appear at each corner. He had his nomination for Political Chief of
the town in his pocket, and was all impatience to enter upon his functions.
    In the long audience room, with its tall mirrors all starred by stones, the
hangings torn down and the canopy over the platform at the upper end pulled to
pieces, the vast, deep muttering of the crowd and the howling voice of Gamacho
speaking just below reached them through the shutters as they stood idly in
dimness and desolation.
    »The brute!« observed his Excellency Don Pedro Montero through clenched
teeth. »We must contrive as quickly as possible to send him and his Nationals
out there to fight Hernandez.«
    The new Géfé Político only jerked his head sideways, and took a puff at his
cigarette in sign of his agreement with his method for ridding the town of
Gamacho and his inconvenient rabble.
    Pedrito Montero looked with disgust at the absolutely bare floor, and at the
belt of heavy gilt picture-frames running round the room, out of which the
remnants of torn and slashed canvases fluttered like dingy rags.
    »We are not barbarians,« he said.
    This was what said his Excellency, the popular Pedrito, the guerrillero
skilled in the art of laying ambushes, charged by his brother at his own demand
with the organization of Sulaco on democractic principles. The night before,
during the consultation with his partisans, who had come out to meet him in
Rincon, he had opened his intentions to Señor Fuentes -
    »We shall organize a popular vote, by yes or no, confiding the destinies of
our beloved country to the wisdom and valiance of my heroic brother, the
invincible general. A plebiscite. Do you understand?«
    And Señor Fuentes, puffing out his leathery cheeks, had inclined his head
slightly to the left, letting a thin, bluish jet of smoke escape through his
pursed lips. He had understood.
    His Excellency was exasperated at the devastation. Not a single chair,
table, sofa, étagère or console had been left in the state rooms of the
Intendencia. His Excellency, though twitching all over with rage, was restrained
from bursting into violence by a sense of his remoteness and isolation. His
heroic brother was very far away. Meantime, how was he going to take his siesta?
He had expected to find comfort and luxury in the Intendencia after a year of
hard camp life, ending with the hardships and privations of the daring dash upon
Sulaco - upon the province which was worth more in wealth and influence than all
the rest of the Republic's territory. He would get even with Gamacho by-and-by.
And Señor Gamacho's oration, delectable to popular ears, went on in the heat and
glare of the Plaza like the uncouth howlings of an inferior sort of devil cast
into a white-hot furnace. Every moment he had to wipe his streaming face with
his bare fore-arm; he had flung off his coat, and had turned up the sleeves of
his shirt high above the elbows; but he kept on his head the large cocked hat
with white plumes. His ingenuousness cherished this sign of his rank as
Commandante of the National Guards. Approving and grave murmurs greeted his
periods. His opinion was that war should be declared at once against France,
England, Germany, and the United States, who, by introducing railways, mining
enterprises, colonization, and under such other shallow pretences, aimed at
robbing poor people of their lands, and with the help of these Goths and
paralytics, the aristocrats would convert them into toiling and miserable
slaves. And the leperos, flinging about the corners of their dirty white mantas,
yelled their approbation. General Montero, Gamacho howled with conviction, was
the only man equal to the patriotic task. They assented to that, too.
    The morning was wearing on; there were already signs of disruption, currents
and eddies in the crowd. Some were seeking the shade of the walls and under the
trees of the Alameda. Horsemen spurred through, shouting; groups of sombreros
set level on heads against the vertical sun were drifting away into the streets,
where the open doors of pulperias revealed an enticing gloom resounding with the
gentle tinkling of guitars. The National Guards were thinking of siesta, and the
eloquence of Gamacho, their chief, was exhausted. Later on, when, in the cooler
hours of the afternoon, they tried to assemble again for further consideration
of public affairs, detachments of Montero's cavalry camped on the Alameda
charged them without parley, at speed, with long lances levelled at their flying
backs as far as the ends of the streets. The National Guards of Sulaco were
surprised by this proceeding. But they were not indignant. No Costaguanero had
ever learned to question the eccentricities of a military force. They were part
of the natural order of things. This must be, they concluded, some kind of
administrative measure, no doubt. But the motive of it escaped their unaided
intelligence, and their chief and orator, Gamacho, Commandante of the National
Guard, was lying drunk and asleep in the bosom of his family. His bare feet were
upturned in the shadows repulsively, in the manner of a corpse. His eloquent
mouth had dropped open. His youngest daughter, scratching her head with one
hand, with the other waved a green bough over his scorched and peeling face.
 

                                  Chapter Six

The declining sun had shifted the shadows from west to east amongst the houses
of the town. It had shifted them upon the whole extent of the immense Campo,
with the white walls of its haciendas on the knolls dominating the green
distances; with its grass-thatched ranchos crouching in the folds of ground by
the banks of streams; with the dark islands of clustered trees on a clear sea of
grass, and the precipitous range of the Cordillera, immense and motionless,
emerging from the billows of the lower forests like the barren coast of a land
of giants. The sunset rays striking the snow-slope of Higuerota from afar gave
it an air of rosy youth, while the serrated mass of distant peaks remained
black, as if calcined in the fiery radiance. The undulating surface of the
forests seemed powdered with pale gold dust; and away there, beyond Rincon,
hidden from the town by two wooded spurs, the rocks of the San Tomé gorge, with
the flat wall of the mountain itself crowned by gigantic ferns, took on warm
tones of brown and yellow, with red rusty streaks, and the dark green clumps of
bushes rooted in crevices. From the plain the stamp sheds and the houses of the
mine appeared dark and small, high up, like the nests of birds clustered on the
ledges of a cliff. The zigzag paths resembled faint tracings scratched on the
wall of a cyclopean blockhouse. To the two sereños of the mine on patrol duty,
strolling, carbine in hand, and watchful eyes, in the shade of the trees lining
the stream near the bridge, Don Pépé, descending the path from the upper
plateau, appeared no bigger than a large beetle.
    With his air of aimless, insect-like going to and fro upon the face of the
rock, Don Pépé's figure kept on descending steadily, and, when near the bottom,
sank at last behind the roofs of store-houses, forges, and workshops. For a time
the pair of sereños strolled back and forth before the bridge, on which they had
stopped a horseman holding a large white envelope in his hand. Then Don Pépé,
emerging in the village street from amongst the houses, not a stone's throw from
the frontier bridge, approached, striding in wide dark trousers tucked into
boots, a white linen jacket, sabre at his side, and revolver at his belt. In
this disturbed time nothing could find the Señor Gobernador with his boots off,
as the saying is.
    At a slight nod from one of the sereños, the man, a messenger from the town,
dismounted, and crossed the bridge, leading his horse by the bridle.
    Don Pépé received the letter from his other hand, slapped his left side and
his hips in succession, feeling for his spectacle case. After settling the heavy
silver-mounted affair astride his nose, and adjusting it carefully behind his
ears, he opened the envelope, holding it up at about a foot in front of his
eyes. The paper he pulled out contained some three lines of writing. He looked
at them for a long time. His grey moustache moved slightly up and down, and the
wrinkles, radiating at the corners of his eyes, ran together. He nodded
serenely. »Bueno,« he said. »There is no answer.«
    Then, in his quiet, kindly way, he engaged in a cautious conversation with
the man, who was willing to talk cheerily, as if something lucky had happened to
him recently. He had seen from a distance Sotillo's infantry camped along the
shore of the harbour on each side of the Custom House. They had done no damage
to the buildings. The foreigners of the railway remained shut up within the
yards. They were no longer anxious to shoot poor people. He cursed the
foreigners; then he reported Montero's entry and the rumours of the town. The
poor were going to be made rich now. That was very good. More he did not know,
and, breaking into propitiatory smiles, he intimated that he was hungry and
thirsty. The old major directed him to go to the alcalde of the first village.
The man rode off, and Don Pépé, striding slowly in the direction of a little
wooden belfry, looked over a hedge into a little garden, and saw Father Romàn
sitting in a white hammock slung between two orange trees in front of the
presbytery.
    An enormous tamarind shaded with its dark foliage the whole white
framehouse. A young Indian girl with long hair, big eyes, and small hands and
feet, carried out a wooden chair, while a thin old woman, crabbed and vigilant,
watched her all the time from the verandah.
    Don Pépé sat down in the chair and lighted a cigar; the priest drew in an
immense quantity of snuff out of the hollow of his palm. On his reddish-brown
face, worn, hollowed as if crumbled, the eyes, fresh and candid, sparkled like
two black diamonds.
    Don Pépé, in a mild and humorous voice, informed Father Romàn that Pedrito
Montero, by the hand of Señor Fuentes, had asked him on what terms he would
surrender the mine in proper working order to a legally constituted commission
of patriotic citizens, escorted by a small military force. The priest cast his
eyes up to heaven. However, Don Pépé continued, the mozo who brought the letter
said that Don Carlos Gould was alive, and so far unmolested.
    Father Romàn expressed in a few words his thankfulness at hearing of the
Señor Administrator's safety.
    The hour of oration had gone by in the silvery ringing of a bell in the
little belfry. The belt of forest closing the entrance of the valley stood like
a screen between the low sun and the street of the village. At the other end of
the rocky gorge, between the walls of basalt and granite, a forest-clad
mountain, hiding all the range from the San Tomé dwellers, rose steeply, lighted
up and leafy to the very top. Three small rosy clouds hung motionless overhead
in the great depth of blue. Knots of people sat in the street between the
wattled huts. Before the casa of the alcalde, the foremen of the night-shift,
already assembled to lead their men, squatted on the ground in a circle of
leather skullcaps, and, bowing their bronze backs, were passing round the gourd
of maté. The mozo from the town, having fastened his horse to a wooden post
before the door, was telling them the news of Sulaco as the blackened gourd of
the decoction passed from hand to hand. The grave alcalde himself, in a white
waistcloth and a flowered chintz gown with sleeves, open wide upon his naked
stout person with an effect of a gaudy bathing robe, stood by, wearing a rough
beaver hat at the back of his head, and grasping a tall staff with a silver knob
in his hand. These insignia of his dignity had been conferred upon him by the
Administration of the mine, the fountain of honour, of prosperity, and peace. He
had been one of the first immigrants into this valley; his sons and sons-in-law
worked within the mountain which seemed with its treasures to pour down the
thundering ore shoots of the upper mesa, the gifts of well-being, security, and
justice upon the toilers. He listened to the news from the town with curiosity
and indifference, as if concerning another world than his own. And it was true
that they appeared to him so. In a very few years the sense of belonging to a
powerful organization had been developed in these harassed, half-wild Indians.
They were proud of, and attached to, the mine. It had secured their confidence
and belief. They invested it with a protecting and invincible virtue as though
it were a fetish made by their own hands, for they were ignorant, and in other
respects did not differ appreciably from the rest of mankind which puts infinite
trust in its own creations. It never entered the alcalde's head that the mine
could fail in its protection and force. Politics were good enough for the people
of the town and the Campo. His yellow, round face, with wide nostrils, and
motionless in expression, resembled a fierce full moon. He listened to the
excited vapourings of the mozo without misgivings, without surprise, without any
active sentiment whatever.
    Padre Romàn sat dejectedly balancing himself, his feet just touching the
ground, his hands gripping the edge of the hammock. With less confidence, but as
ignorant as his flock, he asked the major what did he think was going to happen
now.
    Don Pépé, bolt upright in the chair, folded his hands peacefully on the hilt
of his sword, standing perpendicular between his thighs, and answered that he
did not know. The mine could be defended against any force likely to be sent to
take possession. On the other hand, from the arid character of the valley, when
the regular supplies from the Campo had been cut off, the population of the
three villages could be starved into submission. Don Pépé exposed these
contingencies with serenity to Father Romàn, who, as an old campaigner, was able
to understand the reasoning of a military man. They talked with simplicity and
directness. Father Romàn was saddened at the idea of his flock being scattered
or else enslaved. He had no illusions as to their fate, not from penetration,
but from long experience of political atrocities, which seemed to him fatal and
unavoidable in the life of a State. The working of the usual public institutions
presented itself to him most distinctly as a series of calamities overtaking
private individuals and flowing logically from each other through hate, revenge,
folly, and rapacity, as though they had been part of a divine dispensation.
Father Romàn's clear-sightedness was served by an uninformed intelligence; but
his heart, preserving its tenderness amongst scenes of carnage, spoliation, and
violence, abhorred these calamities the more as his association with the victims
was closer. He entertained towards the Indians of the valley feelings of
paternal scorn. He had been marrying, baptizing, confessing, absolving, and
burying the workers of the San Tomé mine with dignity and unction for five years
or more; and he believed in the sacredness of these ministrations, which made
them his own in a spiritual sense. They were dear to his sacerdotal supremacy.
Mrs. Gould's earnest interest in the concerns of these people enhanced their
importance in the priest's eyes, because it really augmented his own. When
talking over with her the innumerable Marias and Brigidas of the villages, he
felt his own humanity expand. Padre Romàn was incapable of fanaticism to an
almost reprehensible degree. The English señora was evidently a heretic; but at
the same time she seemed to him wonderful and angelic. Whenever that confused
state of his feelings occurred to him, while strolling, for instance, his
breviary under his arm, in the wide shade of the tamarind, he would stop short
to inhale with a strong snuffling noise a large quantity of snuff, and shake his
head profoundly. At the thought of what might befall the illustrious señora
presently, he became gradually overcome with dismay. He voiced it in an agitated
murmur. Even Don Pépé lost his serenity for a moment. He leaned forward stiffly.
    »Listen, Padre. The very fact that those thieving macaques in Sulaco are
trying to find out the price of my honour proves that Señor Don Carlos and all
in the Casa Gould are safe. As to my honour, that also is safe, as every man,
woman, and child knows. But the negro Liberals who have snatched the town by
surprise do not know that. Bueno. Let them sit and wait. While they wait they
can do no harm.«
    And he regained his composure. He regained it easily, because whatever
happened his honour of an old officer of Paez was safe. He had promised Charles
Gould that at the approach of an armed force he would defend the gorge just long
enough to give himself time to destroy scientifically the whole plant,
buildings, and workshops of the mine with heavy charges of dynamite; block with
ruins the main tunnel, break down the pathways, blow up the dam of the
water-power, shatter the famous Gould Concession into fragments, flying sky high
out of a horrified world. The mine had got hold of Charles Gould with a grip as
deadly as ever it had laid upon his father. But this extreme resolution had
seemed to Don Pépé the most natural thing in the world. His measures had been
taken with judgment. Everything was prepared with a careful completeness. And
Don Pépé folded his hands pacifically on his sword hilt and nodded at the
priest. In his excitement, Father Romàn had flung snuff in handfuls at his face,
and, all besmeared with tobacco, round-eyed, and beside himself, had got out of
the hammock to walk about, uttering exclamations.
    Don Pépé stroked his grey and pendant moustache, whose fine ends hung far
below the clean-cut line of his jaw, and spoke with a conscious pride in his
reputation.
    »So, Padre, I don't know what will happen. But I know that as long as I am
here Don Carlos can speak to that macaque, Pedrito Montero, and threaten the
destruction of the mine with perfect assurance that will be taken seriously. For
people know me.«
    He began to turn the cigar in his lips a little nervously, and went on -
    »But that is talk - good for the politicos. I am a military man. I do not
know what may happen. But I know what ought to be done - the mine should march
upon the town with guns, axes, knives tied up to sticks - por Dios. That is what
should be done. Only -«
    His folded hands twitched on the hilt. The cigar turned faster in the corner
of his lips.
    »And who should lead but I? Unfortunately - observe - I have given my word
of honour to Don Carlos not to let the mine fall into the hands of these
thieves. In war - you know this, Padre - the fate of battles is uncertain, and
whom could I leave here to act for me in case of defeat? The explosives are
ready. But it would require a man of high honour, of intelligence, of judgment,
of courage, to carry out the prepared destruction. Somebody I can trust with my
honour as I can trust myself. Another old officer of Paez, for instance. Or - or
- perhaps one of Paez's old chaplains would do.«
    He got up, long, lank, upright, hard, with his martial moustache and the
bony structure of his face, from which the glance of the sunken eyes seemed to
transfix the priest, who stood still, an empty wooden snuff-box held upside down
in his hand, and glared back, speechless, at the governor of the mine.
 

                                 Chapter Seven

At about that time, in the Intendencia of Sulaco, Charles Gould was assuring
Pedrito Montero, who had sent a request for his presence there, that he would
never let the mine pass out of his hands for the profit of a Government who had
robbed him of it. The Gould Concession could not be resumed. His father had not
desired it. The son would never surrender it. He would never surrender it alive.
And once dead, where was the power capable of resuscitating such an enterprise
in all its vigour and wealth out of the ashes and ruin of destruction? There was
no such power in the country. And where was the skill and capital abroad that
would condescend to touch such an ill-omened corpse? Charles Gould talked in the
impassive tone which had for many years served to conceal his anger and
contempt. He suffered. He was disgusted with what he had to say. It was too much
like heroics. In him the strictly practical instinct was in profound discord
with the almost mystic view he took of his right. The Gould Concession was
symbolic of abstract justice. Let the heavens fall. But since the San Tomé mine
had developed into world-wide fame his threat had enough force and effectiveness
to reach the rudimentary intelligence of Pedro Montero, wrapped up as it was in
the futilities of historical anecdotes. The Gould Concession was a serious asset
in the country's finance, and, what was more, in the private budgets of many
officials as well. It was traditional. It was known. It was said. It was
credible. Every Minister of Interior drew a salary from the San Tomé mine. It
was natural. And Pedrito intended to be Minister of the Interior and President
of the Council in his brother's Government. The Duc de Morny had occupied those
high posts during the Second French Empire with conspicuous advantage to
himself.
    A table, a chair, a wooden bedstead had been procured for His Excellency,
who, after a short siesta, rendered absolutely necessary by the labours and the
pomps of his entry into Sulaco, had been getting hold of the administrative
machine by making appointments, giving orders, and signing proclamations. Alone
with Charles Gould in the audience room, His Excellency managed with his
well-known skill to conceal his annoyance and consternation. He had begun at
first to talk loftily of confiscation, but the want of all proper feeling and
mobility in the Señor Administrator's features ended by affecting adversely his
power of masterful expression. Charles Gould had repeated: »The Government can
certainly bring about the destruction of the San Tomé mine if it likes; but
without me it can do nothing else.« It was an alarming pronouncement, and well
calculated to hurt the sensibilities of a politician whose mind is bent upon the
spoils of victory. And Charles Gould said also that the destruction of the San
Tomé mine would cause the ruin of other undertakings, the withdrawal of European
capital, the withholding, most probably, of the last instalment of the foreign
loan. That stony fiend of a man said all these things (which were accessible to
His Excellency's intelligence) in a coldblooded manner which made one shudder.
    A long course of reading historical works, light and gossipy in tone,
carried out in garrets of Parisian hotels, sprawling on an untidy bed, to the
neglect of his duties, menial or otherwise, had affected the manners of Pedro
Montero. Had he seen around him the splendour of the old Intendencia, the
magnificent hangings, the gilt furniture ranged along the walls; had he stood
upon a daïs on a noble square of red carpet, he would have probably been very
dangerous from a sense of success and elevation. But in this sacked and
devastated residence, with the three pieces of common furniture huddled up in
the middle of the vast apartment, Pedrito's imagination was subdued by a feeling
of insecurity and impermanence. That feeling and the firm attitude of Charles
Gould who had not once, so far, pronounced the word Excellency, diminished him
in his own eyes. He assumed the tone of an enlightened man of the world, and
begged Charles Gould to dismiss from his mind every cause for alarm. He was now
conversing, he reminded him, with the brother of the master of the country,
charged with a reorganizing mission. The trusted brother of the master of the
country, he repeated. Nothing was further from the thoughts of that wise and
patriotic hero than ideas of destruction. »I entreat you, Don Carlos, not to
give way to your anti-democratic prejudices,« he cried, in a burst of
condescending effusion.
    Pedrito Montero surprised one at first sight by the vast development of his
bald forehead, a shiny yellow expanse between the crinkly coal-black tufts of
hair without any lustre, the engaging form of his mouth, and an unexpectedly
cultivated voice. But his eyes, very glistening as if freshly painted on each
side of his hooked nose, had a round, hopeless, birdlike stare when opened
fully. Now, however, he narrowed them agreeably, throwing his square chin up and
speaking with closed teeth slightly through the nose, with what he imagined to
be the manner of a grand seigneur.
    In that attitude, he declared suddenly that the highest expression of
democracy was Cæsarism: the imperial rule based upon the direct popular vote.
Cæsarism was conservative. It was strong. It recognized the legitimate needs of
democracy which requires orders, titles, and distinctions. They would be
showered upon deserving men. Cæsarism was peace. It was progressive. It secured
the prosperity of a country. Pedrito Montero was carried away. Look at what the
Second Empire had done for France. It was a régime which delighted to honour men
of Don Carlos's stamp. The Second Empire fell, but that was because its chief
was devoid of that military genius which had raised General Montero to the
pinnacle of fame and glory. Pedrito elevated his hand jerkily to help the idea
of pinnacle, of fame. »We shall have many talks yet. We shall understand each
other thoroughly, Don Carlos!« he cried in a tone of fellowship. Republicanism
had done its work. Imperial democracy was the power of the future. Pedrito, the
guerrillero, showing his hand, lowered his voice forcibly. A man singled out by
his fellow-citizens for the honourable nickname of El Rey de Sulaco could not
but receive a full recognition from an imperial democracy as a great captain of
industry and a person of weighty counsel, whose popular designation would be
soon replaced by a more solid title. »Eh, Don Carlos? No! What do you say? Conde
de Sulaco - Eh? - or marquis ...«
    He ceased. The air was cool on the Plaza, where a patrol of cavalry rode
round and round without penetrating into the streets, which resounded with
shouts and the strumming of guitars issuing from the open doors of pulperias.
The orders were not to interfere with the enjoyments of the people. And above
the roofs, next to the perpendicular lines of the cathedral towers the snowy
curve of Higuerota blocked a large space of darkening blue sky before the
windows of the Intendencia. After a time Pedrito Montero, thrusting his hand in
the bosom of his coat, bowed his head with slow dignity. The audience was over.
    Charles Gould on going out passed his hand over his forehead as if to
disperse the mists of an oppressive dream, whose grotesque extravagance leaves
behind a subtle sense of bodily danger and intellectual decay. In the passages
and on the staircases of the old palace Montero's troopers lounged about
insolently, smoking and making way for no one; the clanking of sabres and spurs
resounded all over the building. Three silent groups of civilians in severe
black waited in the main gallery, formal and helpless, a little huddled up, each
keeping apart from the others, as if in the exercise of a public duty they had
been overcome by a desire to shun the notice of every eye. These were the
deputations waiting for their audience. The one from the Provincial Assembly,
more restless and uneasy in its corporate expression, was overtopped by the big
face of Don Juste Lopez, soft and white, with prominent eyelids and wreathed in
impenetrable solemnity as if in a dense cloud. The President of the Provincial
Assembly, coming bravely to save the last shred of parliamentary institutions
(on the English model), averted his eyes from the Administrator of the San Tomé
mine as a dignified rebuke of his little faith in that only saving principle.
    The mournful severity of that reproof did not affect Charles Gould, but he
was sensible to the glances of the others directed upon him without reproach, as
if only to read their own fate upon his face. All of them had talked, shouted,
and declaimed in the great sala of the Casa Gould. The feeling of compassion for
those men, struck with a strange impotence in the toils of moral degradation,
did not induce him to make a sign. He suffered from his fellowship in evil with
them too much. He crossed the Plaza unmolested. The Amarilla Club was full of
festive ragamuffins. Their frowzy heads protruded from every window, and from
within came drunken shouts, the thumping of feet, and the twanging of harps.
Broken bottles strewed the pavement below. Charles Gould found the doctor still
in his house.
    Dr. Monygham came away from the crack in the shutter through which he had
been watching the street.
    »Ah! You are back at last!« he said in a tone of relief. »I have been
telling Mrs. Gould that you were perfectly safe, but I was not by any means
certain that the fellow would have let you go.«
    »Neither was I,« confessed Charles Gould, laying his hat on the table.
    »You will have to take action.«
    The silence of Charles Gould seemed to admit that this was the only course.
This was as far as Charles Gould was accustomed to go towards expressing his
intentions.
    »I hope you did not warn Montero of what you mean to do,« the doctor said,
anxiously.
    »I tried to make him see that the existence of the mine was bound up with my
personal safety,« continued Charles Gould, looking away from the doctor, and
fixing his eyes upon the water-colour sketch upon the wall.
    »He believed you?« the doctor asked, eagerly.
    »God knows!« said Charles Gould. »I owed it to my wife to say that much. He
is well enough informed. He knows that I have Don Pépé there. Fuentes must have
told him. They know that the old major is perfectly capable of blowing up the
San Tomé mine without hesitation or compunction. Had it not been for that I
don't think I'd have left the Intendencia a free man. He would blow everything
up from loyalty and from hate - from hate of these Liberals, as they call
themselves. Liberals! The words one knows so well have a nightmarish meaning in
this country. Liberty, democracy, patriotism, government - all of them have a
flavour of folly and murder. Haven't they, doctor? ... I alone can restrain Don
Pépé. If they were to - to do away with me, nothing could prevent him.«
    »They will try to tamper with him,« the doctor suggested, thoughtfully.
    »It is very possible,« Charles Gould said very low, as if speaking to
himself, and still gazing at the sketch of the San Tomé gorge upon the wall.
»Yes, I expect they will try that.« Charles Gould looked for the first time at
the doctor. »It would give me time,« he added.
    »Exactly,« said Dr. Monygham, suppressing his excitement. »Especially if Don
Pépé behaves diplomatically. Why shouldn't he give them some hope of success?
Eh? Otherwise you wouldn't gain so much time. Couldn't he be instructed to -«
    Charles Gould, looking at the doctor steadily, shook his head, but the
doctor continued with a certain amount of fire -
    »Yes, to enter into negotiations for the surrender of the mine. It is a good
notion. You would mature your plan. Of course, I don't ask what it is. I don't
want to know. I would refuse to listen to you if you tried to tell me. I am not
fit for confidences.«
    »What nonsense!« muttered Charles Gould, with displeasure.
    He disapproved of the doctor's sensitiveness about that far-off episode of
his life. So much memory shocked Charles Gould. It was like morbidness. And
again he shook his head. He refused to tamper with the open rectitude of Don
Pépé's conduct, both from taste and from policy. Instructions would have to be
either verbal or in writing. In either case they ran the risk of being
intercepted. It was by no means certain that a messenger could reach the mine;
and, besides, there was no one to send. It was on the tip of Charles's tongue to
say that only the late Capataz de Cargadores could have been employed with some
chance of success and the certitude of discretion. But he did not say that. He
pointed out to the doctor that it would have been bad policy. Directly Don Pépé
let it be supposed that he could be bought over, the Administrator's personal
safety and the safety of his friends would become endangered. For there would be
then no reason for moderation. The incorruptibility of Don Pépé was the
essential and restraining fact. The doctor hung his head and admitted that in a
way it was so.
    He couldn't deny to himself that the reasoning was sound enough. Don Pépé's
usefulness consisted in his unstained character. As to his own usefulness, he
reflected bitterly it was also his own character. He declared to Charles Gould
that he had the means of keeping Sotillo from joining his forces with Montero,
at least for the present.
    »If you had had all this silver here,« the doctor said, »or even if it had
been known to be at the mine, you could have bribed Sotillo to throw off his
recent Monterism. You could have induced him either to go away in his steamer or
even to join you.«
    »Certainly not that last,« Charles Gould declared, firmly. »What could one
do with a man like that, afterwards - tell me, doctor? The silver is gone, and I
am glad of it. It would have been an immediate and strong temptation. The
scramble for that visible plunder would have precipitated a disastrous ending. I
would have had to defend it, too. I am glad we've removed it - even if it is
lost. It would have been a danger and a curse.«
    »Perhaps he is right,« the doctor, an hour later, said hurriedly to Mrs.
Gould, whom he met in the corridor. »The thing is done, and the shadow of the
treasure may do just as well as the substance. Let me try to serve you to the
whole extent of my evil reputation. I am off now to play my game of betrayal
with Sotillo, and keep him off the town.«
    She put out both her hands impulsively. »Dr. Monygham, you are running a
terrible risk,« she whispered, averting from his face her eyes, full of tears,
for a short glance at the door of her husband's room. She pressed both his
hands, and the doctor stood as if rooted to the spot, looking down at her, and
trying to twist his lips into a smile.
    »Oh, I know you will defend my memory,« he uttered at last, and ran
tottering down the stairs across the patio, and out of the house. In the street
he kept up a great pace with his smart hobbling walk, a case of instruments
under his arm. He was known for being loco. Nobody interfered with him. From
under the seaward gate, across the dusty, arid plain, interspersed with low
bushes, he saw, more than a mile away, the ugly enormity of the Custom House,
and the two or three other buildings which at that time constituted the seaport
of Sulaco. Far away to the south groves of palm trees edged the curve of the
harbour shore. The distant peaks of the Cordillera had lost their identity of
clear-cut shapes in the steadily deepening blue of the eastern sky. The doctor
walked briskly. A darkling shadow seemed to fall upon him from the zenith. The
sun had set. For a time the snows of Higuerota continued to glow with the
reflected glory of the west. The doctor, holding a straight course for the
Custom House, appeared lonely, hopping amongst the dark bushes like a tall bird
with a broken wing.
    Tints of purple, gold, and crimson were mirrored in the clear water of the
harbour. A long tongue of land, straight as a wall, with the grass-grown ruins
of the fort making a sort of rounded green mound, plainly visible from the inner
shore, closed its circuit; while beyond the Placid Gulf repeated those
splendours of colouring on a greater scale and with a more sombre magnificence.
The great mass of cloud filling the head of the gulf had long red smears amongst
its convoluted folds of grey and black, as of a floating mantle stained with
blood. The three Isabels, overshadowed and clear cut in a great smoothness
confounding the sea and sky, appeared suspended, purple-black, in the air. The
little wavelets seemed to be tossing tiny red sparks upon the sandy beaches. The
glassy bands of water along the horizon gave out a fiery red glow, as if fire
and water had been mingled together in the vast bed of the ocean.
    At last the conflagration of sea and sky, lying embraced and still in a
flaming contact upon the edge of the world, went out. The red sparks in the
water vanished together with the stains of blood in the black mantle draping the
sombre head of the Placid Gulf; a sudden breeze sprang up and died out after
rustling heavily the growth of bushes on the ruined earthwork of the fort.
Nostromo woke up from a fourteen hours' sleep, and arose full length from his
lair in the long grass. He stood knee deep amongst the whispering undulations of
the green blades with the lost air of a man just born into the world. Handsome,
robust, and supple, he threw back his head, flung his arms open, and stretched
himself with a slow twist of the waist and a leisurely growling yawn of white
teeth, as natural and free from evil in the moment of waking as a magnificent
and unconscious wild beast. Then, in the suddenly steadied glance fixed upon
nothing from under a thoughtful frown, appeared the man.
 

                                 Chapter Eight

After landing from his swim Nostromo had scrambled up, all dripping, into the
main quadrangle of the old fort; and there, amongst ruined bits of walls and
rotting remnants of roofs and sheds, he had slept the day through. He had slept
in the shadow of the mountains, in the white blaze of noon, in the stillness and
solitude of that overgrown piece of land between the oval of the harbour and the
spacious semi-circle of the gulf. He lay as if dead. A rey-zamuro, appearing
like a tiny black speck in the blue, stooped, circling prudently with a
stealthiness of flight startling in a bird of that great size. The shadow of his
pearly-white body, of his black-tipped wings, fell on the grass no more silently
than he alighted himself on a hillock of rubbish within three yards of that man,
lying as still as a corpse. The bird stretched his bare neck, craned his bald
head, loathsome in the brilliance of varied colouring, with an air of voracious
anxiety towards the promising stillness of that prostrate body. Then, sinking
his head deeply into his soft plumage, he settled himself to wait. The first
thing upon which Nostromo's eyes fell on waking was this patient watcher for the
signs of death and corruption. When the man got up the vulture hopped away in
great, side-long, fluttering jumps. He lingered for a while, morose and
reluctant, before he rose, circling noiselessly with a sinister droop of beak
and claws.
    Long after he had vanished, Nostromo, lifting his eyes up to the sky,
muttered, »I am not dead yet.«
    The Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores had lived in splendour and publicity up
to the very moment, as it were, when he took charge of the lighter containing
the treasure of silver ingots.
    The last act he had performed in Sulaco was in complete harmony with his
vanity, and as such perfectly genuine. He had given his last dollar to an old
woman moaning with the grief and fatigue of a dismal search under the arch of
the ancient gate. Performed in obscurity and without witnesses, it had still the
characteristics of splendour and publicity, and was in strict keeping with his
reputation. But this awakening in solitude, except for the watchful vulture,
amongst the ruins of the fort, had no such characteristics. His first confused
feeling was exactly this - that it was not in keeping. It was more like the end
of things. The necessity of living concealed somehow, for God knows how long,
which assailed him on his return to consciousness, made everything that had gone
before for years appear vain and foolish, like a flattering dream come suddenly
to an end.
    He climbed the crumbling slope of the rampart, and, putting aside the
bushes, looked upon the harbour. He saw a couple of ships at anchor upon the
sheet of water reflecting the last gleams of light, and Sotillo's steamer moored
to the jetty. And behind the pale long front of the Custom House, there appeared
the extent of the town like a grove of thick timber on the plain with a gateway
in front, and the cupolas, towers, and miradors rising above the trees, all
dark, as if surrendered already to the night. The thought that it was no longer
open to him to ride through the streets, recognized by everyone, great and
little, as he used to do every evening on his way to play monte in the posada of
the Mexican Domingo; or to sit in the place of honour, listening to songs and
looking at dances, made it appear to him as a town that had no existence.
    For a long time he gazed on, then let the parted bushes spring back, and,
crossing over to the other side of the fort, surveyed the vaster emptiness of
the great gulf. The Isabels stood out heavily upon the narrowing long band of
red in the west, which gleamed low between their black shapes, and the Capataz
thought of Decoud alone there with the treasure. That man was the only one who
cared whether he fell into the hands of the Monterists or not, the Capataz
reflected bitterly. And that merely would be an anxiety for his own sake. As to
the rest, they neither knew nor cared. What he had heard Giorgio Viola say once
was very true. Kings, ministers, aristocrats, the rich in general, kept the
people in poverty and subjection; they kept them as they kept dogs, to fight and
hunt for their service.
    The darkness of the sky had descended to the line of the horizon, enveloping
the whole gulf, the islets, and the lover of Antonia alone with the treasure on
the Great Isabel. The Capataz, turning his back on these things invisible and
existing, sat down and took his face between his fists. He felt the pinch of
poverty for the first time in his life. To find himself without money after a
run of bad luck at monte in the low, smoky room of Domingo's posada, where the
fraternity of Cargadores gambled, sang, and danced of an evening; to remain with
empty pockets after a burst of public generosity to some peyne d'oro girl or
other (for whom he did not care), had none of the humiliation of destitution. He
remained rich in glory and reputation. But since it was no longer possible for
him to parade the streets of the town, and be hailed with respect in the usual
haunts of his leisure, this sailor felt himself destitute indeed.
    His mouth was dry. It was dry with heavy sleep and extremely anxious
thinking, as it had never been dry before. It may be said that Nostromo tasted
the dust and ashes of the fruit of life into which he had bitten deeply in his
hunger for praise. Without removing his head from between his fists, he tried to
spit before him - »Tfui« - and muttered a curse upon the selfishness of all the
rich people.
    Since everything seemed lost in Sulaco (and that was the feeling of his
waking), the idea of leaving the country altogether had presented itself to
Nostromo. At that thought he had seen, like the beginning of another dream, a
vision of steep and tideless shores, with dark pines on the heights and white
houses low down near a very blue sea. He saw the quays of a big port, where the
coasting feluccas, with their lateen sails outspread like motionless wings,
enter gliding silently between the end of long moles of squared blocks that
project angularly towards each other, hugging a cluster of shipping to the
superb bosom of a hill covered with palaces. He remembered these sights not
without some filial emotion, though he had been habitually and severely beaten
as a boy on one of these feluccas by a short-necked, shaven Genoese, with a
deliberate and distrustful manner, who (he firmly believed) had cheated him out
of his orphan's inheritance. But it is mercifully decreed that the evils of the
past should appear but faintly in retrospect. Under the sense of loneliness,
abandonment, and failure, the idea of return to these things appeared tolerable.
But, what? Return? With bare feet and head, with one check shirt and a pair of
cotton calzoneros for all worldly possessions?
    The renowned Capataz, his elbows on his knees and a fist dug into each
cheek, laughed with self-derision, as he had spat with disgust, straight out
before him into the night. The confused and intimate impressions of universal
dissolution which beset a subjective nature at any strong check to its ruling
passion had a bitterness approaching that of death itself. He was simple. He was
as ready to become the prey of any belief, superstition, or desire as a child.
    The facts of his situation he could appreciate like a man with a distinct
experience of the country. He saw them clearly. He was as if sobered after a
long bout of intoxication. His fidelity had been taken advantage of. He had
persuaded the body of Cargadores to side with the Blancos against the rest of
the people; he had had interviews with Don José; he had been made use of by
Father Corbelàn for negotiating with Hernandez; it was known that Don Martin
Decoud had admitted him to a sort of intimacy, so that he had been free of the
offices of the Porvenir. All these things had flattered him in the usual way.
What did he care about their politics? Nothing at all. And at the end of it all
- Nostromo here and Nostromo there - where is Nostromo? Nostromo can do this and
that - work all day and ride all night - behold! he found himself a marked
Ribierist for any sort of vengeance Gamacho, for instance, would choose to take,
now the Montero party, had, after all, mastered the town. The Europeans had
given up; the Caballeros had given up. Don Martin had indeed explained it was
only temporary - that he was going to bring Barrios to the rescue. Where was
that now - with Don Martin (whose ironic manner of talk had always made the
Capataz feel vaguely uneasy) stranded on the Great Isabel? Everybody had given
up. Even Don Carlos had given up. The hurried removal of the treasure out to sea
meant nothing else than that. The Capataz de Cargadores, on a revulsion of
subjectiveness, exasperated almost to insanity, beheld all bis world without
faith and courage. He had been betrayed!
    With the boundless shadows of the sea behind him, out of his silence and
immobility, facing the lofty shapes of the lower peaks crowded around the white,
misty sheen of Higuerota, Nostromo laughed aloud again, sprang abruptly to his
feet, and stood still. He must go. But where?
    »There is no mistake. They keep us and encourage us as if we were dogs born
to fight and hunt for them. The vecchio is right,« he said, slowly and
scathingly. He remembered old Giorgio taking his pipe out of his mouth to throw
these words over his shoulder at the café, full of engine-drivers and fitters
from the railway workshops. This image fixed his wavering purpose. He would try
to find old Giorgio if he could. God knows what might have happened to him! He
made a few steps, then stopped again and shook his head. To the left and right,
in front and behind him, the scrubby bush rustled mysteriously in the darkness.
    »Teresa was right, too,« he added in a low tone touched with awe. He
wondered whether she was dead in her anger with him or still alive. As if in
answer to this thought, half of remorse and half of hope, with a soft flutter
and oblique flight, a big owl, whose appalling cry: »Ya-acabo! Ya-acabo! - it is
finished; it is finished« - announces calamity and death in the popular belief,
drifted vaguely like a large dark ball across his path. In the downfall of all
the realities that made his force, he was affected by the superstition, and
shuddered slightly. Signora Teresa must have died, then. It could mean nothing
else. The cry of the ill-omened bird, the first sound he was to hear on his
return, was a fitting welcome for his betrayed individuality. The unseen powers
which he had offended by refusing to bring a priest to a dying woman were
lifting up their voice against him. She was dead. With admirable and human
consistency he referred everything to himself. She had been a woman of good
counsel always. And the bereaved old Giorgio remained stunned by his loss just
as he was likely to require the advice of his sagacity. The blow would render
the dreamy old man quite stupid for a time.
    As to Captain Mitchell, Nostromo, after the manner of trusted subordinates,
considered him as a person fitted by education perhaps to sign papers in an
office and to give orders, but otherwise of no use whatever, and something of a
fool. The necessity of winding round his little finger, almost daily, the
pompous and testy self-importance of the old seaman had grown irksome with use
to Nostromo. At first it had given him an inward satisfaction. But the necessity
of overcoming small obstacles becomes wearisome to a self-confident personality
as much by the certitude of success as by the monotony of effort. He mistrusted
his superior's proneness to fussy action. That old Englishman had no judgment,
he said to himself. It was useless to suppose that, acquainted with the true
state of the case, he would keep it to himself. He would talk of doing
impracticable things. Nostromo feared him as one would fear saddling one's self
with some persistent worry. He had no discretion. He would betray the treasure.
And Nostromo had made up his mind that the treasure should not be betrayed.
    The word had fixed itself tenaciously in his intelligence. His imagination
had seized upon the clear and simple notion of betrayal to account for the dazed
feeling of enlightenment as to being done for, of having inadvertently gone out
of his existence on an issue in which his personality had not been taken into
account. A man betrayed is a man destroyed. Signora Teresa (may God have her
soul!) had been right. He had never been taken into account. Destroyed! Her
white form sitting up bowed in bed, the falling black hair, the wide-browed
suffering face raised to him, the anger of her denunciations appeared to him now
majestic with the awfulness of inspiration and of death. For it was not for
nothing that the evil bird had uttered its lamentable shriek over his head. She
was dead - may God have her soul!
    Sharing in the anti-priestly freethought of the masses, his mind used the
pious formula from the superficial force of habit, but with a deep-seated
sincerity. The popular mind is incapable of scepticism; and that incapacity
delivers their helpless strength to the wiles of swindlers and to the pitiless
enthusiasms of leaders inspired by visions of a high destiny. She was dead. But
would God consent to receive her soul? She had died without confession or
absolution, because he had not been willing to spare her another moment of his
time. His scorn of priests as priests remained; but after all, it was impossible
to know whether what they affirmed was not true. Power, punishment, pardon, are
simple and credible notions. The magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, deprived of
certain simple realities, such as the admiration of women, the adulation of men,
the admired publicity of his life, was ready to feel the burden of sacrilegious
guilt descend upon his shoulders.
    Bareheaded, in a thin shirt and drawers, he felt the lingering warmth of the
fine sand under the soles of his feet. The narrow strand gleamed far ahead in a
long curve, defining the outline of this wild side of the harbour. He flitted
along the shore like a pursued shadow between the sombre palm-groves and the
sheet of water lying as still as death on his right hand. He strode with
headlong haste in the silence and solitude as though he had forgotten all
prudence and caution. But he knew that on this side of the water he ran no risk
of discovery. The only inhabitant was a lonely, silent, apathetic Indian in
charge of the palmarias, who brought sometimes a load of cocoanuts to the town
for sale. He lived without a woman in an open shed, with a perpetual fire of dry
sticks smouldering near an old canoe lying bottom up on the beach. He could be
easily avoided.
    The barking of the dogs about that man's ranche was the first thing that
checked his speed. He had forgotten the dogs. He swerved sharply, and plunged
into the palm-grove, as into a wilderness of columns in an immense hall, whose
dense obscurity seemed to whisper and rustle faintly high above his head. He
traversed it, entered a ravine, climbed to the top of a steep ridge free of
trees and bushes.
    From there, open and vague in the starlight, he saw the plain between the
town and the harbour. In the woods above some night-bird made a strange drumming
noise. Below beyond the palmaria on the beach, the Indian's dogs continued to
bark uproariously. He wondered what had upset them so much, and, peering down
from his elevation, was surprised to detect unaccountable movements of the
ground below, as if several oblong pieces of the plain had been in motion. Those
dark, shifting patches, alternately catching and eluding the eye, altered their
place always away from the harbour, with a suggestion of consecutive order and
purpose. A light dawned upon him. It was a column of infantry on a night march
towards the higher broken country at the foot of the hills. But he was too much
in the dark about everything for wonder and speculation.
    The plain had resumed its shadowy immobility. He descended the ridge and
found himself in the open solitude, between the harbour and the town. Its
spaciousness, extended indefinitely by an effect of obscurity, rendered more
sensible his profound isolation. His pace became slower. No one waited for him;
no one thought of him; no one expected or wished his return. »Betrayed!
Betrayed!« he muttered to himself. No one cared. He might have been drowned by
this time. No one would have cared - unless, perhaps, the children, he thought
to himself. But they were with the English signora, and not thinking of him at
all.
    He wavered in his purpose of making straight for the Casa Viola. To what
end? What could he expect there? His life seemed to fail him in all its details,
even to the scornful reproaches of Teresa. He was aware painfully of his
reluctance. Was it that remorse which she had prophesied with, what he saw now,
was her last breath?
    Meantime, he had deviated from the straight course, inclining by a sort of
instinct to the right, towards the jetty and the harbour, the scene of his daily
labours. The great length of the Custom House loomed up all at once like the
wall of a factory. Not a soul challenged his approach, and his curiosity became
excited as he passed cautiously towards the front by the unexpected sight of two
lighted windows.
    They had the fascination of a lonely vigil kept by some mysterious watcher
up there, those two windows shining dimly upon the harbour in the whole vast
extent of the abandoned building. The solitude could almost be felt. A strong
smell of wood smoke hung about in a thin haze, which was faintly perceptible to
his raised eyes against the glitter of the stars. As he advanced in the profound
silence, the shrilling of innumerable cicalas in the dry grass seemed positively
deafening to his strained ears. Slowly, step by step, he found himself in the
great hall, sombre and full of acrid smoke.
    A fire built against the staircase had burnt down impotently to a low heap
of embers. The hard wood had failed to catch; only a few steps at the bottom
smouldered, with a creeping glow of sparks defining their charred edges. At the
top he saw a streak of light from an open door. It fell upon the vast landing,
all foggy with a slow drift of smoke. That was the room. He climbed the stairs,
then checked himself, because he had seen within the shadow of a man cast upon
one of the walls. It was a shapeless, high-shouldered shadow of somebody
standing still, with lowered head, out of his line of sight. The Capataz,
remembering that he was totally unarmed, stepped aside, and, effacing himself
upright in a dark corner, waited with his eyes fixed on the door.
    The whole enormous ruined barrack of a place, unfinished, without ceilings
under its lofty roof, was pervaded by the smoke swaying to and fro in the faint
cross draughts playing in the obscurity of many lofty rooms and barnlike
passages. Once one of the swinging shutters came against the wall with a single
sharp crack, as if pushed by an impatient hand. A piece of paper scurried out
from somewhere, rustling along the landing. The man, whoever he was, did not
darken the lighted doorway. Twice the Capataz, advancing a couple of steps out
of his corner, craned his neck in the hope of catching sight of what he could be
at, so quietly, in there. But every time he saw only the distorted shadow of
broad shoulders and bowed head. He was doing apparently nothing, and stirred not
from the spot, as though he were meditating - or, perhaps, reading a paper. And
not a sound issued from the room.
    Once more the Capataz stepped back. He wondered who it was - some Monterist?
But he dreaded to show himself. To discover his presence on shore, unless after
many days, would, he believed, endanger the treasure. With his own knowledge
possessing his whole soul, it seemed impossible that anybody in Sulaco should
fail to jump at the right surmise. After a couple of weeks or so it would be
different. Who could tell he had not returned overland from some port beyond the
limits of the Republic? The existence of the treasure confused his thoughts with
a peculiar sort of anxiety, as though his life had become bound up with it. It
rendered him timorous for a moment before that enigmatic, lighted door. Devil
take the fellow! He did not want to see him. There would be nothing to learn
from his face, known or unknown. He was a fool to waste his time there in
waiting.
    Less than five minutes after entering the place the Capataz began his
retreat. He got away down the stairs with perfect success, gave one upward look
over his shoulder at the light on the landing, and ran stealthily across the
hall. But at the very moment he was turning out of the great door, with his mind
fixed upon escaping the notice of the man upstairs, somebody he had not heard
coming briskly along the front ran full into him. Both muttered a stifled
exclamation of surprise, and leaped back and stood still, each indistinct to the
other. Nostromo was silent. The other man spoke first, in an amazed and deadened
tone.
    »Who are you?«
    Already Nostromo had seemed to recognize Dr. Monygham. He had no doubt now.
He hesitated the space of a second. The idea of bolting without a word presented
itself to his mind. No use! An inexplicable repugnance to pronounce the name by
which he was known kept him silent a little longer. At last he said in a low
voice -
    »A Cargador.«
    He walked up to the other. Dr. Monygham had received a shock. He flung his
arms up and cried out his wonder aloud, forgetting himself before the marvel of
this meeting. Nostromo angrily warned him to moderate his voice. The Custom
House was not so deserted as it looked. There was somebody in the lighted room
above.
    There is no more evanescent quality in an accomplished fact than its
wonderfulness. Solicited incessantly by the considerations affecting its fears
and desires, the human mind turns naturally away from the marvellous side of
events. And it was in the most natural way possible that the doctor asked this
man whom only two minutes before he believed to have been drowned in the gulf -
    »You have seen somebody up there? Have you?«
    »No, I have not seen him.«
    »Then how do you know?«
    »I was running away from his shadow when we met.«
    »His shadow?«
    »Yes. His shadow in the lighted room,« said Nostromo, in a contemptuous
tone. Leaning back with folded arms at the foot of the immense building, he
dropped his head, biting his lips slightly, and not looking at the doctor.
»Now,« he thought to himself, »he will begin asking me about the treasure.«
    But the doctor's thoughts were concerned with an event not as marvellous as
Nostromo's appearance, but in itself much less clear. Why had Sotillo taken
himself off with his whole command with this suddenness and secrecy? What did
this move portend? However, it dawned upon the doctor that the man upstairs was
one of the officers left behind by the disappointed colonel to communicate with
him.
    »I believe he is waiting for me,« he said.
    »It is possible.«
    »I must see. Do not go away yet, Capataz.«
    »Go away where?« muttered Nostromo.
    Already the doctor had left him. He remained leaning against the wall,
staring at the dark water of the harbour; the shrilling of cicalas filled his
ears. An invincible vagueness coming over his thoughts took from them all power
to determine his will.
    »Capataz! Capataz!« the doctor's voice called urgently from above.
    The sense of betrayal and ruin floated upon his sombre indifference as upon
a sluggish sea of pitch. But he stepped out from under the wall, and, looking
up, saw Dr. Monygham leaning out of a lighted window.
    »Come up and see what Sotillo has done. You need not fear the man up here.«
    He answered by a slight, bitter laugh. Fear a man! The Capataz of the Sulaco
Cargadores fear a man! It angered him that anybody should suggest such a thing.
It angered him to be disarmed and skulking and in danger because of the accursed
treasure, which was of so little account to the people who had tied it round his
neck. He could not shake off the worry of it. To Nostromo the doctor represented
all these people. ... And he had never even asked after it. Not a word of
inquiry about the most desperate undertaking of his life.
    Thinking these thoughts, Nostromo passed again through the cavernous hall,
where the smoke was considerably thinned, and went up the stairs, not so warm to
his feet now, towards the streak of light at the top. The doctor appeared in it
for a moment, agitated and impatient.
    »Come up! Come up!«
    At the moment of crossing the doorway the Capataz experienced a shock of
surprise. The man had not moved. He saw his shadow in the same place. He
started, then stepped in with a feeling of being about to solve a mystery.
    It was very simple. For an infinitesimal fraction of a second, against the
light of two flaring and guttering candles, through a blue, pungent, thin haze
which made his eyes smart, he saw the man standing, as he had imagined him, with
his back to the door, casting an enormous and distorted shadow upon the wall.
Swifter than a flash of lightning followed the impression of his constrained,
toppling attitude - the shoulders projecting forward, the head sunk low upon the
breast. Then he distinguished the arms behind his back, and wrenched so terribly
that the two clenched fists, lashed together, had been forced up higher than the
shoulder-blades. From there his eyes traced in one instantaneous glance the hide
rope going upwards from the tied wrists over a heavy beam and down to a staple
in the wall. He did not want to look at the rigid legs, at the feet hanging down
nervelessly, with their bare toes some six inches above the floor, to know that
the man had been given the estrapade till he had swooned. His first impulse was
to dash forward and sever the rope at one blow. He felt for his knife. He had no
knife - not even a knife. He stood quivering, and the doctor, perched on the
edge of the table, facing thoughtfully the cruel and lamentable sight, his chin
in his hand, uttered, without stirring -
    »Tortured - and shot dead through the breast - getting cold.«
    This information calmed the Capataz. One of the candles flickering in the
socket went out. »Who did this?« he asked.
    »Sotillo, I tell you. Who else? Tortured - of course. But why shot?« The
doctor looked fixedly at Nostromo, who shrugged his shoulders slightly. »And
mark, shot suddenly, on impulse. It is evident. I wish I had his secret.«
    Nostromo had advanced, and stooped slightly to look. »I seem to have seen
that face somewhere,« he muttered. »Who is he?«
    The doctor turned his eyes upon him again. »I may yet come to envying his
fate. What do you think of that, Capataz, eh?«
    But Nostromo did not even hear these words. Seizing the remaining light, he
thrust it under the drooping head. The doctor sat oblivious, with a lost gaze.
Then the heavy iron candlestick, as if struck out of Nostromo's hand, clattered
on the floor.
    »Hullo!« exclaimed the doctor, looking up with a start. He could hear the
Capataz stagger against the table and gasp. In the sudden extinction of the
light within, the dead blackness sealing the window-frames became alive with
stars to his sight.
    »Of course, of course,« the doctor muttered to himself in English. »Enough
to make him jump out of his skin.«
    Nostromo's heart seemed to force itself into his throat. His head swam.
Hirsch! The man was Hirsch! He held on tight to the edge of the table.
    »But he was hiding in the lighter,« he almost shouted. His voice fell. »In
the lighter, and - and -«
    »And Sotillo brought him in,« said the doctor. »He is no more startling to
you than you were to me. What I want to know is how he induced some
compassionate soul to shoot him.«
    »So Sotillo knows -« began Nostromo, in a more equable voice.
    »Everything!« interrupted the doctor.
    The Capataz was heard striking the table with his fist. »Everything? What
are you saying, there? Everything? Know everything? It is impossible!
Everything?«
    »Of course. What do you mean by impossible? I tell you I have heard this
Hirsch questioned last night, here, in this very room. He knew your name,
Decoud's name, and all about the loading of the silver. ... The lighter was cut
in two. He was grovelling in abject terror before Sotillo, but he remembered
that much. Wnat do you want more? He knew least about himself. They found him
clinging to their anchor. He must have caught at it just as the lighter went to
the bottom.«
    »Went to the bottom?« repeated Nostromo, slowly. »Sotillo believes that?
Bueno!«
    The doctor, a little impatiently, was unable to imagine what else could
anybody believe. Yes, Sotillo believed that the lighter was sunk, and the
Capataz de Cargadores, together with Martin Decoud and perhaps one or two other
political fugitives, had been drowned.
    »I told you well, señor doctor,« remarked Nostromo at that point, »that
Sotillo did not know everything.«
    »Eh? What do you mean?«
    »He did not know I was not dead.«
    »Neither did we.«
    »And you did not care - none of you caballeros on the wharf - once you got
off a man of flesh and blood like yourselves on a fool's business that could not
end well.«
    »You forget, Capataz, I was not on the wharf. And I did not think well of
the business. So you need not taunt me. I tell you what, man, we had but little
leisure to think of the dead. Death stands near behind us all. You were gone.«
    »I went, indeed!« broke in Nostromo. »And for the sake of what - tell me?«
    »Ah! that is your own affair,« the doctor said, roughly. »Do not ask me.«
    Their flowing murmurs paused in the dark. Perched on the edge of the table
with slightly averted faces, they felt their shoulders touch, and their eyes
remained directed towards an upright shape nearly lost in the obscurity of the
inner part of the room, that with projecting head and shoulders, in ghastly
immobility, seemed intent on catching every word.
    »Muy bien!« Nostromo muttered at last. »So be it. Teresa was right. It is my
own affair.«
    »Teresa is dead,« remarked the doctor, absently, while his mind followed a
new line of thought suggested by what might have been called Nostromo's return
to life. »She died, the poor woman.«
    »Without a priest?« the Capataz asked, anxiously.
    »What a question! Who could have got a priest for her last night?«
    »May God keep her soul!« ejaculated Nostromo, with a gloomy and hopeless
fervour which had no time to surprise Dr. Monygham, before, reverting to their
previous conversation, he continued in a sinister tone, »Si, señor doctor. As
you were saying, it is my own affair. A very desperate affair.«
    »There are no two men in this part of the world that could have saved
themselves by swimming as you have done,« the doctor said, admiringly.
    And again there was silence between those two men. They were both
reflecting, and the diversity of their natures made their thoughts born from
their meeting swing afar from each other. The doctor, impelled to risky action
by his loyalty to the Goulds, wondered with thankfulness at the chain of
accident which had brought that man back where he would be of the greatest use
in the work of saving the San Tomé mine. The doctor was loyal to the mine. It
presented itself to his fifty-years' old eyes in the shape of a little woman in
a soft dress with a long train, with a head attractively overweighted by a great
mass of fair hair and the delicate preciousness of her inner worth, partaking of
a gem and a flower, revealed in every attitude of her person. As the dangers
thickened round the San Tomé mine this illusion acquired force, permanency, and
authority. It claimed him at last! This claim, exalted by a spiritual detachment
from the usual sanctions of hope and reward, made Dr. Monygham's thinking,
acting, individuality extremely dangerous to himself and to others, all his
scruples vanishing in the proud feeling that his devotion was the only thing
that stood between an admirable woman and a frightful disaster.
    It was a sort of intoxication which made him utterly indifferent to Decoud's
fate, but left his wits perfectly clear for the appreciation of Decoud's
political idea. It was a good idea - and Barrios was the only instrument of its
realization. The doctor's soul, withered and shrunk by the shame of a moral
disgrace, became implacable in the expansion of its tenderness. Nostromo's
return was providential. He did not think of him humanely, as of a
fellow-creature just escaped from the jaws of death. The Capataz for him was the
only possible messenger to Cayta. The very man. The doctor's misanthropic
mistrust of mankind (the bitterer because based on personal failure) did not
lift him sufficiently above common weaknesses. He was under the spell of an
established reputation. Trumpeted by Captain Mitchell, grown in repetition, and
fixed in general assent, Nostromo's faithfulness had never been questioned by
Dr. Monygham as a fact. It was not likely to be questioned now he stood in
desperate need of it himself. Dr. Monygham was human; he accepted the popular
conception of the Capataz's incorruptibility simply because no word or fact had
ever contradicted a mere affirmation. It seemed to be a part of the man, like
his whiskers or his teeth. It was impossible to conceive him otherwise. The
question was whether he would consent to go on such a dangerous and desperate
errand. The doctor was observant enough to have become aware from the first of
something peculiar in the man's temper. He was no doubt sore about the loss of
the silver.
    »It will be necessary to take him into my fullest confidence,« he said to
himself, with a certain acuteness of insight into the nature he had to deal
with.
    On Nostromo's side the silence had been full of black irresolution, anger,
and mistrust. He was the first to break it, however.
    »The swimming was no great matter,« he said. »It is what went before - and
what comes after that -«
    He did not quite finish what he meant to say, breaking off short, as though
his thought had butted against a solid obstacle. The doctor's mind pursued its
own schemes with Machiavellian subtlety. He said as sympathetically as he was
able -
    »It is unfortunate, Capataz. But no one would think of blaming you. Very
unfortunate. To begin with, the treasure ought never to have left the mountain.
But it was Decoud who - however, he is dead. There is no need to talk of him.«
    »No,« assented Nostromo, as the doctor paused, »there is no need to talk of
dead men. But I am not dead yet.«
    »You are all right. Only a man of your intrepidity could have saved
himself.«
    In this Dr. Monygham was sincere. He esteemed highly the intrepidity of that
man, whom he valued but little, being disillusioned as to mankind in general,
because of the particular instance in which his own manhood had failed. Having
had to encounter single-handed during his period of eclipse many physical
dangers, he was well aware of the most dangerous element common to them all: of
the crushing, paralysing sense of human littleness, which is what really defeats
a man struggling with natural forces, alone, far from the eyes of his fellows.
He was eminently fit to appreciate the mental image he made for himself of the
Capataz, after hours of tension and anxiety, precipitated suddenly into an abyss
of waters and darkness, without earth or sky, and confronting it not only with
an undismayed mind, but with sensible success. Of course, the man was an
incomparable swimmer, that was known, but the doctor judged that this instance
testified to a still greater intrepidity of spirit. It was pleasing to him; he
augured well from it for the success of the arduous mission with which he meant
to entrust the Capataz so marvellously restored to usefulness. And in a tone
vaguely gratified, he observed -
    »It must have been terribly dark!«
    »It was the worst darkness of the Golfo,« the Capataz assented, briefly. He
was mollified by what seemed a sign of some faint interest in such things as had
befallen him, and dropped a few descriptive phrases with an affected and curt
nonchalance. At that moment he felt communicative. He expected the continuance
of that interest which, whether accepted or rejected, would have restored to him
his personality - the only thing lost in that desperate affair. But the doctor,
engrossed by a desperate adventure of his own, was terrible in the pursuit of
his idea. He let an exclamation of regret escape him.
    »I could almost wish you had shouted and shown a light.«
    This unexpected utterance astounded the Capataz by its character of
cold-blooded atrocity. It was as much as to say, »I wish you had shown yourself
a coward; I wish you had had your throat cut for your pains.« Naturally he
referred it to himself, whereas it related only to the silver, being uttered
simply and with many mental reservations. Surprise and rage rendered him
speechless, and the doctor pursued, practically unheard by Nostromo, whose
stirred blood was beating violently in his ears.
    »For I am convinced Sotillo in possession of the silver would have turned
short round and made for some small port abroad. Economically it would have been
wasteful, but still less wasteful than having it sunk. It was the next best
thing to having it at hand in some safe place, and using part of it to buy up
Sotillo. But I doubt whether Don Carlos would have ever made up his mind to it.
He is not fit for Costaguana, and that is a fact, Capataz.«
    The Capataz had mastered the fury that was like a tempest in his ears in
time to hear the name of Don Carlos. He seemed to have come out of it a changed
man - a man who spoke thoughtfully in a soft and even voice.
    »And would Don Carlos have been content if I had surrendered this treasure?«
    »I should not wonder if they were all of that way of thinking now,« the
doctor said, grimly. »I was never consulted. Decoud had it his own way. Their
eyes are opened by this time, I should think. I for one know that if that silver
turned up this moment miraculously ashore I would give it to Sotillo. And, as
things stand, I would be approved.«
    »Turned up miraculously,« repeated the Capataz very low; then raised his
voice. »That, señor, would be a greater miracle than any saint could perform.«
    »I believe you, Capataz,« said the doctor, drily.
    He went on to develop his view of Sotillo's dangerous influence upon the
situation. And the Capataz, listening as if in a dream, felt himself of as
little account as the indistinct, motionless shape of the dead man whom he saw
upright under the beam, with his air of listening also, disregarded, forgotten,
like a terrible example of neglect.
    »Is it for an unconsidered and foolish whim that they came to me, then?« he
interrupted, suddenly. »Had I not done enough for them to be of some account,
por Dios? Is it that the hombres finos - the gentlemen - need not think as long
as there is a man of the people ready to risk his body and soul? Or, perhaps, we
have no souls - like dogs?«
    »There was Decoud, too, with his plan,« the doctor reminded him again.
    »Si! And the rich man in San Francisco who had something to do with that
treasure, too - what do I know? No! I have heard too many things. It seems to me
that everything is permitted to the rich.«
    »I understand, Capataz,« the doctor began.
    »What Capataz?« broke in Nostromo, in a forcible but even voice. »The
Capataz is undone, destroyed. There is no Capataz. Oh, no! You will find the
Capataz no more.«
    »Come, this is childish!« remonstrated the doctor; and the other calmed down
suddenly.
    »I have been indeed like a little child,« he muttered.
    And as his eyes met again the shape of the murdered man suspended in his
awful immobility, which seemed the uncomplaining immobility of attention, he
asked, wondering gently -
    »Why did Sotillo give the estrapade to this pitiful wretch? Do you know? No
torture could have been worse than his fear. Killing I can understand. His
anguish was intolerable to behold. But why should he torment him like this? He
could tell no more.«
    »No; he could tell nothing more. Any sane man would have seen that. He had
told him everything. But I tell you what it is, Capataz. Sotillo would not
believe what he was told. Not everything.«
    »What is it he would not believe? I cannot understand.«
    »I can, because I have seen the man. He refuses to believe that the treasure
is lost.«
    »What?« the Capataz cried out in a discomposed tone.
    »That startles you - eh?«
    »Am I to understand, señor,« Nostromo went on in a deliberate and, as it
were, watchful tone, »that Sotillo thinks the treasure has been saved by some
means?«
    »No! no! That would be impossible,« said the doctor, with conviction; and
Nostromo emitted a grunt in the dark. »That would be impossible. He thinks that
the silver was no longer in the lighter when she was sunk. He has convinced
himself that the whole show of getting it away to sea is a mere sham got up to
receive Gamacho and his Nationals, Pedrito Montero, Señor Fuentes, our new Géfé
Político, and himself, too. Only, he says, he is no such fool.«
    »But he is devoid of sense. He is the greatest imbecile that ever called
himself a colonel in this country of evil,« growled Nostromo.
    »He is no more unreasonable than many sensible men,« said the doctor. »He
has convinced himself that the treasure can be found because he desires
passionately to possess himself of it. And he is also afraid of his officers
turning upon him and going over to Pedrito, whom he has not the courage either
to fight or trust. Do you see that, Capataz? He need fear no desertion as long
as some hope remains of that enormous plunder turning up. I have made it my
business to keep this very hope up.«
    »You have!« the Capataz de Cargadores repeated cautiously. »Well, that is
wonderful. And how long do you think you are going to keep it up?«
    »As long as I can.«
    »What does that mean?«
    »I can tell you exactly. As long as I live,« the doctor retorted in a
stubborn voice. Then, in a few words, he described the story of his arrest and
the circumstances of his release. »I was going back to that silly scoundrel when
we met,« he concluded.
    Nostromo had listened with profound attention. »You have made up your mind,
then, to a speedy death,« he muttered through his clenched teeth.
    »Perhaps, my illustrious Capataz,« the doctor said, testily. »You are not
the only one here who can look an ugly death in the face.«
    »No doubt,« mumbled Nostromo, loud enough to be overheard. »There may be
even more than two fools in this place. Who knows?«
    »And that is my affair,« said the doctor, curtly.
    »As taking out the accursed silver to sea was my affair,« retorted Nostromo.
»I see, Bueno. Each of us has his reasons. But you were the last man I conversed
with before I started, and you talked to me as if I were a fool.«
    Nostromo had a great distaste for the doctor's sardonic treatment of his
great reputation. Decoud's faintly ironic recognition used to make him uneasy;
but the familiarity of a man like Don Martin was flattering, whereas the doctor
was a nobody. He could remember him a penniless outcast, slinking about the
streets of Sulaco, without a single friend or acquaintance, till Don Carlos
Gould took him into the service of the mine.
    »You may be very wise,« he went on, thoughtfully, staring into the obscurity
of the room, pervaded by the gruesome enigma of the tortured and murdered
Hirsch. »But I am not such a fool as when I started. I have learned one thing
since, and that is that you are a dangerous man.«
    Dr. Monygham was too startled to do more than exclaim -
    »What is it you say?«
    »If he could speak he would say the same thing,« pursued Nostromo, with a
nod of his shadowy head silhouetted against the starlit window.
    »I do not understand you,« said Dr. Monygham, faintly.
    »No? Perhaps, if you had not confirmed Sotillo in his madness, he would have
been in no haste to give the estrapade to that miserable Hirsch.«
    The doctor started at the suggestion. But his devotion, absorbing all his
sensibilities, had left his heart steeled against remorse and pity. Still, for
complete relief, he felt the necessity of repelling it loudly and
contemptuously.
    »Bah! You dare to tell me that, with a man like Sotillo. I confess I did not
give a thought to Hirsch. If I had it would have been useless. Anybody can see
that the luckless wretch was doomed from the moment he caught hold of the
anchor. He was doomed, I tell you! Just as I myself am doomed - most probably.«
    This is what Dr. Monygham said in answer to Nostromo's remark, which was
plausible enough to prick his conscience. He was not a callous man. But the
necessity, the magnitude, the importance of the task he had taken upon himself
dwarfed all merely humane considerations. He had undertaken it in a fanatical
spirit. He did not like it. To lie, to deceive, to circumvent even the basest of
mankind was odious to him. It was odious to him by training, instinct, and
tradition. To do these things in the character of a traitor was abhorrent to his
nature and terrible to his feelings. He had made that sacrifice in a spirit of
abasement. He had said to himself bitterly, »I am the only one fit for that
dirty work.« And he believed this. He was not subtle. His simplicity was such
that, though he had no sort of heroic idea of seeking death, the risk, deadly
enough, to which he exposed himself, had a sustaining and comforting effect. To
that spiritual state the fate of Hirsch presented itself as part of the general
atrocity of things. He considered that episode practically. What did it mean?
Was it a sign of some dangerous change in Sotillo's delusion? That the man
should have been killed like this was what the doctor could not understand.
    »Yes. But why shot?« he murmured to himself.
    Nostromo kept very still.
 

                                  Chapter Nine

Distracted between doubts and hopes, dismayed by the sound of bells pealing out
the arrival of Pedrito Montero, Sotillo had spent the morning in battling with
his thoughts; a contest to which he was unequal, from the vacuity of his mind
and the violence of his passions. Disappointment, greed, anger, and fear made a
tumult, in the colonel's breast louder than the din of bells in the town.
Nothing he had planned had come to pass. Neither Sulaco nor the silver of the
mine had fallen into his hands. He had performed no military exploit to secure
his position, and had obtained no enormous booty to make off with. Pedrito
Montero, either as friend or foe, filled him with dread. The sound of bells
maddened him.
    Imagining at first that he might be attacked at once, he had made his
battalion stand to arms on the shore. He walked to and fro all the length of the
room, stopping sometimes to gnaw the finger-tips of his right hand with a lurid
sideways glare fixed on the floor; then, with a sullen, repelling glance all
round, he would resume his tramping in savage aloofness. His hat, horsewhip,
sword, and revolver were lying on the table. His officers, crowding the window
giving the view of the town gate, disputed amongst themselves the use of his
field-glass bought last year on long credit from Anzani. It passed from hand to
hand, and the possessor for the time being was besieged by anxious inquiries.
    »There is nothing; there is nothing to see!« he would repeat, impatiently.
    There was nothing. And when the picket in the bushes near the Casa Viola had
been ordered to fall back upon the main body, no stir of life appeared on the
stretch of dusty and arid land between the town and the waters of the port. But
late in the afternoon a horseman issuing from the gate was made out riding up
fearlessly. It was an emissary from Señor Fuentes. Being all alone he was
allowed to come on. Dismounting at the great door he greeted the silent
bystanders with cheery impudence, and begged to be taken up at once to the muy
valliente colonel.
    Señor Fuentes, on entering upon his functions of Géfé Politico, had turned
his diplomatic abilities to getting hold of the harbour as well as of the mine.
The man he pitched upon to negotiate with Sotillo was a Notary Public, whom the
revolution had found languishing in the common jail on a charge of forging
documents. Liberated by the mob along with the other victims of Blanco tyranny,
he had hastened to offer his services to the new Government.
    He set out determined to display much zeal and eloquence in trying to induce
Sotillo to come into town alone for a conference with Pedrito Montero. Nothing
was further from the colonel's intentions. The mere fleeting idea of trusting
himself into the famous Pedrito's hands had made him feel unwell several times.
It was out of the question - it was madness. And to put himself in open
hostility was madness, too. It would render impossible a systematic search for
that treasure, for that wealth of silver which he seemed to feel somewhere
about, to scent somewhere near.
    But where? Where? Heavens! Where? Oh! why had he allowed that doctor to go!
Imbecile that he was. But no! It was the only right course, he reflected
distractedly, while the messenger waited downstairs chat ting agreeably to the
officers. It was in that scoundrelly doctor's true interest to return with
positive information. But what if anything stopped him? A general prohibition to
leave the town, for instance! There would be patrols!
    The colonel, seizing his head in his hands, turned in his tracks as if
struck with vertigo. A flash of craven inspiration suggested to him an expedient
not unknown to European statesmen when they wish to delay a difficult
negotiation. Booted and spurred, he scrambled into the hammock with undignified
haste. His handsome face had turned yellow with the strain of weighty cares. The
ridge of his shapely nose had grown sharp; the audacious nostrils appeared mean
and pinched. The velvety, caressing glance of his fine eyes seemed dead, and
even decomposed; for these almond-shaped, languishing orbs had become
inappropriately bloodshot with much sinister sleeplessness. He addressed the
surprised envoy of Señor Fuentes in a deadened, exhausted voice. It came
pathetically feeble from under a pile of ponchos, which buried his elegant
person right up to the black moustaches, uncurled, pendant, in sign of bodily
prostration and mental incapacity. Fever, fever - a heavy fever had overtaken
the muy valliente colonel. A wavering wildness of expression, caused by the
passing spasms of a slight colic which had declared itself suddenly, and the
rattling teeth of repressed panic, had a genuineness which impressed the envoy.
It was a cold fit. The colonel explained that he was unable to think, to listen,
to speak. With an appearance of superhuman effort the colonel gasped out that he
was not in a state to return a suitable reply or to execute any of his
Excellency's orders. But to-morrow! To-morrow! Ah! to-morrow! Let his Excellency
Don Pedro be without uneasiness. The brave Esmeralda Regiment held the harbour,
held - And closing his eyes, he rolled his aching head like a half-delirious
invalid under the inquisitive stare of the envoy, who was obliged to bend down
over the hammock in order to catch the painful and broken accents. Meantime,
Colonel Sotillo trusted that his Excellency's humanity would permit the doctor,
the English doctor, to come out of town with his case of foreign remedies to
attend upon him. He begged anxiously his worship the caballero now present for
the grace of looking in as he passed the Casa Gould, and informing the English
doctor, who was probably there, that his services were immediately required by
Colonel Sotillo, lying ill of fever in the Custom House. Immediately. Most
urgently required. Awaited with extreme impatience. A thousand thanks. He closed
his eyes wearily and would not open them again, lying perfectly still, deaf,
dumb, insensible, overcome, vanquished, crushed, annihilated by the fell
disease.
    But as soon as the other had shut after him the door of the landing, the
colonel leaped out with a fling of both feet in an avalanche of woollen
coverings. His spurs having become entangled in a perfect welter of ponchos he
nearly pitched on his head, and did not recover his balance till the middle of
the room. Concealed behind the half-closed jalousies he listened to what went on
below.
    The envoy had already mounted, and turning to the morose officers occupying
the great doorway, took off his hat formally.
    »Caballeros,« he said, in a very loud tone, »allow me to recommend you to
take great care of your colonel. It has done me much honour and gratification to
have seen you all, a fine body of men exercising the soldierly virtue of
patience in this exposed situation, where there is much sun, and no water to
speak of, while a town full of wine and feminine charms is ready to embrace you
for the brave men you are. Caballeros, I have the honour to salute you. There
will be much dancing to-night in Sulaco. Good-bye!«
    But he reined in his horse and inclined his head sideways on seeing the old
major step out, very tall and meagre, in a straight narrow coat coming down to
his ankles as it were the casing of the regimental colours rolled round their
staff.
    The intelligent old warrior, after enunciating in a dogmatic tone the
general proposition that the world was full of traitors, went on pronouncing
deliberately a panegyric upon Sotillo. He ascribed to him with leisurely
emphasis every virtue under heaven, summing it all up in an absurd colloquialism
current amongst the lower class of Occidentals (especially about Esmeralda).
»And,« he concluded, with a sudden rise in the voice, »a man of many teeth - 
hombre de muchos dientes. Si, señor. As to us,« he pursued, portentous and
impressive, »your worship is beholding the finest body of officers in the
Republic, men unequalled for valour and sagacity, y hombres de muchos dientes.«
    »What? All of them?« inquired the disreputable envoy of Señor Fuentes, with
a faint, derisive smile.
    »Todos. Si, señor,« the major affirmed, gravely, with conviction. »Men of
many teeth.«
    The other wheeled his horse to face the portal resembling the high gate of a
dismal barn. He raised himself in his stirrups, extended one arm. He was a
facetious scoundrel, entertaining for these stupid Occidentals a feeling of
great scorn natural in a native from the central provinces. The folly of
Esmeraldians especially aroused his amused contempt. He began an oration upon
Pedro Montero, keeping a solemn countenance. He flourished his hand as if
introducing him to their notice. And when he saw every face set, all the eyes
fixed upon his lips, he began to shout a sort of catalogue of perfections:
»Generous, valorous, affable, profound« - (he snatched off his hat
enthusiastically) - »a statesman, an invincible chief of partisans -« He dropped
his voice startlingly to a deep, hollow note - »and a dentist.«
    He was off instantly at a smart walk; the rigid straddle of his legs, the
turned-out feet, the stiff back, the rakish slant of the sombrero above the
square, motionless set of the shoulders expressing an infinite, awe-inspiring
impudence.
    Upstairs, behind the jalousies, Sotillo did not move for a long time. The
audacity of the fellow appalled him. What were his officers saying below? They
were saying nothing. Complete silence. He quaked. It was not thus that he had
imagined himself at that stage of the expedition. He had seen himself
triumphant, unquestioned, appeased, the idol of the soldiers, weighing in secret
complacency the agreeable alternatives of power and wealth open to his choice.
Alas! How different! Distracted, restless, supine, burning with fury, or frozen
with terror, he felt a dread as fathomless as the sea creep upon him from every
side. That rogue of a doctor had to come out with his information. That was
clear. It would be of no use to him - alone. He could do nothing with it.
Malediction! The doctor would never come out. He was probably under arrest
already, shut up together with Don Carlos. He laughed aloud insanely. Ha! ha!
ha! ha! It was Pedrito Montero who would get the information. Ha! ha! ha! ha! -
and the silver. Ha!
    All at once, in the midst of the laugh, he became motionless and silent as
if turned into stone. He, too, had a prisoner. A prisoner who must, must know
the real truth. He would have to be made to speak. And Sotillo, who all that
time had not quite forgotten Hirsch, felt an inexplicable reluctance at the
notion of proceeding to extremities.
    He felt a reluctance - part of that unfathomable dread that crept on all
sides upon him. He remembered reluctantly, too, the dilated eyes of the hide
merchant, his contortions, his loud sobs and protestations. It was not
compassion or even mere nervous sensibility. The fact was that though Sotillo
did never for a moment believe his story - he could not believe it; nobody could
believe such nonsense - yet those accents of despairing truth impressed him
disagreeably. They made him feel sick. And he suspected also that the man might
have gone mad with fear. A lunatic is a hopeless subject. Bah! A pretence.
Nothing but a pretence. He would know how to deal with that.
    He was working himself up to the right pitch of ferocity. His fine eyes
squinted slightly; he clapped his hands; a bare-footed orderly appeared
noiselessly; a corporal, with his bayonet hanging on his thigh and a stick in
his hand.
    The colonel gave his orders, and presently the miserable Hirsch, pushed in
by several soldiers, found him frowning awfully in a broad armchair, hat on
head, knees wide apart, arms akimbo, masterful, imposing, irresistible, haughty,
sublime, terrible.
    Hirsch, with his arms tied behind his back, had been bundled violently into
one of the smaller rooms. For many hours he remained apparently forgotten,
stretched lifelessly on the floor. From that solitude, full of despair and
terror, he was torn out brutally, with kicks and blows, passive, sunk in
hebetude. He listened to threats and admonitions, and afterwards made his usual
answers to questions, with his chin sunk on his breast, his hands tied behind
his back, swaying a little in front of Sotillo, and never looking up. When he
was forced to hold up his head, by means of a bayonet-point prodding him under
the chin, his eyes had a vacant, trance-like stare, and drops of perspiration as
big as peas were seen hailing down the dirt, bruises, and scratches of his white
face. Then they stopped suddenly.
    Sotillo looked at him in silence. »Will you depart from your obstinacy, you
rogue?« he asked. Already a rope, whose one end was fastened to Señor Hirsch's
wrists, had been thrown over a beam, and three soldiers held the other end,
waiting. He made no answer. His heavy lower lip hung stupidly. Sotillo made a
sign. Hirsch was jerked up off his feet, and a yell of despair and agony burst
out in the room, filled the passage of the great buildings, rent the air
outside, caused every soldier of the camp along the shore to look up at the
windows, started some of the officers in the hall babbling excitedly, with
shining eyes; others, setting their lips, looked gloomily at the floor.
    Sotillo, followed by the soldiers, had left the room. The sentry on the
landing presented arms. Hirsch went on screaming all alone behind the
half-closed jalousies while the sunshine, reflected from the water of the
harbour, made an ever-running ripple of light high up on the wall. He screamed
with uplifted eyebrows and a wide-open mouth - incredibly wide, black, enormous,
full of teeth - comical.
    In the still burning air of the windless afternoon he made the waves of his
agony travel as far as the O.S.N. Company's offices. Captain Mitchell on the
balcony, trying to make out what went on generally, had heard him faintly but
distinctly, and the feeble and appalling sound lingered in his ears after he had
retreated indoors with blanched cheeks. He had been driven off the balcony
several times during that afternoon.
    Sotillo, irritable, moody, walked restlessly about, held consultations with
his officers, gave contradictory orders in this shrill clamour pervading the
whole empty edifice. Sometimes there would be long and awful silences. Several
times he had entered the torture-chamber where his sword, horsewhip, revolver,
and field-glass were lying on the table, to ask with forced calmness, »Will you
speak the truth now? No? I can wait.« But he could not afford to wait much
longer. That was just it. Every time he went in and came out with a slam of the
door, the sentry on the landing presented arms, and got in return a black,
venomous, unsteady glance, which, in reality, saw nothing at all, being merely
the reflection of the soul within - a soul of gloomy hatred, irresolution,
avarice, and fury.
    The sun had set when he went in once more. A soldier carried in two lighted
candles and slunk out, shutting the door without noise.
    »Speak, thou Jewish child of the devil! The silver! The silver, I say! Where
is it? Where have you foreign rogues hidden it? Confess or -«
    A slight quiver passed up the taut rope from the racked limbs, but the body
of Señor Hirsch, enterprising business man from Esmeralda, hung under the heavy
beam perpendicular and silent, facing the colonel awfully. The inflow of the
night air, cooled by the snows of the Sierra, spread gradually a delicious
freshness through the close heat of the room.
    »Speak - thief - scoundrel - picaro - or -«
    Sotillo had seized the riding-whip, and stood with his arm lifted up. For a
word, for one little word, he felt he would have knelt, cringed, grovelled on
the floor before the drowsy, conscious stare of those fixed eyeballs starting
out of the grimy, dishevelled head that drooped very still with its mouth closed
askew. The colonel ground his teeth with rage and struck. The rope vibrated
leisurely to the blow, like the long string of a pendulum starting from a rest.
But no swinging motion was imparted to the body of Señor Hirsch, the well-known
hide merchant on the coast. With a convulsive effort of the twisted arms it
leaped up a few inches, curling upon itself like a fish on the end of a line.
Señor Hirsch's head was flung back on his straining throat; his chin trembled.
For a moment the rattle of his chattering teeth pervaded the vast, shadowy room,
where the candles made a patch of light round the two flames burning side by
side. And as Sotillo, staying his raised hand, waited for him to speak, with the
sudden flash of a grin and a straining forward of the wrenched shoulders, he
spat violently into his face.
    The uplifted whip fell, and the colonel sprang back with a low cry of
dismay, as if aspersed by a jet of deadly venom. Quick as thought he snatched up
his revolver, and fired twice. The report and the concussion of the shots seemed
to throw him at once from ungovernable rage into idiotic stupor. He stood with
drooping jaw and stony eyes. What had he done, Sangre de Dios! What had he done?
He was basely appalled at his impulsive act, sealing for ever these lips from
which so much was to be extorted. What could he say? How could he explain? Ideas
of headlong flight somewhere, anywhere, passed through his mind; even the craven
and absurd notion of hiding under the table occurred to his cowardice. It was
too late; his officers had rushed in tumultuously, in a great clatter of
scabbards, clamouring, with astonishment and wonder. But since they did not
immediately proceed to plunge their swords into his breast, the brazen side of
his character asserted itself. Passing the sleeve of his uniform over his face
he pulled himself together, His truculent glance turned slowly here and there,
checked the noise where it fell; and the stiff body of the late Señor Hirsch,
merchant, after swaying imperceptibly, made a half turn, and came to a rest in
the midst of awed murmurs and uneasy shuffling.
    A voice remarked loudly, »Behold a man who will never speak again.« And
another, from the back row of faces, timid and pressing, cried out -
    »Why did you kill him, mi colonel?«
    »Because he has confessed everything,« answered Sotillo, with the hardihood
of desperation. He felt himself cornered. He brazened it out on the strength of
his reputation with very fair success. His hearers thought him very capable of
such an act. They were disposed to believe his flattering tale. There is no
credulity so eager and blind as the credulity of covetousness, which, in its
universal extent, measures the moral misery and the intellectual destitution of
mankind. Ah! he had confessed everything, this fractious Jew, this bribon. Good!
Then he was no longer wanted. A sudden dense guffaw was heard from the senior
captain - a big-headed man, with little round eyes and monstrously fat cheeks
which never moved. The old major, tall and fantastically ragged like a
scarecrow, walked round the body of the late Señor Hirsch, muttering to himself
with ineffable complacency that like this there was no need to guard against any
future treacheries of that scoundrel. The others stared, shifting from foot to
foot, and whispering short remarks to each other.
    Sotillo buckled on his sword and gave curt, peremptory orders to hasten the
retirement decided upon in the afternoon. Sinister, impressive, his sombrero
pulled right down upon his eyebrows, he marched first through the door in such
disorder of mind that he forgot utterly to provide for Dr. Monygham's possible
return. As the officers trooped out after him, one or two looked back hastily at
the late Señor Hirsch, merchant from Esmeralda, left swinging rigidly at rest,
alone with the two burning candles. In the emptiness of the room the burly
shadow of head and shoulders on the wall had an air of life.
    Below, the troops fell in silently and moved off by companies without drum
or trumpet. The old scarecrow major commanded the rearguard; but the party he
left behind with orders to fire the Custom House (and »burn the carcass of the
treacherous Jew where it hung«) failed somehow in their haste to set the
staircase properly alight. The body of the late Señor Hirsch dwelt alone for a
time in the dismal solitude of the unfinished building, resounding weirdly with
sudden slams and clicks of doors and latches, with rustling scurries of torn
papers, and the tremulous sighs that at each gust of wind passed under the high
roof. The light of the two candles burning before the perpendicular and
breathless immobility of the late Señor Hirsch threw a gleam afar over land and
water, like a signal in the night. He remained to startle Nostromo by his
presence, and to puzzle Dr. Monygham by the mystery of his atrocious end.
    »But why shot?« the doctor again asked himself, audibly. This time he was
answered by a dry laugh from Nostromo.
    »You seem much concerned at a very natural thing, señor doctor. I wonder
why? It is very likely that before long we shall all get shot one after another,
if not by Sotillo, then by Pedrito, or Fuentes, or Gamacho. And we may even get
the estrapade, too, or worse - quien sabe? - with your pretty tale of the silver
you put into Sotillo's head.«
    »It was in his head already,« the doctor protested. »I only -«
    »Yes. And you only nailed it there so that the devil himself -«
    »That is precisely what I meant to do,« caught up the doctor.
    »That is what you meant to do. Bueno. It is as I say. You are a dangerous
man.«
    Their voices, which without rising had been growing quarrelsome, ceased
suddenly. The late Señor Hirsch, erect and shadowy against the stars, seemed to
be waiting attentive, in impartial silence.
    But Dr. Monygham had no mind to quarrel with Nostromo. At this supremely
critical point of Sulaco's fortunes it was borne upon him at last that this man
was really indispensable, more indispensable than ever the infatuation of
Captain Mitchell, his proud discoverer, could conceive; far beyond what Decoud's
best dry raillery about »my illustrious friend, the unique Capataz de
Cargadores,« had ever intended. The fellow was unique. He was not one in a
thousand. He was absolutely the only one. The doctor surrendered. There was
something in the genius of that Genoese seaman which dominated in the destinies
of great enterprises and of many people, the fortunes of Charles Gould, the fate
of an admirable woman. At this last thought the doctor had to clear his throat
before he could speak.
    In a completely changed tone he pointed out to the Capataz that, to begin
with, he personally ran no great risk. As far as everybody knew he was dead. It
was an enormous advantage. He had only to keep out of sight in the Casa Viola,
where the old Garibaldino was known to be alone - with his dead wife. The
servants had all run away. No one would think of searching for him there, or
anywhere else on earth, for that matter.
    »That would be very true,« Nostromo spoke up, bitterly, »if I had not met
you.«
    For a time the doctor kept silent. »Do you mean to say that you think I may
give you away?« he asked in an unsteady voice. »Why? Why should I do that?«
    »What do I know? Why not? To gain a day perhaps. It would take Sotillo a day
to give me the estrapade, and try some other things perhaps, before he puts a
bullet through my heart - as he did to that poor wretch here. Why not?«
    The doctor swallowed with difficulty. His throat had gone dry in a moment.
It was not from indignation. The doctor, pathetically enough, believed that he
had forfeited the right to be indignant with any one - for anything. It was
simple dread. Had the fellow heard his story by some chance? If so, there was an
end of his usefulness in that direction. The indispensable man escaped his
influence, because of that indelible blot which made him fit for dirty work. A
feeling as of sickness came upon the doctor. He would have given anything to
know, but he dared not clear up the point. The fanaticism of his devotion, fed
on the sense of his abasement, hardened his heart in sadness and scorn.
    »Why not, indeed?« he reëchoed, sardonically. »Then the safe thing for you
is to kill me on the spot. I would defend myself. But you may just as well know
I am going about unarmed.«
    »Por Dios!« said the Capataz, passionately. »You fine people are all alike.
All dangerous. All betrayers of the poor who are your dogs.«
    »You do not understand,« began the doctor, slowly.
    »I understand you all!« cried the other with a violent movement, as shadowy
to the doctor's eyes as the persistent immobility of the late Señor Hirsch. »A
poor man amongst you has got to look after himself. I say that you do not care
for those that serve you. Look at me! After all these years, suddenly, here I
find myself like one of these curs that bark outside the walls - without a
kennel or a dry bone for my teeth. Caramba!« But he relented with a contemptuous
fairness. »Of course,« he went on, quietly, »I do not suppose that you would
hasten to give me up to Sotillo, for example. It is not that. It is that I am
nothing! Suddenly -« He swung his arm downwards. »Nothing to any one,« he
repeated.
    The doctor breathed freely. »Listen, Capataz,« he said, stretching out his
arm almost affectionately towards Nostromo's shoulder. »I am going to tell you a
very simple thing. You are safe because you are needed. I would not give you
away for any conceivable reason, because I want you.«
    In the dark Nostromo bit his lip. He had heard enough of that. He knew what
that meant. No more of that for him. But he had to look after himself now, he
thought. And he thought, too, that it would not be prudent to part in anger from
his companion. The doctor, admitted to be a great healer, had, amongst the
populace of Sulaco, the reputation of being an evil sort of man. It was based
solidly on his personal appearance, which was strange, and on his rough ironic
manner - proofs visible, sensible, and incontrovertible of the doctor's
malevolent disposition. And Nostromo was of the people. So he only grunted
incredulously.
    »You, to speak plainly, are the only man,« the doctor pursued. »It is in
your power to save this town and... everybody from the destructive rapacity of
men who -«
    »No, señor,« said Nostromo, sullenly. »It is not in my power to get the
treasure back for you to give up to Sotillo, or Pedrito, or Gamacho. What do I
know?«
    »Nobody expects the impossible,« was the answer.
    »You have said it yourself - nobody,« muttered Nostromo, in a gloomy,
threatening tone.
    But Dr. Monygham, full of hope, disregarded the enigmatic words and the
threatening tone. To their eyes, accustomed to obscurity, the late Señor Hirsch,
growing more distinct, seemed to have come nearer. And the doctor lowered his
voice in exposing his scheme as though afraid of being overheard.
    He was taking the indispensable man into his fullest confidence. Its implied
flattery and suggestion of great risks came with a familiar sound to the
Capataz. His mind, floating in irresolution and discontent, recognized it with
bitterness. He understood well that the doctor was anxious to save the San Tomé
mine from annihilation. He would be nothing without it. It was his interest.
Just as it had been the interest of Señor Decoud, of the Blancos, and of the
Europeans to get his Cargadores on their side. His thought became arrested upon
Decoud. What would happen to him?
    Nostromo's prolonged silence made the doctor uneasy. He pointed out, quite
unnecessarily, that though for the present he was safe, he could not live
concealed for ever. The choice was between accepting the mission to Barrios,
with all its dangers and difficulties, and leaving Sulaco by stealth,
ingloriously, in poverty.
    »None of your friends could reward you and protect you just now, Capataz.
Not even Don Carlos himself.«
    »I would have none of your protection and none of your rewards. I only wish
I could trust your courage and your sense. When I return in triumph, as you say,
with Barrios, I may find you all destroyed. You have the knife at your throat
now.«
    It was the doctor's turn to remain silent in the contemplation of horrible
contingencies.
    »Well, we would trust your courage and your sense. And you, too, have a
knife at your throat.
    Ah! And whom am I to thank for that? What are your politics and your mines
to me - your silver and your constitutions - your Don Carlos this, and Don José
that -«
    »I don't know,« burst out the exasperated doctor. »There are innocent people
in danger whose little finger is worth more than you or I and all the Ribierists
together. I don't know. You should have asked yourself before you allowed Decoud
to lead you into all this. It was your place to think like a man; but if you did
not think then, try to act like a man now. Did you imagine Decoud cared very
much for what would happen to you?«
    »No more than you care for what will happen to me,« muttered the other.
    »No; I care for what will happen to you as little as I care for what will
happen to myself.«
    »And all this because you are such a devoted Ribierist?« Nostromo said in an
incredulous tone.
    »All this because I am such a devoted Ribierist,« repeated Dr. Monygham,
grimly.
    Again Nostromo, gazing abstractedly at the body of the late Señor Hirsch,
remained silent, thinking that the doctor was a dangerous person in more than
one sense. It was impossible to trust him.
    »Do you speak in the name of Don Carlos?« he asked at last.
    »Yes. I do,« the doctor said, loudly, without hesitation. »He must come
forward now. He must,« he added in a mutter, which Nostromo did not catch.
    »What did you say, señor?«
    The doctor started. »I say that you must be true to yourself, Capataz. It
would be worse than folly to fail now.«
    »True to myself,« repeated Nostromo. »How do you know that I would not be
true to myself if I told you to go to the devil with your propositions?«
    »I do not know. Maybe you would,« the doctor said, with a roughness of tone
intended to hide the sinking of his heart and the faltering of his voice. »All I
know is, that you had better get away from here. Some of Sotillo's men may turn
up here looking for me.«
    He slipped off the table, listened intently. The Capataz, too, stood up.
    »Suppose I went to Cayta, what would you do meantime?« he asked.
    »I would go to Sotillo directly you had left - in the way I am thinking of.«
    »A very good way - if only that engineer-in-chief consents. Remind him,
señor, that I looked after the old rich Englishman who pays for the railway, and
that I saved the lives of some of his people that time when a gang of thieves
came from the south to wreck one of his pay-trains. It was I who discovered it
all at the risk of my life, by pretending to enter into their plans. Just as you
are doing with Sotillo.«
    »Yes. Yes, of course. But I can offer him better arguments,« the doctor
said, hastily. »Leave it to me.«
    »Ah, yes! True. I am nothing.«
    »Not at all. You are everything.«
    They moved a few paces towards the door. Behind them the late Señor Hirsch
preserved the immobility of a disregarded man.
    »That will be all right. I know what to say to the engineer,« pursued the
doctor, in a low tone. »My difficulty will be with Sotillo.«
    And Dr. Monygham stopped short in the doorway as if intimidated by the
difficulty. He had made the sacrifice of his life. He considered this a fitting
opportunity. But he did not want to throw his life away too soon. In his quality
of betrayer of Don Carlos' confidence, he would have ultimately to indicate the
hiding-place of the treasure. That would be the end of his deception, and the
end of himself as well, at the hands of the infuriated colonel. He wanted to
delay him to the very last moment; and he had been racking his brains to invent
some place of concealment at once plausible and difficult of access.
    He imparted his trouble to Nostromo, and concluded -
    »Do you know what, Capataz? I think that when the time comes and some
information must be given, I shall indicate the Great Isabel. That is the best
place I can think of. What is the matter?«
    A low exclamation had escaped Nostromo. The doctor waited, surprised, and
after a moment of profound silence, heard a thick voice stammer out »Utter
folly,« and stop with a gasp.
    »Why folly?«
    »Ah! You do not see it,« began Nostromo, scathingly, gathering scorn as he
went on. »Three men in half an hour would see that no ground had been disturbed
anywhere on that island. Do you think that such a treasure can be buried without
leaving traces of the work - eh! señor doctor? Why! you would not gain half a
day more before having your throat cut by Sotillo. The Isabel! What stupidity!
What miserable invention! Ah! you are all alike, you fine men of intelligence.
All you are fit for is to betray men of the people into undertaking deadly risks
for objects that you are not even sure about. If it comes off you get the
benefit. If not, then it does not matter. He is only a dog. Ah! Madre de Dios, I
would -« He shook his fists above his head.
    The doctor was overwhelmed at first by this fierce, hissing vehemence.
    »Well! It seems to me on your own showing that the men of the people are no
mean fools, too,« he said, sullenly. »No, but come. You are so clever. Have you
a better place?«
    Nostromo had calmed down as quickly as he had flared up.
    »I am clever enough for that,« he said, quietly, almost with indifference.
»You want to tell him of a hiding-place big enough to take days in ransacking -
a place where a treasure of silver ingots can be buried without leaving a sign
on the surface.«
    »And close at hand,« the doctor put in.
    »Just so, señor. Tell him it is sunk.«
    »This has the merit of being the truth,« the doctor said, contemptuously.
»He will not believe it.«
    »You tell him that it is sunk where he may hope to lay his hands on it, and
he will believe you quick enough. Tell him it has been sunk in the harbour in
order to be recovered afterwards by divers. Tell him you found out that I had
orders from Don Carlos Gould to lower the cases quietly overboard somewhere in a
line between the end of the jetty and the entrance. The depth is not too great
there. He has no divers, but he has a ship, boats, ropes, chains, sailors - of a
sort. Let him fish for the silver. Let him set his fools to drag backwards and
forwards and crossways while he sits and watches till his eyes drop out of his
head.«
    »Really, this is an admirable idea,« muttered the doctor.
    »Si. You tell him that, and see whether he will not believe you! He will
spend days in rage and torment - and still he will believe. He will have no
thought for anything else. He will not give up till he is driven off - why, he
may even forget to kill you. He will neither eat nor sleep. He -«
    »The very thing! The very thing!« the doctor repeated in an excited whisper.
»Capataz, I begin to believe that you are a great genius in your way.«
    Nostromo had paused; then began again in a changed tone, sombre, speaking to
himself as though he had forgotten the doctor's existence.
    »There is something in a treasure that fastens upon a man's mind. He will
pray and blaspheme and still persevere, and will curse the day he ever heard of
it, and will let his last hour come upon him unawares, still believing that he
missed it only by a foot. He will see it every time he closes his eyes. He will
never forget it till he is dead - and even then - Doctor, did you ever hear of
the miserable gringos on Azuera, that cannot die? Ha! ha! Sailors like myself.
There is no getting away from a treasure that once fastens upon your mind.«
    »You are a devil of a man, Capataz. It is the most plausible thing.«
    Nostromo pressed his arm.
    »It will be worse for him than thirst at sea or hunger in a town full of
people. Do you know what that is? He shall suffer greater torments than he
inflicted upon that terrified wretch who had no invention. None! none! Not like
me. I could have told Sotillo a deadly tale for very little pain.«
    He laughed wildly and turned in the doorway towards the body of the late
Señor Hirsch, an opaque long blotch in the semi-transparent obscurity of the
room between the two tall parallelograms of the windows full of stars.
    »You man of fear!« he cried. »You shall be avenged by me - Nostromo. Out of
my way, doctor! Stand aside - or, by the suffering soul of a woman dead without
confession, I will strangle you with my two hands.«
    He bounded downwards into the black, smoky hall. With a grunt of
astonishment, Dr. Monygham threw himself recklessly into the pursuit. At the
bottom of the charred stairs he had a fall, pitching forward on his face with a
force that would have stunned a spirit less intent upon a task of love and
devotion. He was up in a moment, jarred, shaken, with a queer impression of the
terrestrial globe having been flung at his head in the dark. But it wanted more
than that to stop Dr. Monygham's body, possessed by the exaltation of
self-sacrifice; a reasonable exaltation, determined not to lose whatever
advantage chance put into its way. He ran with headlong, tottering swiftness,
his arms going like a windmill in his effort, to keep his balance on his
crippled feet. He lost his hat; the tails of his open gaberdine flew behind him.
He had no mind to lose sight of the indispensable man. But it was a long time,
and a long way from the Custom House, before he managed to seize his arm from
behind, roughly, out of breath.
    »Stop! Are you mad?«
    Already Nostromo was walking slowly, his head dropping, as if checked in his
pace by the weariness of irresolution.
    »What is that to you? Ah! I forgot you want me for something. Always.
Siempre Nostromo.«
    »What do you mean by talking of strangling me?« panted the doctor.
    »What do I mean? I mean that the king of the devils himself has sent you out
of this town of cowards and talkers to meet me to-night of all the nights of my
life.«
    Under the starry sky the Albergo d'Italia Una emerged, black and low,
breaking the dark level of the plain. Nostromo stopped altogether.
    »The priests say he is a tempter, do they not?« he added, through his
clenched teeth.
    »My good man, you drivel. The devil has nothing to do with this. Neither has
the town, which you may call by what name you please. But Don Carlos Gould is
neither a coward nor an empty talker. You will admit that?« He waited. »Well?«
    »Could I see Don Carlos?«
    »Great heavens! No! Why? What for?« exclaimed the doctor in agitation. »I
tell you it is madness. I will not let you go into the town for anything.«
    »I must.«
    »You must not!« hissed the doctor, fiercely, almost beside himself with the
fear of the man doing away with his usefulness for an imbecile whim of some
sort. »I tell you you shall not. I would rather -«
    He stopped at loss for words, feeling fagged out, powerless, holding on to
Nostromo's sleeve, absolutely for support after his run.
    »I am betrayed!« muttered the Capataz to himself; and the doctor, who
overheard the last word, made an effort to speak calmly.
    »That is exactly what would happen to you. You would be betrayed.«
    He thought with a sickening dread that the man was so well known that he
could not escape recognition. The house of the Señor Administrator was beset by
spies, no doubt. And even the very servants of the casa were not to be trusted.
»Reflect, Capataz,« he said, impressively. ... »What are you laughing at?«
    »I am laughing to think that if somebody that did not approve of my presence
in town, for instance - you understand, señor doctor - if somebody were to give
me up to Pedrito, it would not be beyond my power to make friends even with him.
It is true. What do you think of that?«
    »You are a man of infinite resource, Capataz,« said Dr. Monygham, dismally.
»I recognize that. But the town is full of talk about you; and those few
Cargadores that are not in hiding with the railway people have been shouting
Viva Montero on the Plaza all day.«
    »My poor Cargadores!« muttered Nostromo. »Betrayed! Betrayed!«
    »I understand that on the wharf you were pretty free in laying about you
with a stick amongst your poor Cargadores,« the doctor said in a grim tone,
which showed that he was recovering from his exertions. »Make no mistake.
Pedrito is furious at Señor Ribiera's rescue, and at having lost the pleasure of
shooting Decoud. Already there are rumours in the town of the treasure having
been spirited away. To have missed that does not please Pedrito either; but let
me tell you that if you had all that silver in your hand for your ransom it
would not save you.«
    Turning swiftly, and catching the doctor by the shoulders, Nostromo thrust
his face close to his.
    »Maladetta! You follow me speaking of the treasure. You have sworn my ruin.
You were the last man who looked upon me before I went out with it. And Sidoni
the engine-driver says you have an evil eye.«
    »He ought to know. I saved his broken leg for him last year,« the doctor
said, stoically. He felt on his shoulders the weight of these hands famed
amongst the populace for snapping thick ropes and bending horseshoes. »And to
you I offer the best means of saving yourself - let me go - and of retrieving
your great reputation. You boasted of making the Capataz de Cargadores famous
from one end of America to the other about this wretched silver. But I bring you
a better opportunity - let me go, hombre!«
    Nostromo released him abruptly, and the doctor feared that the indispensable
man would run off again. But he did not. He walked on slowly. The doctor hobbled
by his side till, within a stone's throw from the Casa Viola, Nostromo stopped
again.
    Silent in inhospitable darkness, the Casa Viola seemed to have changed its
nature; his home appeared to repel him with an air of hopeless and inimical
mystery. The doctor said -
    »You will be safe there. Go in, Capataz.«
    »How can I go in?« Nostromo seemed to ask himself in a low, inward tone.
»She cannot unsay what she said, and I cannot undo what I have done.«
    »I tell you it is all right. Viola is all alone in there. I looked in as I
came out of the town. You will be perfectly safe in that house till you leave it
to make your name famous on the Campo. I am going now to arrange for your
departure with the engineer-in-chief, and I shall bring you news here long
before daybreak.«
    Dr. Monygham, disregarding, or perhaps fearing to penetrate the meaning of
Nostromo's silence, clapped him lightly on the shoulder, and starting off with
his smart, lame walk, vanished utterly at the third or fourth hop in the
direction of the railway track. Arrested between the two wooden posts for people
to fasten their horses to. Nostromo did not move, as if he, too, had been
planted solidly in the ground. At the end of half an hour he lifted his head to
the deep baying of the dogs at the railway yards, which had burst out suddenly,
tumultuous and deadened as if coming from under the plain. That lame doctor with
the evil eye had got there pretty fast.
    Step by step Nostromo approached the Albergo d'Italia Una, which he had
never known so lightless, so silent, before. The door, all black in the pale
wall, stood open as he had left it twenty-four hours before, when he had nothing
to hide from the world. He remained before it, irresolute, like a fugitive, like
a man betrayed. Poverty, misery, starvation! Where had he heard these words? The
anger of a dying woman had prophesied that fate for his folly. It looked as if
it would come true very quickly. And the leperos would laugh - she had said.
Yes, they would laugh if they knew that the Capataz de Cargadores was at the
mercy of the mad doctor whom they could remember, only a few years ago, buying
cooked food from a stall on the Plaza for a copper coin - like one of
themselves.
    At that moment the notion of seeking Captain Mitchell passed through his
mind. He glanced in the direction of the jetty and saw a small gleam of light in
the O.S.N. Company's building. The thought of lighted windows was not
attractive. Two lighted windows had decoyed him into the empty Custom House,
only to fall into the clutches of that doctor. No! He would not go near lighted
windows again on that night. Captain Mitchell was there. And what could he be
told? That doctor would worm it all out of him as if he were a child.
    On the threshold he called out »Giorgio!« in an undertone. Nobody answered.
He stepped in. »Olà! viejo! Are you there? ...« In the impenetrable darkness his
head swam with the illusion that the obscurity of the kitchen was as vast as the
Placid Gulf, and that the floor dipped forward like a sinking lighter. »Ola!
viejo!« he repeated, falteringly, swaying where he stood. His hand, extended to
steady himself, fell upon the table. Moving a step forward, he shifted it, and
felt a box of matches under his fingers. He fancied he had heard a quiet sigh.
He listened for a moment, holding his breath; then, with trembling hands, tried
to strike a light.
    The tiny piece of wood flamed up quite blindingly at the end of his fingers,
raised above his blinking eyes. A concentrated glare fell upon the leonine white
head of old Giorgio against the black fire-place - showed him leaning forward in
a chair in staring immobility, surrounded, overhung, by great masses of shadow,
his legs crossed, his cheek in his hand, an empty pipe in the corner of his
mouth. It seemed hours before he attempted to turn his face; at the very moment
the match went out, and he disappeared, overwhelmed by the shadows, as if the
walls and roof of the desolate house had collapsed upon his white head in
ghostly silence.
    Nostromo heard him stir and utter dispassionately the words -
    »It may have been a vision.«
    »No,« he said, softly. »It is no vision, old man.«
    A strong chest voice asked in the dark -
    »Is that you I hear, Giovann' Battista?«
    »Si, viejo. Steady. Not so loud.«
    After his release by Sotillo, Giorgio Viola, attended to the very door by
the good-natured engineer-in-chief, had reëntered his house, which he had been
made to leave almost at the very moment of his wife's death. All was still. The
lamp above was burning. He nearly called out to her by name; and the thought
that no call from him would ever again evoke the answer of her voice, made him
drop heavily into the chair with a loud groan, wrung out by the pain as of a
keen blade piercing his breast.
    The rest of the night he made no sound. The darkness turned to grey, and on
the colourless, clear, glassy dawn the jagged sierra stood out flat and opaque,
as if cut out of paper.
    The enthusiastic and severe soul of Giorgio Viola, sailor, champion of
oppressed humanity, enemy of kings, and, by the grace of Mrs. Gould,
hotel-keeper of the Sulaco harbour, had descended into the open abyss of
desolation amongst the shattered vestiges of his past. He remembered his wooing
between two campaigns a single short week in the season of gathering olives.
Nothing approached the grave passion of that time but the deep, passionate sense
of his bereavement. He discovered all the extent of his dependence upon the
silenced voice of that woman. It was her voice that he missed. Abstracted, busy,
lost in inward contemplation, he seldom looked at his wife in those later years.
The thought of his girls was a matter of concern, not of consolation. It was her
voice that he would miss. And he remembered the other child - the little boy who
died at sea. Ah! a man would have been something to lean upon. And, alas! even
Gian' Battista - he of whom, and of Linda, his wife had spoken to him so
anxiously before she dropped off into her last sleep on earth, he on whom she
had called aloud to save the children, just before she died - even he was dead!
    And the old man, bent forward, his head in his hand, sat through the day in
immobility and solitude. He never heard the brazen roar of the bells in town.
When it ceased the earthenware filter in the corner of the kitchen kept on its
swift musical drip, drip into the great porous jar below.
    Towards sunset he got up, and with slow movements disappeared up the narrow
staircase. His bulk filled it; and the rubbing of his shoulders made a small
noise as of a mouse running behind the plaster of a wall. While he remained up
there the house was as dumb as a grave. Then, with the same faint rubbing noise,
he descended. He had to catch at the chairs and tables to regain his seat. He
seized his pipe off the high mantel of the fire-place - but made no attempt to
reach the tobacco - thrust it empty into the corner of his mouth, and sat down
again in the same staring pose. The sun of Pedrito's entry into Sulaco, the last
sun of Señor Hirsch's life, the first of Decoud's solitude on the Great Isabel,
passed over the Albergo d'Italia Una on its way to the west. The tinkling drip,
drip of the filter had ceased, the lamp upstairs had burnt itself out, and the
night beset Giorgio Viola and his dead wife with its obscurity and silence that
seemed invincible till the Capataz de Cargadores, returning from the dead, put
them to flight with the splutter and flare of a match.
    »Si, viejo. It is me. Wait.«
    Nostromo, after barricading the door and closing the shutters carefully,
groped upon a shelf for a candle, and lit it.
    Old Viola had risen. He followed with his eyes in the dark the sounds made
by Nostromo. The light disclosed him standing without support, as if the mere
presence of that man who was loyal, brave, incorruptible, who was all his son
would have been, were enough for the support of his decaying strength.
    He extended his hand grasping the briar-wood pipe, whose bowl was charred on
the edge, and knitted his bushy eyebrows heavily at the light.
    »You have returned,« he said, with shaky dignity. »Ah! Very well! I -«
    He broke off. Nostromo, leaning back against the table, his arms folded on
his breast, nodded at him slightly.
    »You thought I was drowned! No! The best dog of the rich, of the
aristocrats, of these fine men who can only talk and betray the people, is not
dead yet.«
    The Garibaldino, motionless, seemed to drink in the sound of the well-known
voice. His head moved slightly once as if in sign of approval; but Nostromo saw
clearly that the old man understood nothing of the words. There was no one to
understand; no one he could take into the confidence of Decoud's fate, of his
own, into the secret of the silver. That doctor was an enemy of the people - a
tempter. ...
    Old Giorgio's heavy frame shook from head to foot with the effort to
overcome his emotion at the sight of that man, who had shared the intimacies of
his domestic life as though he had been a grown-up son.
    »She believed you would return,« he said, solemnly.
    Nostromo raised his head.
    »She was a wise woman. How could I fail to come back -?«
    He finished the thought mentally: »Since she has prophesied for me an end of
poverty, misery, and starvation.« These words of Teresa's anger, from the
circumstances in which they had been uttered, like the cry of a soul prevented
from making its peace with God, stirred the obscure superstition of personal
fortune from which even the greatest genius amongst men of adventure and action
is seldom free. They reigned over Nostromo's mind with the force of a potent
malediction. And what a curse it was that which her words had laid upon him! He
had been orphaned so young that he could remember no other woman whom he called
mother. Henceforth there would be no enterprise in which he would not fail. The
spell was working already. Death itself would elude him now. ... He said
violently -
    »Come, viejo! Get me something to eat. I am hungry! Sangre de Dios! The
emptiness of my belly makes me lightheaded.«
    With his chin dropped again upon his bare breast above his folded arms,
barefooted, watching from under a gloomy brow the movements of old Viola
foraging amongst the cupboards, he seemed as if indeed fallen under a curse - a
ruined and sinister Capataz.
    Old Viola walked out of a dark corner, and, without a word, emptied upon the
table out of his hollowed palms a few dry crusts of bread and half a raw onion.
    While the Capataz began to devour his beggar's fare, taking up with
stony-eyed voracity piece after piece lying by his side, the Garibaldino went
off, and squatting down in another corner filled an earthenware mug with red
wine out of a wicker-covered demijohn. With a familiar gesture, as when serving
customers in the café, he had thrust his pipe between his teeth to have his
hands free.
    The Capataz drank greedily. A slight flush deepened the bronze of his cheek.
Before him, Viola, with a turn of his white and massive head towards the
staircase, took his empty pipe out of his mouth, and pronounced slowly -
    »After the shot was fired down here, which killed her as surely as if the
bullet had struck her oppressed heart, she called upon you to save the children.
Upon you, Gian' Battista.«
    The Capataz looked up.
    »Did she do that, Padrone? To save the children! They are with the English
señora, their rich benefactress. Hey! old man of the people. Thy benefactress.
...«
    »I am old,« muttered Giorgio Viola. »An Englishwoman was allowed to give a
bed to Garibaldi lying wounded in prison. The greatest man that ever lived. A
man of the people, too - a sailor. I may let another keep a roof over my head.
Si ... I am old. I may let her. Life lasts too long sometimes.«
    »And she herself may not have a roof over her head before many days are out,
unless I ... What do you say? Am I to keep a roof over her head? Am I to try -
and save all the Blancos together with her?«
    »You shall do it,« said old Viola in a strong voice. »You shall do it as my
son would have. ...«
    »Thy son, viejo! ... There never has been a man like thy son. Ha, I must
try. ... But what if it were only a part of the curse to lure me on? ... And so
she called upon me to save - and then -?«
    »She spoke no more.« The heroic follower of Garibaldi, at the thought of the
eternal stillness and silence fallen upon the shrouded form stretched out on the
bed upstairs, averted his face and raised his hand to his furrowed brow. »She
was dead before I could seize her hands,« he stammered out, pitifully.
    Before the wide eyes of the Capataz, staring at the doorway of the dark
staircase, floated the shape of the Great Isabel, like a strange ship in
distress, freighted with enormous wealth and the solitary life of a man. It was
impossible for him to do anything. He could only hold his tongue, since there
was no one to trust. The treasure would be lost, probably - unless Decoud. ...
And his thought came abruptly to an end. He perceived that he could not imagine
in the least what Decoud was likely to do.
    Old Viola had not stirred. And the motionless Capataz dropped his long, soft
eyelashes, which gave to the upper part of his fierce, black-whiskered face a
touch of feminine ingenuousness. The silence had lasted for a long time.
    »God rest her soul!« he murmured, gloomily.
 

                                  Chapter Ten

The next day was quiet in the morning, except for the faint sound of firing to
the northward, in the direction of Los Hatos. Captain Mitchell had listened to
it from his balcony anxiously. The phrase, »In my delicate position as the only
consular agent then in the port, everything, sir, everything was a just cause
for anxiety,« had its place in the more or less stereotyped relation of the
historical events which for the next few years was at the service of
distinguished strangers visiting Sulaco. The mention of the dignity and
neutrality of the flag, so difficult to preserve in his position, »right in the
thick of these events between the lawlessness of that piratical villain Sotillo
and the more regularly established but scarcely less atrocious tyranny of his
Excellency Don Pedro Montero,« came next in order. Captain Mitchell was not the
man to enlarge upon mere dangers much. But he insisted that it was a memorable
day. On that day, towards dusk, he had seen »that poor fellow of mine -
Nostromo. The sailor whom I discovered, and, I may say, made, sir. The man of
the famous ride to Cayta, sir. An historical event, sir!«
    Regarded by the O.S.N. Company as an old and faithful servant, Captain
Mitchell was allowed to attain the term of his usefulness in ease and dignity at
the head of the enormously extended service. The augmentation of the
establishment, with its crowds of clerks, an office in town, the old office in
the harbour, the division into departments - passenger, cargo, lighterage, and
so on - secured a greater leisure for his last years in the regenerated Sulaco,
the capital of the Occidental Republic. Liked by the natives for his good nature
and the formality of his manner, self-important and simple, known for years as a
friend of our country, he felt himself a personality of mark in the town.
Getting up early for a turn in the market-place while the gigantic shadow of
Higuerota was still lying upon the fruit and flower stalls piled up with masses
of gorgeous colouring, attending easily to current affairs, welcomed in houses,
greeted by ladies on the Alameda, with his entry into all the clubs and a
footing in the Casa Gould, he led his privileged old bachelor, man-about-town
existence with great comfort and solemnity. But on mail-boat days he was down at
the Harbour Office at an early hour, with his own gig, manned by a smart crew in
white and blue, ready to dash off and board the ship directly she showed her
bows between the harbour heads.
    It would be into the Harbour Office that he would lead some privileged
passenger he had brought off in his own boat, and invite him to take a seat for
a moment while he signed a few papers. And Captain Mitchell, seating himself at
his desk, would keep on talking hospitably -
    »There isn't much time if you are to see everything in a day. We shall be
off in a moment. We'll have lunch at the Amarilla Club - though I belong also to
the Anglo-American - mining engineers and business men, don't you know - and to
the Mirliflores as well, a new club - English, French, Italians, all sorts -
lively young fellows mostly, who wanted to pay a compliment to an old resident,
sir. But we'll lunch at the Amarilla. Interest you, I fancy. Real thing of the
country. Men of the first families. The President of the Occidental Republic
himself belongs to it, sir. Fine old bishop with a broken nose in the patio.
Remarkable piece of statuary, I believe. Cavaliere Parrochetti - you know
Parrochetti, the famous Italian sculptor - was working here for two years -
thought very highly of our old bishop. ... There! I am very much at your service
now.«
    Proud of his experience, penetrated by the sense of historical importance of
men, events, and buildings, he talked pompously in jerky periods, with slight
sweeps of his short, thick arm, letting nothing escape the attention of his
privileged captive.
    »Lot of building going on, as you observe. Before the Separation it was a
plain of burnt grass smothered in clouds of dust, with an ox-cart track to our
Jetty. Nothing more. This is the Harbour Gate. Picturesque, is it not? Formerly
the town stopped short there. We enter now the Calle de la Constitution. Observe
the old Spanish houses. Great dignity. Eh? I suppose it's just as it was in the
time of the Viceroys, except for the pavement. Wood blocks now. Sulaco National
Bank there, with the sentry boxes each side of the gate. Casa Avellanos this
side, with all the ground-floor windows shuttered. A wonderful woman lives there
- Miss Avellanos - the beautiful Antonia. A character, sir! A historical woman!
Opposite - Casa Gould. Noble gateway. Yes, the Goulds of the original Gould
Concession, that all the world knows of now. I hold seventeen of the
thousand-dollar shares in the Consolidated San Tomé mines. All the poor savings
of my lifetime, sir, and it will be enough to keep me in comfort to the end of
my days at home when I retire. I got in on the ground-floor, you see. Don
Carlos, great friend of mine. Seventeen shares - quite a little fortune to leave
behind one, too. I have a niece - married a parson - most worthy man, incumbent
of a small parish in Sussex; no end of children. I was never married myself. A
sailor should exercise self-denial. Standing under that very gateway, sir, with
some young engineer-fellows, ready to defend that house where we had received so
much kindness and hospitality, I saw the first and last charge of Pedrito's
horsemen upon Barrios's troops, who had just taken the Harbour Gate. They could
not stand the new rifles brought out by that poor Decoud. It was a murderous
fire. In a moment the street became blocked with a mass of dead men and horses.
They never came on again.«
    And all day Captain Mitchell would talk like this to his more or less
willing victim -
    »The Plaza. I call it magnificent. Twice the area of Trafalgar Square.«
    From the very centre, in the blazing sunshine, he pointed out the buildings
-
    »The Intendencia, now President's Palace - Cabildo, where the Lower Chamber
of Parliament sits. You notice the new houses on that side of the Plaza?
Compañia Anzani, a great general store, like those coöperative things at home.
Old Anzani was murdered by the National Guards in front of his safe. It was even
for that specific crime that the deputy Gamacho, commanding the Nationals, a
bloodthirsty and savage brute, was executed publicly by garrotte upon the
sentence of a court-martial ordered by Barrios. Anzani's nephews converted the
business into a company. All that side of the Plaza had been burnt; used to be
colonnaded before. A terrible fire, by the light of which I saw the last of the
fighting, the llaneros flying, the Nationals throwing their arms down, and the
miners of San Tomé, all Indians from the Sierra, rolling by like a torrent to
the sound of pipes and cymbals, green flags flying, a wild mass of men in white
ponchos and green hats, on foot, on mules, on donkeys. Such a sight, sir, will
never be seen again. The miners, sir, had marched upon the town, Don Pépé
leading on his black horse, and their very wives in the rear on burros,
screaming encouragement, sir, and beating tambourines. I remember one of these
women had a green parrot seated on her shoulder, as calm as a bird of stone.
They had just saved their Señor Administrator; for Barrios, though he ordered
the assault at once, at night, too, would have been too late. Pedrito Montero
had Don Carlos led out to be shot - like his uncle many years ago - and then, as
Barrios said afterwards, Sulaco would not have been worth fighting for. Sulaco
without the Concession was nothing; and there were tons and tons of dynamite
distributed all over the mountain with detonators arranged, and an old priest,
Father Romàn, standing by to annihilate the San Tomé mine at the first news of
failure. Don Carlos had made up his mind not to leave it behind, and he had the
right men to see to it, too.«
    Thus Captain Mitchell would talk in the middle of the Plaza, holding over
his head a white umbrella with a green lining; but inside the cathedral, in the
dim light, with a faint scent of incense floating in the cool atmosphere, and
here and there a kneeling female figure, black or all white, with a veiled head,
his lowered voice became solemn and impressive.
    »Here,« he would say, pointing to a niche in the wall of the dusky aisle,
»you see the bust of Don José Avellanos, Patriot and Statesman, as the
inscription says, Minister to Courts of England and Spain, etc., etc., died in
the woods of Los Hatos worn out with his lifelong struggle for Right and Justice
at the dawn of the New Era. A fair likeness. Parrochetti's work from some old
photographs and a pencil sketch by Mrs. Gould. I was well acquainted with that
distinguished Spanish-American of the old school, a true Hidalgo, beloved by
everybody who knew him. The marble medallion in the wall, in the antique style,
representing a veiled woman seated with her hands clasped loosely over her
knees, commemorates that unfortunate young gentleman who sailed out with
Nostromo on that fatal night, sir. See, To the memory of Martin Decoud, his
betrothed Antonia Avellanos. Frank, simple, noble. There you have that lady,
sir, as she is. An exceptional woman. Those who thought she would give way to
despair were mistaken, sir. She has been blamed in many quarters for not having
taken the veil. It was expected of her. But Doña Antonia is not the stuff they
make nuns of. Bishop Corbelàn, her uncle, lives with her in the Corbelàn town
house. He is a fierce sort of priest, everlastingly worrying the Government
about the old Church lands and convents. I believe they think a lot of him in
Rome. Now let us go to the Amarilla Club, just across the Plaza, to get some
lunch.«
    Directly outside the cathedral on the very top of the noble flight of steps,
his voice rose pompously, his arm found again its sweeping gesture.
    »Porvenir, over there on that first floor, above those French plate-glass
shop-fronts; our biggest daily. Conservative, or, rather, I should say,
Parliamentary. We have the Parliamentary party here of which the actual Chief of
the State, Don Juste Lopez, is the head; a very sagacious man, I think. A
first-rate intellect, sir. The Democratic party in opposition rests mostly, I am
sorry to say, on these socialistic Italians, sir, with their secret societies,
camorras, and such-like. There are lots of Italians settled here on the railway
lands, dismissed navvies, mechanics, and so on, all along the trunk line. There
are whole villages of Italians on the Campo. And the natives, too, are being
drawn into these ways ... American bar? Yes. And over there you can see another.
New Yorkers mostly frequent that one - Here we are at the Amarilla. Observe the
bishop at the foot of the stairs to the right as we go in.«
    And the lunch would begin and terminate its lavish and leisurely course at a
little table in the gallery, Captain Mitchell nodding, bowing, getting up to
speak for a moment to different officials in black clothes, merchants in
jackets, officers in uniform, middle-aged caballeros from the Campo - sallow,
little, nervous men, and fat, placid, swarthy men, and Europeans or North
Americans of superior standing, whose faces looked very white amongst the
majority of dark complexions and black, glistening eyes.
    Captain Mitchell would lie back in the chair, casting around looks of
satisfaction, and tender over the table a case full of thick cigars.
    »Try a weed with your coffee. Local tobacco. The black coffee you get at the
Amarilla, sir, you don't meet anywhere in the world. We get the bean from a
famous caféteria in the foot-hills, whose owner sends three sacks every year as
a present to his fellow members in remembrance of the fight against Gamacho's
Nationals, carried on from these very windows by the caballeros. He was in town
at the time, and took part, sir, to the bitter end. It arrives on three mules -
not in the common way, by rail; no fear! - right into the patio, escorted by
mounted peons, in charge of the Mayoral of his estate, who walks upstairs,
booted and spurred, and delivers it to our committee formally with the words,
For the sake of those fallen the third of May. We call it Très de Mayo coffee.
Taste it.«
    Captain MitcheII, with an expression as though making ready to hear a sermon
in a church, would lift the tiny cup to his lips. And the nectar would be sipped
to the bottom during a restful silence in a cloud of cigar smoke.
    »Look at this man in black just going out,« he would begin, leaning forward
hastily. »This is the famous Hernandez, Minister of War. The Times' special
correspondent, who wrote that striking series of letters calling the Occidental
Republic the Treasure House of the World, gave a whole article to him and the
force he has organized - the renowned Carabineers of the Campo.«
    Captain Mitchell's guest, staring curiously, would see a figure in a
long-tailed black coat walking gravely, with downcast eyelids in a long,
composed face, a brow furrowed horizontally, a pointed head, whose grey hair,
thin at the top, combed down carefully on all sides and rolled at the ends, fell
low on the neck and shoulders. This, then, was the famous bandit of whom Europe
had heard with interest. He put on a high-crowned sombrero with a wide flat
brim; a rosary of wooden beads was twisted about his right wrist. And Captain
Mitchell would proceed -
    »The protector of the Sulaco refugees from the rage of Pedrito. As general
of cavalry with Barrios he distinguished himself at the storming of Tonoro,
where Señor Fuentes was killed with the last remnant of the Monterists. He is
the friend and humble servant of Bishop Corbelàn. Hears three Masses every day.
I bet you he will step into the cathedral to say a prayer or two on his way home
to his siesta.«
    He took several puffs at his cigar in silence; then, in his best important
manner, pronounced -
    »The Spanish race, sir, is prolific of remarkable characters in every rank
of life. ... I propose we go now into the billiard-room, which is cool, for a
quiet chat. There's never anybody there till after five. I could tell you
episodes of the Separationist revolution that would astonish you. When the great
heat's over, we'll take a turn on the Alameda.«
    The programme went on relentless, like a law of Nature. The turn on the
Alameda was taken with slow steps and stately remarks.
    »All the great world of Sulaco here, sir.« Captain Mitchell bowed right and
left with no end of formality; then with animation, »Doña Emilia, Mrs. Gould's
carriage. Look. Always white mules. The kindest, most gracious woman the sun
ever shone upon. A great position, sir. A great position. First lady in Sulaco -
far before the President's wife. And worthy of it.« He took off his hat; then,
with a studied change of tone, added, negligently, that the man in black by her
side, with a high white collar and a scarred, snarly face, was Dr. Monygham,
Inspector of State Hospitals, chief medical officer of the Consolidated San Tomé
mines. »A familiar of the house. Everlastingly there. No wonder. The Goulds made
him. Very clever man and all that, but I never liked him. Nobody does. I can
recollect him limping about the streets in a check shirt and native sandals with
a watermelon under his arm - all he would get to eat for the day. A big-wig now,
sir, and as nasty as ever. However ... There's no doubt he played his part
fairly well at the time. He saved us all from the deadly incubus of Sotillo,
where a more particular man might have failed -«
    His arm went up.
    »The equestrian statue that used to stand on the pedestal over there has
been removed. It was an anachronism,« Captain Mitchell commented, obscurely.
»There is some talk of replacing it by a marble shaft commemorative of
Separation, with angels of peace at the four corners, and bronze Justice holding
an even balance, all gilt, on the top. Cavaliere Parrochetti was asked to make a
design, which you can see framed under glass in the Municipal Sala. Names are to
be engraved all round the base. Well! They could do no better than begin with
the name of Nostromo. He has done for Separation as much as anybody else, and,«
added Captain Mitchell, »has got less than many others by it - when it comes to
that.« He dropped on to a stone seat under a tree, and tapped invitingly at the
place by his side. »He carried to Barrios the letters from Sulaco which decided
the General to abandon Cayta for a time, and come back to our help here by sea.
The transports were still in harbour fortunately. Sir, I did not even know that
my Capataz de Cargadores was alive. I had no idea. It was Dr. Monygham who came
upon him, by chance, in the Custom House, evacuated an hour or two before by the
wretched Sotillo. I was never told; never given a hint, nothing - as if I were
unworthy of confidence. Monygham arranged it all. He went to the railway yards,
and got admission to the engineer-in-chief, who, for the sake of the Goulds as
much as for anything else, consented to let an engine make a dash down the line,
one hundred and eighty miles, with Nostromo aboard. It was the only way to get
him off. In the Construction Camp at the railhead, he obtained a horse, arms,
some clothing, and started alone on that marvellous ride - four hundred miles in
six days, through a disturbed country, ending by the feat of passing through the
Monterist lines outside Cayta. The history of that ride, sir, would make a most
exciting book. He carried all our lives in his pocket. Devotion, courage,
fidelity, intelligence were not enough. Of course, he was perfectly fearless and
incorruptible. But a man was wanted that would know how to succeed. He was that
man, sir. On the fifth of May, being practically a prisoner in the Harbour
Office of my Company, I suddenly heard the whistle of an engine in the railway
yards, a quarter of a mile away. I could not believe my ears. I made one jump on
to the balcony, and beheld a locomotive under a great head of steam run out of
the yard gates, screeching like mad, enveloped in a white cloud, and then, just
abreast of old Viola's inn, check almost to a standstill. I made out, sir, a man
- I couldn't tell who - dash out of the Albergo d'Italia Una, climb into the
cab, and then, sir, that engine seemed positively to leap clear of the house,
and was gone in the twinkling of an eye. As you blow a candle out, sir! There
was a first-rate driver on the foot-plate, sir, I can tell you. They were fired
heavily upon by the National Guards in Rincon and one other place. Fortunately
the line had not been torn up. In four hours they reached the Construction Camp.
Nostromo had his start. ... The rest you know. You've got only to look round
you. There are people on this Alameda that ride in their carriages, or even are
alive at all to-day, because years ago I engaged a runaway Italian sailor for a
foreman of our wharf simply on the strength of his looks. And that's a fact. You
can't get over it, sir. On the seventeenth of May, just twelve days after I saw
the man from the Casa Viola get on the engine, and wondered what it meant.
Barrios's transports were entering this harbour, and the Treasure House of the
World, as The Times man calls Sulaco in his book, was saved intact for
civilization - for a great future, sir. Pedrito, with Hernandez on the west, and
the San Tomé miners pressing on the land gate, was not able to oppose the
landing. He had been sending messages to Sotillo for a week to join him. Had
Sotillo done so there would have been massacres and proscription that would have
left no man or woman of position alive. But that's where Dr. Monygham comes in.
Sotillo, blind and deaf to everything, stuck on board his steamer watching the
dragging for silver, which he believed to be sunk at the bottom of the harbour.
They say that for the last three days he was out of his mind raving and foaming
with disappointment at getting nothing, flying about the deck, and yelling
curses at the boats with the drags, ordering them in, and then suddenly stamping
his foot and crying out, And yet it is there! I see it! I feel it!
    He was preparing to hang Dr. Monygham (whom he had on board) at the end of
the after-derrick, when the first of Barrios's transports, one of our own ships
at that, steamed right in, and ranging close alongside opened a small-arm fire
without as much preliminaries as a hail. It was the completest surprise in the
world, sir. They were too astounded at first to bolt below. Men were falling
right and left like ninepins. It's a miracle that Monygham, standing on the
after-hatch with the rope already round his neck, escaped being riddled through
and through like a sieve. He told me since that he had given himself up for
lost, and kept on yelling with all the strength of his lungs: Hoist a white
flag! Hoist a white flag! Suddenly an old major of the Esmeralda regiment,
standing by, unsheathed his sword with a shriek: Die, perjured traitor! and ran
Sotillo clean through the body, just before he fell himself shot through the
head.«
    Captain Mitchell stopped for a while.
    »Begad, sir! I could spin you a yarn for hours. But it's time we started off
to Rincon. It would not do for you to pass through Sulaco and not see the lights
of the San Tomé mine, a whole mountain ablaze like a lighted palace above the
dark Campo. It's a fashionable drive. ... But let me tell you one little
anecdote, sir; just to show you. A fortnight or more later, when Barrios,
declared Generalissimo, was gone in pursuit of Pedrito away south, when the
Provisional Junta, with Don Juste Lopez at its head, had promulgated the new
Constitution, and our Don Carlos Gould was packing up his trunks bound on a
mission to San Francisco and Washington (the United States, sir, were the first
great power to recognize the Occidental Republic) - a fortnight later, I say,
when we were beginning to feel that our heads were safe on our shoulders, if I
may express myself so, a prominent man, a large shipper by our line, came to see
me on business, and, says he, the first thing: I say, Captain Mitchell, is that
fellow (meaning Nostromo) still the Capataz of your Cargadores or not? What's
the matter? says I. Because, if he is, then I don't mind; I send and receive a
good lot of cargo by your ships; but I have observed him several days loafing
about the wharf, and just now he stopped me as cool as you please, with a
request for a cigar. Now, you know, my cigars are rather special, and I can't
get them so easily as all that. I hope you stretched a point, I said, very
gently. Why, yes. But it's a confounded nuisance. The fellow's everlastingly
cadging for smokes. Sir, I turned my eyes away, and then asked, Weren't you one
of the prisoners in the Cabildo? You know very well I was, and in chains, too,
says he. And under a fine of fifteen thousand dollars? He coloured, sir, because
it got about that he fainted from fright when they came to arrest him, and then
behaved before Fuentes in a manner to make the very policianos, who had dragged
him there by the hair of his head, smile at his cringing. Yes, he says, in a
sort of shy way. Why? Oh, nothing. You stood to lose a tidy bit, says I, even if
you saved your life. ... But what can I do for you? He never even saw the point.
Not he. And that's how the world wags, sir.«
    He rose a little stiffly, and the drive to Rincon would be taken with only
one philosophical remark, uttered by the merciless cicerone, with his eyes fixed
upon the lights of San Tomé, that seemed suspended in the dark night between
earth and heaven.
    »A great power, this, for good and evil, sir. A great power.«
    And the dinner of the Mirliflores would be eaten, excellent as to cooking,
and leaving upon the traveller's mind an impression, that there were in Sulaco
many pleasant, able young men with salaries apparently too large for their
discretion, and amongst them a few, mostly Anglo-Saxon, skilled in the art of,
as the saying is, taking a rise out of his kind host.
    With a rapid, jingling drive to the harbour in a two-wheeled machine (which
Captain Mitchell called a curricle) behind a fleet and scraggy mule beaten all
the time by an obviously Neapolitan driver, the cycle would be nearly closed
before the lighted-up offices of the O.S.N. Company, remaining open so late
because of the steamer. Nearly - but not quite.
    »Ten o'clock. Your ship won't be ready to leave till half-past twelve, if by
then. Come in for a brandy-and-soda and one more cigar.«
    And in the superintendent's private room the privileged passenger by the
Ceres, or Juno, or Pallas, stunned and as it were annihilated mentally by a
sudden surfeit of sights, sounds, names, facts, and complicated information
imperfectly apprehended, would listen like a tired child to a fairy tale; would
hear a voice, familiar and surprising in its pompousness, tell him, as if from
another world, how there was in this very harbour an international naval
demonstration, which put an end to the Costaguana-Sulaco War. How the United
States cruiser, Powhattan, was the first to salute the Occidental flag - white,
with a wreath of green laurel in the middle encircling a yellow amarilla flower.
Would hear how General Montero, in less than a month after proclaiming himself
Emperor of Costaguana, was shot dead (during a solemn and public distribution of
orders and crosses) by a young artillery officer, the brother of his then
mistress.
    »The abominable Pedrito, sir, fled the country,« the voice would say. And it
would continue: »A captain of one of our ships told me lately that he recognized
Pedrito the Guerrillero, arrayed in purple slippers and a velvet smoking-cap
with a gold tassel, keeping a disorderly house in one of the southern ports.«
    »Abominable Pedrito! Who the devil was he?« would wonder the distinguished
bird of passage hovering on the confines of waking and sleep with resolutely
open eyes and a faint but amiable curl upon his lips, from between which stuck
out the eighteenth or twentieth cigar of that memorable day.
    »He appeared to me in this very room like a haunting ghost, sir« - Captain
Mitchell was talking of his Nostromo with true warmth of feeling and a touch of
wistful pride. »You may imagine, sir, what an effect it produced on me. He had
come round by sea with Barrios, of course. And the first thing he told me after
I became fit to hear him was that he had picked up the lighter's boat floating
in the gulf! He seemed quite overcome by the circumstance. And a remarkable
enough circumstance it was, when you remember that it was then sixteen days
since the sinking of the silver. At once I could see he was another man. He
stared at the wall, sir, as if there had been a spider or something running
about there. The loss of the silver preyed on his mind. The first thing he asked
me about was whether Doña Antonia had heard yet of Decoud's death. His voice
trembled. I had to tell him that Doña Antonia, as a matter of fact, was not then
back in town yet. Poor girl! And just as I was making ready to ask him a
thousand questions, with a sudden, Pardon me, señor, he cleared out of the
office altogether. I did not see him again for three days. I was terribly busy,
you know. It seems that he wandered about in and out of the town, and on two
nights turned up to sleep in the baracoons of the railway people. He seemed
absolutely indifferent to what went on. I asked him on the wharf, When are you
going to take hold again, Nostromo? There will be plenty of work for the
Cargadores presently.
    Señor, says he, looking at me in a slow, inquisitive manner, would it
surprise you to hear that I am too tired to work just yet? And what work could I
do now? How can I look my Cargadores in the face after losing a lighter?
    I begged him not to think any more about the silver, and he smiled. A smile
that went to my heart, sir. It was no mistake, I told him. It was a fatality. A
thing that could not be helped. Si, si! he said, and turned away. I thought it
best to leave him alone for a bit to get over it. Sir, it took him years really,
to get over it. I was present at his interview with Don Carlos. I must say that
Gould is rather a cold man. He had to keep a tight hand on his feelings, dealing
with thieves and rascals, in constant danger of ruin for himself and wife for so
many years, that it had become a second nature. They looked at each other for a
long time. Don Carlos asked what he could do for him, in his quiet, reserved
way.
    My name is known from one end of Sulaco to the other, he said, as quiet as
the other. What more can you do for me? That was all that passed on that
occasion. Later, however, there was a very fine coasting schooner for sale, and
Mrs. Gould and I put our heads together to get her bought and presented to him.
It was done, but he paid all the price back within the next three years.
Business was booming all along this seaboard, sir. Moreover, that man always
succeeded in everything except in saving the silver. Poor Doña Antonia, fresh
from her terrible experiences in the woods of Los Hatos, had an interview with
him, too. Wanted to hear about Decoud: what they said, what they did, what they
thought up to the last on that fatal night. Mrs. Gould told me his manner was
perfect for quietness and sympathy. Miss Avellanos burst into tears only when he
told her how Decoud had happened to say that his plan would be a glorious
success. ... And there's no doubt, sir, that it is. It is a success.«
    The cycle was about to close at last. And while the privileged passenger,
shivering with the pleasant anticipations of his berth, forgot to ask himself,
»What on earth Decoud's plan could be?« Captain Mitchell was saying, »Sorry we
must part so soon. Your intelligent interest made this a pleasant day to me. I
shall see you now on board. You had a glimpse of the Treasure House of the
World. A very good name that.« And the coxswain's voice at the door, announcing
that the gig was ready, closed the cycle.
    Nostromo had, indeed, found the lighter's boat, which he had left on the
Great Isabel with Decoud, floating empty far out in the gulf. He was then on the
bridge of the first of Barrios's transports, and within an hour's steaming from
Sulaco. Barrios, always delighted with a feat of daring and a good judge of
courage, had taken a great liking to the Capataz. During the passage round the
coast the General kept Nostromo near his person, addressing him frequently in
that abrupt and boisterous manner which was the sign of his high favour.
    Nostromo's eyes were the first to catch, broad on the bow, the tiny, elusive
dark speck, which, alone with the forms of the Three Isabels right ahead,
appeared on the flat, shimmering emptiness of the gulf. There are times when no
fact should be neglected as insignificant; a small boat so far from the land
might have had some meaning worth finding out. At a nod of consent from Barrios
the transport swept out of her course, passing near enough to ascertain that no
one manned the little cockle-shell. It was merely a common small boat gone
adrift with her oars in her. But Nostromo, to whose mind Decoud had been
insistently present for days, had long before recognized with excitement the
dinghy of the lighter.
    There could be no question of stopping to pick up that thing. Every minute
of time was momentous with the lives and futures of a whole town. The head of
the leading ship, with the General on board, fell off to her course. Behind her,
the fleet of transports, scattered haphazard over a mile or so in the offing,
like the finish of an ocean race, pressed on, all black and smoking on the
western sky.
    »Mi General,« Nostromo's voice rang out loud, but quiet, from behind a group
of officers, »I should like to save that little boat. Por Dios, I know her. She
belongs to my Company.«
    »And, por Dios,« guffawed Barrios, in a noisy, good-humoured voice, »you
belong to me. I am going to make you a captain of cavalry directly we get within
sight of a horse again.«
    »I can swim far better than I can ride, mi General,« cried Nostromo, pushing
through to the rail with a set stare in his eyes. »Let me -«
    »Let you? What a conceited fellow that is,« bantered the General, jovially,
without even looking at him. »Let him go! Ha! ha! ha! He wants me to admit that
we cannot take Sulaco without him! Ha! ha! ha! Would you like to swim off to
her, my son?«
    A tremendous shout from one end of the ship to the other stopped his guffaw.
Nostromo had leaped overboard; and his black head bobbed up far away already
from the ship. The General muttered an appalled »Cielo! Sinner that I am!« in a
thunderstruck tone. One anxious glance was enough to show him that Nostromo was
swimming with perfect ease; and then he thundered terribly, »No! no! We shall
not stop to pick up this impertinent fellow. Let him drown - that mad Capataz.«
    Nothing short of main force would have kept Nostromo from leaping overboard.
That empty boat, coming out to meet him mysteriously, as if rowed by an
invisible spectre, exercised the fascination of some sign, of some warning,
seemed to answer in a startling and enigmatic way the persistent thought of a
treasure and of a man's fate. He would have leaped if there had been death in
that half-mile of water. It was as smooth as a pond, and for some reason sharks
are unknown in the Placid Gulf, though on the other side of the Punta Mala the
coastline swarms with them.
    The Capataz seized hold of the stern and blew with force. A queer, faint
feeling had come over him while he swam. He had got rid of his boots and coat in
the water. He hung on for a time, regaining his breath. In the distance the
transports, more in a bunch now, held on straight for Sulaco, with their air of
friendly contest, of nautical sport, of a regatta; and the united smoke of their
funnels drove like a thin, sulphurous fogbank right over his head. It was his
daring, his courage, his act that had set these ships in motion upon the sea,
hurrying on to save the lives and fortunes of the Blancos, the taskmasters of
the people; to save the San Tomé mine; to save the children.
    With a vigorous and skilful effort he clambered over the stern. The very
boat! No doubt of it; no doubt whatever. It was the dinghy of the lighter No. 3
- the dinghy left with Martin Decoud on the Great Isabel so that he should have
some means to help himself if nothing could be done for him from the shore. And
here she had come out to meet him empty and inexplicable. What had become of
Decoud? The Capataz made a minute examination. He looked for some scratch, for
some mark, for some sign. All he discovered was a brown stain on the gunwale
abreast of the thwart. He bent his face over it and rubbed hard with his finger.
Then he sat down in the stern sheets, passive, with his knees close together and
legs aslant.
    Streaming from head to foot, with his hair and whiskers hanging lank and
dripping and a lustreless stare fixed upon the bottom boards, the Capataz of the
Sulaco Cargadores resembled a drowned corpse come up from the bottom to idle
away the sunset hour in a small boat. The excitement of his adventurous ride,
the excitement of the return in time, of achievement, of success, all these
excitements centred round the associated ideas of the great treasure and of the
only other man who knew of its existence, had departed from him. To the very
last moment he had been cudgelling his brains as to how he could manage to visit
the Great Isabel without loss of time and undetected. For the idea of secrecy
had come to be connected with the treasure so closely that even to Barrios
himself he had refrained from mentioning the existence of Decoud and of the
silver on the island. The letters he carried to the General, however, made brief
mention of the loss of the lighter, as having its bearing upon the situation in
Sulaco. In the circumstances, the one-eyed tiger-slayer, scenting battle from
afar, had not wasted his time in making inquiries from the messenger-In fact,
Barrios, talking with Nostromo, assumed that both Don Martin Decoud and the
ingots of San Tomé were lost together, and Nostromo, not questioned directly,
had kept silent, under the influence of some indefinable form of resentment and
distrust. Let Don Martin speak of everything with his own lips - was what he
told himself mentally.
    And now, with the means of gaining the Great Isabel thrown thus in his way
at the earliest possible moment, his excitement had departed, as when the soul
takes flight leaving the body inert upon an earth it knows no more. Nostromo did
not seem to know the gulf. For a long time even his eyelids did not flutter once
upon the glazed emptiness of his stare. Then slowly, without a limb having
stirred, without a twitch of muscle or quiver of an eyelash, an expression, a
living expression came upon the still features, deep thought crept into the
empty stare - as if an outcast soul, a quiet, brooding soul, finding that
untenanted body in its way, had come in stealthily to take possession.
    The Capataz frowned: and in the immense stillness of sea, islands, and
coast, of cloud forms on the sky and trails of light upon the water, the
knitting of that brow had the emphasis of a powerful gesture. Nothing else
budged for a long time; then the Capataz shook his head and again surrendered
himself to the universal repose of all visible things. Suddenly he seized the
oars, and with one movement made the dinghy spin round, head-on to the Great
Isabel. But before he began to pull he bent once more over the brown stain on
the gunwale.
    »I know that thing,« he muttered to himself, with a sagacious jerk of the
head. »That's blood.«
    His stroke was long, vigorous, and steady. Now and then he looked over his
shoulder at the Great Isabel, presenting its low cliff to his anxious gaze like
an impenetrable face. At last the stem touched the strand. He flung rather than
dragged the boat up the little beach. At once, turning his back upon the sunset,
he plunged with long strides into the ravine, making the water of the stream
spurt and fly upwards at every step, as if spurning its shallow, clear,
murmuring spirit with his feet. He wanted to save every moment of daylight.
    A mass of earth, grass, and smashed bushes had fallen down very naturally
from above upon the cavity under the leaning tree. Decoud had attended to the
concealment of the silver as instructed, using the spade with some intelligence.
But Nostromo's half-smile of approval changed into a scornful curl of the lip by
the sight of the spade itself flung there in full view, as if in utter
carelessness or sudden panic, giving away the whole thing. Ah! They were all
alike in their folly, these hombres finos that invented laws and governments and
barren tasks for the people.
    The Capataz picked up the spade, and with the feel of the handle in his palm
the desire to have a look fit the horse-hide boxes of treasure came upon him
suddenly. In a very few strokes he uncovered the edges and corners of several;
then, clearing away more earth, became aware that one of them had been slashed
with a knife.
    He exclaimed at that discovery in a stifled voice, and dropped on his knees
with a look of irrational apprehension over one shoulder, then over the other.
The stiff hide had closed, and he hesitated before he pushed his hand through
the long slit and felt the ingots inside. There they were. One, two, three. Yes,
four gone. Taken away. Four ingots. But who? Decoud? Nobody else. And why? For
what purpose? For what cursed fancy? Let him explain. Four ingots carried off in
a boat, and - blood!
    In the face of the open gulf, the sun, clear, unclouded, unaltered, plunged
into the waters in a grave and untroubled mystery of self-immolation consummated
far from all mortal eyes, with an infinite majesty of silence and peace. Four
ingots short! - and blood!
    The Capataz got up slowly.
    »He might simply have cut his hand,« he muttered. »But, then -«
    He sat down on the soft earth, unresisting, as if he had been chained to the
treasure, his drawn-up legs clasped in his hands with an air of hopeless
submission, like a slave set on guard. Once only he lifted his head smartly: the
rattle of hot musketry fire had reached his ears, like pouring from on high a
stream of dry peas upon a drum. After listening for a while, he said, half aloud
-
    »He will never come back to explain.«
    And he lowered his head again.
    »Impossible!« he muttered, gloomily.
    The sounds of firing died out. The loom of a great conflagration in Sulaco
flashed up red above the coast, played on the clouds at the head of the gulf,
seemed to touch with a ruddy and sinister reflection the forms of the Three
Isabels. He never saw it, though he raised his head.
    »But, then, I cannot know,« he pronounced, distinctly, and remained silent
and staring for hours.
    He could not know. Nobody was to know. As might have been supposed, the end
of Don Martin Decoud never became a subject of speculation for any one except
Nostromo. Had the truth of the facts been known, there would always have
remained the question, Why? Whereas the version of his death at the sinking of
the lighter had no uncertainty of motive. The young apostle of Separation had
died striving for his idea by an ever-lamented accident. But the truth was that
he died from solitude, the enemy known but to few on this earth, and whom only
the simplest of us are fit to withstand. The brilliant Costaguanero of the
boulevards had died from solitude and want of faith in himself and others.
    For some good and valid reasons beyond mere human comprehension, the
sea-birds of the gulf shun the Isabels. The rocky head of Azuera is their haunt,
whose stony levels and chasms resound with their wild and tumultuous clamour as
if they were for ever quarrelling over the legendary treasure.
    At the end of his first day on the Great Isabel, Decoud, turning in his lair
of coarse grass, under the shade of a tree, said to himself -
    »I have not seen as much as one single bird all day.«
    And he had not heard a sound, either, all day but that one now of his own
muttering voice. It had been a day of absolute silence - the first he had known
in his life. And he had not slept a wink. Not for all these wakeful nights and
the days of fighting, planning, talking; not for all that last night of danger
and hard physical toil upon the gulf, had he been able to close his eyes for a
moment. And yet from sunrise to sunset he had been lying prone on the ground,
either on his back or on his face.
    He stretched himself, and with slow steps descended into the gully to spend
the night by the side of the silver. If Nostromo returned - as he might have
done at any moment - it was there that he would look first; and night would, of
course, be the proper time for an attempt to communicate. He remembered with
profound indifference that he had not eaten anything yet since he had been left
alone on the island.
    He spent the night open-eyed, and when the day broke he ate something with
the same indifference. The brilliant »Son Decoud,« the spoiled darling of the
family, the lover of Antonia and journalist of Sulaco, was not fit to grapple
with himself single-handed. Solitude from mere outward condition of existence
becomes very swiftly a state of soul in which the affectations of irony and
scepticism have no place. It takes possession of the mind, and drives forth the
thought into the exile of utter unbelief. After three days of waiting for the
sight of some human face, Decoud caught himself entertaining a doubt of his own
individuality. It had merged into the world of cloud and water, of natural
forces and forms of nature. In our activity alone do we find the sustaining
illusion of an independent existence as against the whole scheme of things of
which we form a helpless part. Decoud lost all belief in the reality of his
action past and to come. On the fifth day an immense melancholy descended upon
him palpably. He resolved not to give himself up to these people in Sulaco, who
had beset him, unreal and terrible, like jibbering and obscene spectres. He saw
himself struggling feebly in their midst, and Antonia, gigantic and lovely like
an allegorical statue, looking on with scornful eyes at his weakness.
    Not a living being, not a speck of distant sail, appeared within the range
of his vision; and, as if to escape from this solitude, he absorbed himself in
his melancholy. The vague consciousness of a misdirected life given up to
impulses whose memory left a bitter taste in his mouth was the first moral
sentiment of his manhood. But at the same time he felt no remorse. What should
he regret? He had recognized no other virtue than intelligence, and had erected
passions into duties. Both his intelligence and his passion were swallowed up
easily in this great unbroken solitude of waiting without faith. Sleeplessness
had robbed his will of all energy, for he had not slept seven hours in the seven
days. His sadness was the sadness of a sceptical mind. He beheld the universe as
a succession of incomprehensible images. Nostromo was dead. Everything had
failed ignominiously. He no longer dared to think of Antonia. She had not
survived. But if she survived he could not face her. And all exertion seemed
senseless.
    On the tenth day, after a night spent without even dozing off once (it had
occurred to him that Antonia could not possibly have ever loved a being so
impalpable as himself), the solitude appeared like a great void, and the silence
of the gulf like a tense, thin cord to which he hung suspended by both hands,
without fear, without surprise, without any sort of emotion whatever. Only
towards the evening, in the comparative relief of coolness, he began to wish
that this cord would snap. He imagined it snapping with a report as of a pistol
- a sharp, full crack. And that would be the end of him. He contemplated that
eventuality with pleasure, because he dreaded the sleepless nights in which the
silence, remaining unbroken in the shape of a cord to which he hung with both
hands, vibrated with senseless phrases, always the same but utterly
incomprehensible, about Nostromo, Antonia, Barrios, and proclamations mingled
into an ironical and senseless buzzing. In the daytime he could look at the
silence like a still cord stretched to breaking-point, with his life, his vain
life, suspended to it like a weight.
    »I wonder whether I would hear it snap before I fell,« he asked himself.
    The sun was two hours above the horizon when he got up, gaunt, dirty,
white-faced, and looked at it with his red-rimmed eyes. His limbs obeyed him
slowly, as if full of lead, yet without tremor; and the effect of that physical
condition gave to his movements an unhesitating, deliberate dignity. He acted as
if accomplishing some sort of rite. He descended into the gully; for the
fascination of all that silver, with its potential power, survived alone outside
of himself. He picked up the belt with the revolver, that was lying there, and
buckled if round his waist. The cord of silence could never snap on the island.
It must let him fall and sink into the sea, he thought. And sink! He was looking
at the loose earth covering the treasure. In the sea! His aspect was that of a
somnambulist. He lowered himself down on his knees slowly and went on grubbing
with his fingers with industrious patience till he uncovered one of the boxes.
Without a pause, as if doing some work done many times before, he slit it open
and took four ingots, which he put in his pockets. He covered up the exposed box
again and step by step came out of the gully. The bushes closed after him with a
swish.
    It was on the third day of his solitude that he had dragged the dinghy near
the water with an idea of rowing away somewhere, but had desisted partly at the
whisper of lingering hope that Nostromo would return, partly from conviction of
utter uselessness of all effort. Now she wanted only a slight shove to be set
afloat. He had eaten a little every day after the first, and had some muscular
strength left yet. Taking up the oars slowly, he pulled away from the cliff of
the Great Isabel, that stood behind him warm with sunshine, as if with the heat
of life, bathed in a rich light from head to foot as if in a radiance of hope
and joy. He pulled straight towards the setting sun. When the gulf had grown
dark, he ceased rowing and flung the sculls in. The hollow clatter they made in
falling was the loudest noise he had ever heard in his life. It was a
revelation. It seemed to recall him from far away. Actually the thought,
»Perhaps I may sleep to-night,« passed through his mind. But he did not believe
it. He believed in nothing; and he remained sitting on the thwart.
    The dawn from behind the mountains put a gleam into his unwinking eyes.
After a clear daybreak the sun appeared splendidly above the peaks of the range.
The great gulf burst into a glitter all around the boat; and in this glory of
merciless solitude the silence appeared again before him, stretched taut like a
dark, thin string.
    His eyes looked at it while, without haste, he shifted his seat from the
thwart to the gunwale. They looked at it fixedly, while his hand, feeling about
his waist, unbuttoned the flap of the leather case, drew the revolver, cocked
it, brought it forward pointing at his breast, pulled the trigger, and, with
convulsive force, sent the still-smoking weapon hurtling through the air. His
eyes looked at it while he fell forward and hung with his breast on the gunwale
and the fingers of his right hand hooked under the thwart. They looked -
    »It is done,« he stammered out, in a sudden flow of blood. His last thought
was: »I wonder how that Capataz died.« The stiffness of the fingers relaxed, and
the lover of Antonia Avellanos rolled overboard without having heard the cord of
silence snap in the solitude of the Placid Gulf, whose glittering surface
remained untroubled by the fall of his body.
    A victim of the disillusioned weariness which is the retribution meted out
to intellectual audacity, the brilliant Don Martin Decoud, weighted by the bars
of San Tomé silver, disappeared without a trace, swallowed up in the immense
indifference of things. His sleepless, crouching figure was gone from the side
of the San Tomé silver; and for a time the spirits of good and evil that hover
near every concealed treasure of the earth might have thought that this one had
been forgotten by all mankind. Then, after a few days, another form appeared
striding away from the setting sun to sit motionless and awake in the narrow
black gully all through the night, in nearly the same pose, in the same place in
which had sat that other sleepless man who had gone away for ever so quietly in
a small boat, about the time of sunset. And the spirits of good and evil that
hover about a forbidden treasure understood well that the silver of San Tomé was
provided now with a faithful and lifelong slave.
    The magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, victim of the disenchanted vanity
which is the reward of audacious action, sat in the weary pose of a hunted
outcast through a night of sleeplessness as tormenting as any known to Decoud,
his companion in the most desperate affair of his life. And he wondered how
Decoud had died. But he knew the part he had played himself. First a woman, then
a man, abandoned each in their last extremity, for the sake of this accursed
treasure. It was paid for by a soul lost and by a vanished life. The blank
stillness of awe was succeeded by a gust of immense pride. There was no one in
the world but Gian' Battista Fidanza, Capataz de Cargadores, the incorruptible
and faithful Nostromo, to pay such a price.
    He had made up his mind that nothing should be allowed now to rob him of his
bargain. Nothing. Decoud had died. But how? That he was dead he had not a shadow
of a doubt. But four ingots? ... What for? Did he mean to come for more - some
other time?
    The treasure was putting forth its latent power. It troubled the clear mind
of the man who had paid the price. He was sure that Decoud was dead. The island
seemed full of that whisper. Dead? Gone! And he caught himself listening for the
swish of bushes and the splash of the footfalls in the bed of the brook. Dead!
The talker, the novio of Doña Antonia!
    »Ha!« he murmured, with his head on his knees, under the livid clouded dawn
breaking over the liberated Sulaco and upon the gulf as gray as ashes. »It is to
her that he will fly. To her that he will fly!«
    And four ingots! Did he take them in revenge, to cast a spell, like the
angry woman who had prophesied remorse and failure, and yet had laid upon him
the task of saving the children? Well, he had saved the children. He had
defeated the spell of poverty and starvation. He had done it all alone - or
perhaps helped by the devil. Who cared? He had done it, betrayed as he was, and
saving by the same stroke the San Tomé mine, which appeared to him hateful and
immense, lording it by its vast wealth over the valour, the toil, the fidelity
of the poor, over war and peace, over the labours of the town, the sea, and the
Campo.
    The sun lit up the sky behind the peaks of the Cordillera. The Capataz
looked down for a time upon the fall of loose earth, stones, and smashed bushes,
concealing the hiding-place of the silver.
    »I must grow rich very slowly,« he meditated, aloud.
 

                                 Chapter Eleven

Sulaco outstripped Nostromo's prudence, growing rich swiftly on the hidden
treasures of the earth, hovered over by the anxious spirits of good and evil,
torn out by the labouring hands of the people. It was like a second youth, like
a new life, full of promise, of unrest, of toil, scattering lavishly its wealth
to the four corners of an excited world. Material changes swept along in the
train of material interests. And other changes more subtle, outwardly unmarked,
affected the minds and hearts of the workers. Captain Mitchell had gone home to
live on his savings invested in the San Tomé mine; and Dr. Monygham had grown
older, with his head steel-grey and the unchanged expression of his face, living
on the inexhaustible treasure of his devotion drawn upon in the secret of his
heart like a store of unlawful wealth.
    The Inspector-General of State Hospitals (whose maintenance is a charge upon
the Gould Concession), Official Adviser on Sanitation to the Municipality, Chief
Medical Officer of the San Tomé Consolidated Mines (whose territory, containing
gold, silver, copper, lead, cobalt, extends for miles along the foot-hills of
the Cordillera), had felt poverty-stricken, miserable, and starved during the
prolonged, second visit the Goulds paid to Europe and the United States of
America. Intimate of the casa, proved friend, a bachelor without ties and
without establishment (except of the professional sort), he had been asked to
take up his quarters in the Gould house. In the eleven months of their absence
the familiar rooms, recalling at every glance the woman to whom he had given all
his loyalty, had grown intolerable. As the day approached for the arrival of the
mail boat Hermes (the latest addition to the O.S.N. Co.'s splendid fleet), the
doctor hobbled about more vivaciously, snapped more sardonically at simple and
gentle out of sheer nervousness.
    He packed up his modest trunk with speed, with fury, with enthusiasm, and
saw it carried out past the old porter at the gate of the Casa Gould with
delight, with intoxication; then, as the hour approached, sitting alone in the
great landau behind the white mules, a little sideways, his drawn-in face
positively venomous with the effort of self-control, and holding a pair of new
gloves in his left hand, he drove to the harbour.
    His heart dilated within him so, when he saw the Goulds on the deck of the
Hermes, that his greetings were reduced to a casual mutter. Driving back to
town, all three were silent. And in the patio the doctor, in a more natural
manner, said -
    »I'll leave you now to yourselves. I'll call to-morrow if I may?«
    »Come to lunch, dear Dr. Monygham, and come early,« said Mrs. Gould, in her
travelling dress and her veil down, turning to look at him at the foot of the
stairs; while at the top of the flight the Madonna, in blue robes and the Child
on her arm, seemed to welcome her with an aspect of pitying tenderness.
    »Don't expect to find me at home,« Charles Gould warned him. »I'll be off
early to the mine.«
    After lunch, Doña Emilia and the señor doctor came slowly through the inner
gateway of the patio. The large gardens of the Casa Gould, surrounded by high
walls, and the red-tile slopes of neighbouring roofs, lay open before them, with
masses of shade under the trees and level surfaces of sunlight upon the lawns. A
triple row of old orange trees surrounded the whole. Barefooted, brown
gardeners, in snowy white shirts and wide calzoneras, dotted the grounds,
squatting over flowerbeds, passing between the trees, dragging slender
india-rubber tubes across the gravel of the paths; and the fine jets of water
crossed each other in graceful curves, sparkling in the sunshine with a slight
pattering noise upon the bushes, and an effect of showered diamonds upon the
grass.
    Doña Emilia, holding up the train of a clear dress, walked by the side of
Dr. Monygham, in a longish black coat and severe black bow on an immaculate
shirt-front. Under a shady clump of trees, where stood scattered little tables
and wicker easy-chairs, Mrs. Gould sat down in a low and ample seat.
    »Don't go yet,« she said to Dr. Monygham, who was unable to tear himself
away from the spot. His chin nestling within the points of his collar, he
devoured her stealthily with his eyes, which, luckily, were round and hard like
clouded marbles, and incapable of disclosing his sentiments. His pitying emotion
at the marks of time upon the face of that woman, the air of frailty and weary
fatigue that had settled upon the eyes and temples of the »Never-tired Señora«
(as Don Pépé years ago used to call her with admiration), touched him almost to
tears. »Don't go yet. To-day is all my own,« Mrs. Gould urged, gently. »We are
not back yet officially. No one will come. It's only to-morrow that the windows
of the Casa Gould are to be lit up for a reception.«
    The doctor dropped into a chair.
    »Giving a tertulia?« he said, with a detached air.
    »A simple greeting for all the kind friends who care to come.«
    »And only to-morrow?«
    »Yes. Charles would be tired out after a day at the mine, and so I - It
would be good to have him to myself for one evening on our return to this house
I love. It has seen all my life.«
    »Ah, yes!« snarled the doctor, suddenly. »Women count time from the marriage
feast. Didn't you live a little before?«
    »Yes; but what is there to remember? There were no cares.«
    Mrs. Gould sighed. And as two friends, after a long separation, will revert
to the most agitated period of their lives, they began to talk of the Sulaco
Revolution. It seemed strange to Mrs. Gould that people who had taken part in it
seemed to forget its memory and its lesson.
    »And yet,« struck in the doctor, »we who played our part in it had our
reward. Don Pépé, though superannuated, still can sit a horse. Barrios is
drinking himself to death in jovial company away somewhere on his fundacion
beyond the Bolson de Tonoro. And the heroic Father Romàn - I imagine the old
padre blowing up systematically the San Tomé mine, uttering a pious exclamation
at every bang, and taking handfuls of snuff between the explosions - the heroic
Padre Romàn says that he is not afraid of the harm Holroyd's missionaries can do
to his flock, as long as he is alive.«
    Mrs. Gould shuddered a little at the allusion to the destruction that had
come so near to the San Tomé mine.
    »Ah, but you, dear friend?«
    »I did the work I was fit for.«
    »You faced the most cruel dangers of all. Something more than death.«
    »No, Mrs. Gould! Only death - by hanging. And I am rewarded beyond my
deserts.«
    Noticing Mrs. Gould's gaze fixed upon him, he dropped his eyes.
    »I've made my career - as you see,« said the Inspector-General of State
Hospitals, taking up lightly the lapels of his superfine black coat. The
doctor's self-respect marked inwardly by the almost complete disappearance from
his dreams of Father Beron, appeared visibly in what, by contrast with former
carelessness, seemed an immoderate cult of personal appearance. Carried out
within severe limits of form and colour, and in perpetual freshness, this change
of apparel gave to Dr. Monygham an air at the same time professional and
festive; while his gait and the unchanged crabbed character of his face acquired
from it a startling force of incongruity.
    »Yes,« he went on. »We all had our rewards - the engineer-in-chief, Captain
Mitchell -«
    »We saw him,« interrupted Mrs. Gould, in her charming voice. »The poor dear
man came up from the country on purpose to call on us in our hotel in London. He
comported himself with great dignity, but I fancy he regrets Sulaco. He rambled
feebly about historical events till I felt I could have a cry.«
    »H'm,« grunted the doctor; »getting old, I suppose. Even Nostromo is getting
older - though he is not changed. And, speaking of that fellow, I wanted to tell
you something -«
    For some time the house had been full of murmurs, of agitation. Suddenly the
two gardeners, busy with rose trees at the side of the garden arch, fell upon
their knees with bowed heads on the passage of Antonia Avellanos, who appeared
walking beside her uncle.
    Invested with the red hat after a short visit to Rome, where he had been
invited by the Propaganda, Father Corbelàn, missionary to the wild Indians,
conspirator, friend and patron of Hernandez the robber, advanced with big, slow
strides, gaunt and leaning forward, with his powerful hands clasped behind his
back. The first Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco had preserved his fanatical and
morose air; the aspect of a chaplain of bandits. It was believed that his
unexpected elevation to the purple was a counter-move to the Protestant invasion
of Sulaco organized by the Holroyd Missionary Fund. Antonia, the beauty of her
face as if a little blurred, her figure slightly fuller, advanced with her light
walk and her high serenity, smiling from a distance at Mrs. Gould. She had
brought her uncle over to see dear Emilia, without ceremony, just for a moment
before the siesta.
    When all were seated again, Dr. Monygham, who had come to dislike heartily
everybody who approached Mrs. Gould with any intimacy, kept aside, pretending to
be lost in profound meditation. A louder phrase of Antonia made him lift his
head.
    »How can we abandon, groaning under oppression, those who have been our
countrymen only a few years ago, who are our countrymen now?« Miss Avellanos was
saying. »How can we remain blind, and deaf without pity to the cruel wrongs
suffered by our brothers? There is a remedy.«
    »Annex the rest of Costaguana to the order and prosperity of Sulaco,«
snapped the doctor. »There is no other remedy.«
    »I am convinced, señor doctor,« Antonia said, with the earnest calm of
invincible resolution, »that this was from the first poor Martin's intention.«
    »Yes, but the material interests will not let you jeopardize their
development for a mere idea of pity and justice,« the doctor muttered, grumpily.
»And it is just as well perhaps.«
    The Cardinal-Archbishop straightened up his gaunt, bony frame.
    »We have worked for them; we have made them, these material interests of the
foreigners,« the last of the Corbelàns uttered in a deep, denunciatory tone.
    »And without them you are nothing,« cried the doctor from the distance.
»They will not let you.«
    »Let them beware, then, lest the people, prevented from their aspirations,
should rise and claim their share of the wealth and their share of the power,«
the popular Cardinal-Archbishop of Sulaco declared, significantly, menacingly.
    A silence ensued, during which his Eminence stared, frowning at the ground,
and Antonia, graceful and rigid in her chair, breathed calmly in the strength of
her convictions. Then the conversation took a social turn, touching on the visit
of the Goulds to Europe. The Cardinal-Archbishop, when in Rome, had suffered
from neuralgia in the head all the time. It was the climate - the bad air.
    When uncle and niece had gone away, with the servants again falling on their
knees, and the old porter, who had known Henry Gould, almost totally blind and
impotent now, creeping up to kiss his Eminence's extended hand, Dr. Monygham,
looking after them, pronounced the one word -
    »Incorrigible!«
    Mrs. Gould, with a look upwards, dropped wearily on her lap her white hands
flashing with the gold and stones of many rings.
    »Conspiring. Yes!« said the doctor. »The last of the Avellanos and the last
of the Corbelàns are conspiring with the refugees from Sta. Marta that flock
here after every revolution. The Café Lambroso at the corner of the Plaza, is
full of them; you can hear their chatter across the street like the noise of a
parrot-house. They are conspiring for the invasion of Costaguana. And do you
know where they go for strength, for the necessary force? To the secret
societies amongst immigrants and natives, where Nostromo - I should say Captain
Fidanza - is the great man. What gives him that position? Who can say? Genius?
He has genius. He is greater with the populace than ever he was before. It was
as if he had some secret power; some mysterious means to keep up his influence.
He holds conferences with the Archbishop, as in those old days which you and I
remember. Barrios is useless. But for a military head they have the pious
Hernandez. And they may raise the country with the new cry of the wealth for the
people.«
    »Will there be never any peace? Will there be no rest?« Mrs. Gould
whispered. »I thought that we -«
    »No!« interrupted the doctor. »There is no peace and no rest in the
development of material interests. They have their law, and their justice. But
it is founded on expediency, and is inhuman; it is without rectitude, without
the continuity and the force that can be found only in a moral principle. Mrs.
Gould, the time approaches when all that the Gould Concession stands for shall
weigh as heavily upon the people as the barbarism, cruelty, and misrule of a few
years back.«
    »How can you say that, Dr. Monygham?« she cried out, as if hurt in the most
sensitive place of her soul.
    »I can say what is true,« the doctor insisted, obstinately. »It'll weigh as
heavily, and provoke resentment, bloodshed, and vengeance, because the men have
grown different. Do you think that now the mine would march upon the town to
save their Señor Administrator? Do you think that?«
    She pressed the backs of her entwined hands on her eyes and murmured
hopelessly -
    »Is it this we have worked for, then?«
    The doctor lowered his head. He could follow her silent thought. Was it for
this that her life had been robbed of all the intimate felicities of daily
affection which her tenderness needed as the human body needs air to breathe?
And the doctor, indignant with Charles Gould's blindness, hastened to change the
conversation.
    »It is about Nostromo that I wanted to talk to you. Ah! that fellow has some
continuity and force. Nothing will put an end to him. But never mind that.
There's something inexplicable going on - or perhaps only too easy to explain.
You know, Linda is practically the lighthouse keeper of the Great Isabel light.
The Garibaldino is too old now. His part is to clean the lamps and to cook in
the house; but he can't get up the stairs any longer. The black-eyed Linda
sleeps all day and watches the light all night. Not all day, though. She is up
towards five in the afternoon, when our Nostromo, whenever he is in harbour with
his schooner, comes out on his courting visit, pulling in a small boat.«
    »Aren't they married yet?« Mrs. Gould asked. »The mother wished it, as far
as I can understand, while Linda was yet quite a child. When I had the girls
with me for a year or so during the War of Separation, that extraordinary Linda
used to declare quite simply that she was going to be Gian' Battista's wife.«
    »They are not married yet,« said the doctor, curtly. »I have looked after
them a little.«
    »Thank you, dear Dr. Monygham,« said Mrs. Gould; and under the shade of the
big trees her little, even teeth gleamed in a youthful smile of gentle malice.
»People don't know how really good you are. You will not let them know, as if on
purpose to annoy me, who have put my faith in your good heart long ago.«
    The doctor, with a lifting up of his upper lip, as though he were longing to
bite, bowed stiffly in his chair. With the utter absorption of a man to whom
love comes late, not as the most splendid of illusions, but like an enlightening
and priceless misfortune, the sight of that woman (of whom he had been deprived
for nearly a year) suggested ideas of adoration, of kissing the hem of her robe.
And this excess of feeling translated itself naturally into an augmented
grimness of speech.
    »I am afraid of being overwhelmed by too much gratitude. However, these
people interest me. I went out several times to the Great Isabel light to look
after old Giorgio.«
    He did not tell Mrs. Gould that it was because he found there, in her
absence, the relief of an atmosphere of congenial sentiment in old Giorgio's
austere admiration for the English signora - the benefactress; in black-eyed
Linda's voluble, torrential, passionate affection for our Doña Emilia - that
angel; in the white-throated, fair Giselle's adoring upward turn of the eyes,
which then glided towards him with a sidelong, half-arch, half-candid glance,
which made the doctor exclaim to himself mentally, »If I weren't what I am, old
and ugly, I would think the minx is making eyes at me. And perhaps she is. I
dare say she would make eyes at anybody.« Dr. Monygham said nothing of this to
Mrs. Gould, the providence of the Viola family, but reverted to what he called
our great Nostromo.
    »What I wanted to tell you is this: Our great Nostromo did not take much
notice of the old man and the children for some years. It's true, too, that he
was away on his coasting voyages certainly ten months out of the twelve. He was
making his fortune, as he told Captain Mitchell once. He seems to have done
uncommonly well. It was only to be expected. He is a man full of resource, full
of confidence in himself, ready to take chances and risks of every sort. I
remember being in Mitchell's office one day, when he came in with that calm,
grave air he always carries everywhere. He had been away trading in the Gulf of
California, he said, looking straight past us at the wall, as his manner is, and
was glad to see on his return that a lighthouse was being built on the cliff of
the Great Isabel. Very glad, he repeated. Mitchell explained that it was the
O.S.N. Co. who was building it, for the convenience of the mail service, on his
own advice. Captain Fidanza was good enough to say that it was excellent advice.
I remember him twisting up his moustaches and looking all round the cornice of
the room before he proposed that old Giorgio should be made the keeper of that
light.«
    »I heard of this. I was consulted at the time,« Mrs. Gould said. »I doubted
whether it would be good for these girls to be shut up on that island as if in a
prison.«
    »The proposal fell in with the old Garibaldino's humour. As to Linda, any
place was lovely and delightful enough for her as long as it was Nostromo's
suggestion. She could wait for her Gian' Battista's good pleasure there as well
as anywhere else. My opinion is that she was always in love with that
incorruptible Capataz. Moreover, both father and sister were anxious to get
Giselle away from the attentions of a certain Ramirez.«
    »Ah!« said Mrs. Gould, interested. »Ramirez? What sort of man is that?«
    »Just a mozo of the town. His father was a Cargador. As a lanky boy he ran
about the wharf in rags, till Nostromo took him up and made a man of him. When
he got a little older, he put him into a lighter and very soon gave him charge
of the No. 3 boat - the boat which took the silver away, Mrs. Gould. Nostromo
selected that lighter for the work because she was the best sailing and the
strongest boat of all the Company's fleet. Young Ramirez was one of the five
Cargadores entrusted with the removal of the treasure from the Custom House on
that famous night. As the boat he had charge of was sunk, Nostromo, on leaving
the Company's service, recommended him to Captain Mitchell for his successor. He
had trained him in the routine of work perfectly, and thus Mr. Ramirez, from a
starving waif, becomes a man and the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores.«
    »Thanks to Nostromo,« said Mrs. Gould, with warm approval.
    »Thanks to Nostromo,« repeated Dr. Monygham. »Upon my word, the fellow's
power frightens me when I think of it. That our poor old Mitchell was only too
glad to appoint somebody trained to the work, who saved him trouble, is not
surprising. What is wonderful is the fact that the Sulaco Cargadores accepted
Ramirez for their chief, simply because such was Nostromo's good pleasure. Of
course, he is not a second Nostromo, as he fondly imagined he would be; but
still, the position was brilliant enough. It emboldened him to make up to
Giselle Viola, who, you know, is the recognized beauty of the town. The old
Garibaldino, however, took a violent dislike to him. I don't know why. Perhaps
because he was not a model of perfection like his Gian' Battista, the
incarnation of the courage, the fidelity, the honour of the people. Signor Viola
does not think much of Sulaco natives. Both of them, the old Spartan and that
white-faced Linda, with her red mouth and coal-black eyes, were looking rather
fiercely after the fair one. Ramirez was warned off. Father Viola, I am told,
threatened him with his gun once.«
    »But what of Giselle herself?« asked Mrs. Gould.
    »She's a bit of a flirt, I believe,« said the doctor. »I don't think she
cared much one way or another. Of course she likes men's attentions. Ramirez was
not the only one, let me tell you, Mrs. Gould. There was one engineer, at least,
on the railway staff who got warned off with a gun, too. Old Viola does not
allow any trifling with his honour. He has grown uneasy and suspicious since his
wife died. He was very pleased to remove his youngest girl away from the town.
But look what happens, Mrs. Gould. Ramirez, the honest, lovelorn swain, is
forbidden the island. Very well. He respects the prohibition, but naturally
turns his eyes frequently towards the Great Isabel. It seems as though he had
been in the habit of gazing late at night upon the light. And during these
sentimental vigils he discovers that Nostromo, Captain Fidanza that is, returns
very late from his visits to the Violas. As late as midnight at times.«
    The doctor paused and stared meaningly at Mrs. Gould.
    »Yes. But I don't understand,« she began, looking puzzled.
    »Now comes the strange part,« went on Dr. Monygham. »Viola, who is king on
his island, will allow no visitor on it after dark. Even Captain Fidanza has got
to leave after sunset, when Linda has gone up to tend the light. And Nostromo
goes away obediently. But what happens afterwards? What does he do in the gulf
between half-past six and midnight? He has been seen more than once at that late
hour pulling quietly into the harbour. Ramirez is devoured by jealousy. He dared
not approach old Viola; but he plucked up courage to rail Linda about it on
Sunday morning as she came on the mainland to hear Mass and visit her mother's
grave. There was a scene on the wharf, which, as a matter of fact, I witnessed.
It was early morning. He must have been waiting for her on purpose. I was there
by the merest chance, having been called to an urgent consultation by the doctor
of the German gunboat in the harbour. She poured wrath, scorn, and flame upon
Ramirez, who seemed out of his mind. It was a strange sight, Mrs. Gould: the
long jetty, with this raving Cargador in his crimson sash and the girl all in
black, at the end; the early Sunday morning quiet of the harbour in the shade of
the mountains; nothing but a canoe or two moving between the ships at anchor,
and the German gunboat's gig coming to take me off. Linda passed me within a
foot. I noticed her wild eyes. I called out to her. She never heard me. She
never saw me. But I looked at her face. It was awful in its anger and
wretchedness.«
    Mrs. Gould sat up, opening her eyes very wide.
    »What do you mean, Dr. Monygham? Do you mean to say that you suspect the
younger sister?«
    »Quien sabe! Who can tell?« said the doctor, shrugging his shoulders like a
born Costaguanero. »Ramirez came up to me on the wharf. He reeled - he looked
insane. He took his head into his hands. He had to talk to someone - simply had
to. Of course for all his mad state he recognized me. People know me well here.
I have lived too long amongst them to be anything else but the evil-eyed doctor,
who can cure all the ills of the flesh, and bring bad luck by a glance. He came
up to me. He tried to be calm. He tried to make it out that he wanted merely to
warn me against Nostromo. It seems that Captain Fidanza at some secret meeting
or other had mentioned me as the worst despiser of all the poor - of the people.
It's very possible. He honours me with his undying dislike. And a word from the
great Fidanza may be quite enough to send some fool's knife into my back. The
Sanitary Commission I preside over is not in favour with the populace. Beware of
him, señor doctor. Destroy him, señor doctor, Ramirez hissed right into my face.
And then he broke out. That man, he spluttered, has cast a spell upon both these
girls. As to himself, he had said too much. He must run away now - run away and
hide somewhere. He moaned tenderly about Giselle and then, called her names that
cannot be repeated. If he thought she could be made to love him by any means, he
would carry her off from the island. Off into the woods. But it was no good. ...
He strode away, flourishing his arms above his head. Then I noticed an old
negro, who had been sitting behind a pile of cases, fishing from the wharf. He
wound up his lines and slunk away at once. But he must have heard something, and
must have talked, too, because some of the old Garibaldino's railway friends, I
suppose, warned him against Ramirez. At any rate, the father had been warned.
But Ramirez has disappeared from the town.«
    »I feel I have a duty towards these girls,« said Mrs. Gould, uneasily. »Is
Nostromo in Sulaco now?«
    »He is, since last Sunday.«
    »He ought to be spoken to - at once.«
    »Who will dare speak to him? Even the love-mad Ramirez runs away from the
mere shadow of Captain Fidanza.«
    »I can. I will,« Mrs. Gould declared. »A word will be enough for a man like
Nostromo.«
    The doctor smiled sourly.
    »He must end this situation which lends itself to - I can't believe it of
that child,« pursued Mrs. Gould.
    »He's very attractive,« muttered the doctor, gloomily.
    »He'll see it, I am sure. He must put an end to all this by marrying Linda
at once,« pronounced the first lady of Sulaco with immense decision.
    Through the garden gate emerged Basilio, grown fat and sleek, with an
elderly hairless face, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his jet-black,
coarse hair plastered down smoothly. Stooping carefully behind an ornamental
clump of bushes, he put down with precaution a small child he had been carrying
on his shoulder - his own and Leonarda's last born. The pouting, spoiled
Camerista and the head mozo of the Casa Gould had been married for some years
now.
    He remained squatting on his heels for a time, gazing fondly at his
offspring, which returned his stare with imperturbable gravity; then, solemn and
respectable, walked down the path.
    »What is it, Basilio?« asked Mrs. Gould.
    »A telephone came through from the office of the mine. The master remains to
sleep at the mountain to-night.«
    Dr. Monygham had got up and stood looking away. A profound silence reigned
for a time under the shade of the biggest trees in the lovely gardens of the
Casa Gould.
    »Very well, Basilio,« said Mrs. Gould. She watched him walk away along the
path, step aside behind the flowering bush, and reappear with the child seated
on his shoulder. He passed through the gateway between the garden and the patio
with measured steps, careful of his light burden.
    The doctor, with his back to Mrs. Gould, contemplated a flower-bed away in
the sunshine. People believed him scornful and soured. The truth of his nature
consisted in his capacity for passion and in the sensitiveness of his
temperament. What he lacked was the polished callousness of men of the world,
the callousness from which springs an easy tolerance for oneself and others; the
tolerance wide as poles asunder from true sympathy and human compassion. This
want of callousness accounted for his sardonic turn of mind and his biting
speeches.
    In profound silence, and glaring viciously at the brilliant flower-bed, Dr.
Monygham poured mental imprecations on Charles Gould's head. Behind him the
immobility of Mrs. Gould added to the grace of her seated figure the charm of
art, of an attitude caught and interpreted for ever. Turning abruptly, the
doctor took his leave.
    Mrs. Gould leaned back in the shade of the big trees planted in a circle.
She leaned back with her eyes closed and her white hands lying idle on the arms
of her seat. The half-light under the thick mass of leaves brought out the
youthful prettiness of her face; made the clear, light fabrics and white lace of
her dress appear luminous. Small and dainty, as if radiating a light of her own
in the deep shade of the interlaced boughs, she resembled a good fairy, weary
with a long career of well-doing, touched by the withering suspicion of the
uselessness of her labours, the powerlessness of her magic.
    Had anybody asked her of what she was thinking, alone in the garden of the
Casa, with her husband at the mine and the house closed to the street like an
empty dwelling, her frankness would have had to evade the question. It had come
into her mind that for life to be large and full, it must contain the care of
the past and of the future in every passing moment of the present. Our daily
work must be done to the glory of the dead, and for the good of those who come
after. She thought that, and sighed without opening her eyes - without moving at
all. Mrs. Gould's face became set and rigid for a second, as if to receive,
without flinching, a great wave of loneliness that swept over her head. And it
came into her mind, too, that no one would ever ask her with solicitude what she
was thinking of. No one. No one, but perhaps the man who had just gone away. No;
no one who could be answered with careless sincerity in the ideal perfection of
confidence.
    The word incorrigible - a word lately pronounced by Dr. Monygham - floated
into her still and sad immobility. Incorrigible in his devotion to the great
silver mine was the Señor Administrator! Incorrigible in his hard, determined
service of the material interests to which he had pinned his faith in the
triumph of order and justice. Poor boy! She had a clear vision of the grey hairs
on his temples. He was perfect - perfect. What more could she have expected? It
was a colossal and lasting success; and love was only a short moment of
forgetfulness, a short intoxication, whose delight one remembered with a sense
of sadness, as if it had been a deep grief lived through. There was something
inherent in the necessities of successful action which carried with it the moral
degradation of the idea. She saw the San Tomé mountain hanging over the Campo,
over the whole land, feared, hated, wealthy; more soulless than any tyrant, more
pitiless and autocratic than the worst Government; ready to crush innumerable
lives in the expansion of its greatness. He did not see it. He could not see it.
It was not his fault. He was perfect, perfect; but she would never have him to
herself. Never; not for one short hour altogether to herself in this old Spanish
house she loved so well! Incorrigible, the last of the Corbeláns, the last of
the Avellanos, the doctor had said; but she saw clearly the San Tomé mine
possessing, consuming, burning up the life of the last of the Costaguana Goulds;
mastering the energetic spirit of the son as it had mastered the lamentable
weakness of the father. A terrible success for the last of the Goulds. The last!
She had hoped for a long, long time, that perhaps - But no! There were to be no
more. An immense desolation, the dread of her own continued life, descended upon
the first lady of Sulaco. With a prophetic vision she saw herself surviving
alone the degradation of her young ideal of life, of love, of work - all alone
in the Treasure House of the World. The profound, blind, suffering expression of
a painful dream settled on her face with its closed eyes. In the indistinct
voice of an unlucky sleeper, lying passive in the grip of a merciless nightmare,
she stammered out aimlessly the words -
    »Material interest.«
 

                                 Chapter Twelve

Nostromo had been growing rich very slowly. It was an effect of his prudence. He
could command himself even when thrown off his balance. And to become the slave
of a treasure with full self-knowledge is an occurrence rare and mentally
disturbing. But it was also in a great part because of the difficulty of
converting it into a form in which it could become available. The mere act of
getting it away from the island piecemeal, little by little, was surrounded by
difficulties, by the dangers of imminent detection. He had to visit the Great
Isabel in secret, between his voyages along the coast, which were the ostensible
source of his fortune. The crew of his own schooner were to be feared as if they
had been spies upon their dreaded captain. He did not dare stay too long in
port. When his coaster was unloaded, he hurried away on another trip, for he
feared arousing suspicion even by a day's delay. Sometimes during a week's stay,
or more, he could only manage one visit to the treasure. And that was all. A
couple of ingots. He suffered through his fears as much as through his prudence.
To do things by stealth humiliated him. And he suffered most from the
concentration of his thought upon the treasure.
    A transgression, a crime, entering a man's existence, eats it up like a
malignant growth, consumes it like a fever. Nostromo had lost his peace; the
genuineness of all his qualities was destroyed. He felt it himself, and often
cursed the silver of San Tomé. His courage, his magnificence, his leisure, his
work, everything was as before, only everything was a sham. But the treasure was
real. He clung to it with a more tenacious, mental grip. But he hated the feel
of the ingots. Sometimes, after putting away a couple of them in his cabin - the
fruit of a secret night expedition to the Great Isabel - he would look fixedly
at his fingers, as if surprised they had left no stain on his skin.
    He had found means of disposing of the silver bars in distant ports. The
necessity to go far afield made his coasting voyages long, and caused his visits
to the Viola household to be rare and far between. He was fated to have his wife
from there. He had said so once to Giorgio himself. But the Garibaldino had put
the subject aside with a majestic wave of his hand, clutching a smouldering
black briar-root pipe. There was plenty of time; he was not the man to force his
girls upon anybody.
    As time went on, Nostromo discovered his preference for the younger of the
two. They had some profound similarities of nature, which must exist for
complete confidence and understanding, no matter what outward differences of
temperament there may be to exercise their own fascination of contrast. His wife
would have to know his secret or else life would be impossible. He was attracted
by Giselle, with her candid gaze and white throat, pliable, silent, fond of
excitement under her quiet indolence; whereas Linda, with her intense,
passionately pale face, energetic, all fire and words, touched with gloom and
scorn, a chip of the old block, true daughter of the austere republican, but
with Teresa's voice, inspired him with a deep-seated mistrust. Moreover, the
poor girl could not conceal her love for Gian' Battista. He could see it would
be violent, exacting, suspicious, uncompromising - like her soul. Giselle, by
her fair but warm beauty, by the surface placidity of her nature holding a
promise of submissiveness, by the charm of her girlish mysteriousness, excited
his passion and allayed his fears as to the future.
    His absences from Sulaco were long. On returning from the longest of them,
he made out lighters loaded with blocks of stone lying under the cliff of the
Great Isabel; cranes and scaffolding above; workmen's figures moving about, and
a small lighthouse already rising from its foundations on the edge of the cliff.
    At this unexpected, undreamt-of, startling sight, he thought himself lost
irretrievably. What could save him from detection now? Nothing! He was struck
with amazed dread at this turn of chance, that would kindle a far-reaching light
upon the only secret spot of his life; that life whose very essence, value,
reality, consisted in its reflection from the admiring eyes of men. All of it
but that thing which was beyond common comprehension; which stood between him
and the power that hears and gives effect to the evil intention of curses. It
was dark. Not every man had such a darkness. And they were going to put a light
there. A light! He saw it shining upon disgrace, poverty, contempt. Somebody was
sure to. ... Perhaps somebody had already. ...
    The incomparable Nostromo, the Capataz, the respected and feared Captain
Fidanza, the unquestioned patron of secret societies, a republican like old
Giorgio, and a revolutionist at heart (but in another manner), was on the point
of jumping overboard from the deck of his own schooner. That man, subjective
almost to insanity, looked suicide deliberately in the face. But he never lost
his head. He was checked by the thought that this was no escape. He imagined
himself dead, and the disgrace, the shame going on. Or, rather, properly
speaking, he could not imagine himself dead. He was possessed too strongly by
the sense of his own existence, a thing of infinite duration in its changes, to
grasp the notion of finality. The earth goes on for ever.
    And he was courageous. It was a corrupt courage, but it was as good for his
purposes as the other kind. He sailed close to the cliff of the Great Isabel,
throwing a penetrating glance from the deck at the mouth of the ravine, tangled
in an undisturbed growth of bushes. He sailed close enough to exchange hails
with the workmen, shading their eyes on the edge of the sheer drop of the cliff
overhung by the jib-head of a powerful crane. He perceived that none of them had
any occasion even to approach the ravine where the silver lay hidden; let alone
to enter it. In the harbour he learned that no one slept on the island. The
labouring gangs returned to port every evening, singing chorus songs in the
empty lighters towed by a harbour tug. For the moment he had nothing to fear.
    But afterwards? he asked himself. Later, when a deeper came to live in the
cottage that was being built some hundred and fifty yards back from the low
light-tower, and four hundred or so from the dark, shaded, jungly ravine,
containing the secret of his safety, of his influence, of his magnificence, of
his power over the future, of his defiance of ill-luck, of every possible
betrayal from rich and poor alike - what then? He could never shake off the
treasure. His audacity, greater than that of other men, had welded that vein of
silver into his life. And the feeling of fearful and ardent subjection, the
feeling of his slavery - so irremediable and profound that often, in his
thoughts, he compared himself to the legendary Gringos, neither dead nor alive,
bound down to their conquest of unlawful wealth on Azuera - weighed heavily on
the independent Captain Fidanza, owner and master of a coasting schooner, whose
smart appearance (and fabulous good-luck in trading) were so well known along
the western seaboard of a vast continent.
    Fiercely whiskered and grave, a shade less supple in his walk, the vigour
and symmetry of his powerful limbs lost in the vulgarity of a brown tweed suit,
made by Jews in the slums of London, and sold by the clothing department of the
Compañia Anzani, Captain Fidanza was seen in the streets of Sulaco attending to
his business, as usual, that trip. And, as usual, he allowed it to get about
that he had made a great profit on his cargo. It was a cargo of salt fish, and
Lent was approaching. He was seen in tramcars going to and fro between the town
and the harbour; he talked with people in a café or two in his measured, steady
voice. Captain Fidanza was seen. The generation that would know nothing of the
famous ride to Cayta was not born yet.
    Nostromo, the miscalled Capataz de Cargadores, had made for himself, under
his rightful name, another public existence, but modified by the new conditions,
less picturesque, more difficult to keep up in the increased size and varied
population of Sulaco, the progressive capital of the Occidental Republic.
    Captain Fidanza, unpicturesque, but always a little mysterious, was
recognized quite sufficiently under the lofty glass and iron roof of the Sulaco
railway station. He took a local train, and got out in Rincon, where he visited
the widow of the Cargador who had died of his wounds (at the dawn of the New
Era, like Don José Avellanos) in the patio of the Casa Gould. He consented to
sit down and drink a glass of cool lemonade in the hut, while the woman,
standing up, poured a perfect torrent of words to which he did not listen. He
left some money with her, as usual. The orphaned children, growing up and well
schooled, calling him uncle, clamoured for his blessing. He gave that, too; and
in the doorway paused for a moment to look at the flat face of the San Tomé
mountain with a faint frown. This slight contraction of his bronzed brow casting
a marked tinge of severity upon his usual unbending expression, was observed at
the Lodge which he attended - but went away before the banquet. He wore it at
the meeting of some good comrades, Italians and Occidentals, assembled in his
honour under the presidency of an indigent, sickly, somewhat hunchbacked little
photographer, with a white face and a magnanimous soul dyed crimson by a
bloodthirsty hate of all capitalists, oppressors of the two hemispheres. The
heroic Giorgio Viola, old revolutionist, would have understood nothing of his
opening speech; and Captain Fidanza, lavishly generous as usual to some poor
comrades, made no speech at all. He had listened, frowning with his mind far
away, and walked off unapproachable, silent, like a man full of cares.
    His frown deepened as, in the early morning, he watched the stone-masons go
off to the Great Isabel, in lighters loaded with squared blocks of stone, enough
to add another course to the squat light-tower. That was the rate of the work.
One course per day.
    And Captain Fidanza meditated. The presence of strangers on the island would
cut him completely off the treasure. It had been difficult and dangerous enough
before. He was afraid, and he was angry. He thought with the resolution of a
master and the cunning of a cowed slave. Then he went ashore.
    He was a man of resource and ingenuity; and, as usual, the expedient he
found at a critical moment was effective enough to alter the situation
radically. He had the gift of evolving safety out of the very danger, this
incomparable Nostromo, this fellow in a thousand. With Giorgio established on
the Great Isabel, there would be no need for concealment. He would be able to go
openly, in daylight, to see his daughters - one of his daughters - and stay late
talking to the old Garibaldino. Then in the dark ... Night after night ... He
would dare to grow rich quicker now. He yearned to clasp, embrace, absorb,
subjugate in unquestioned possession this treasure, whose tyranny had weighed
upon his mind, his actions, his very sleep.
    He went to see his friend Captain Mitchell - and the thing was done as Dr.
Monygham had related to Mrs. Gould. When the project was mooted to the
Garibaldino, something like the faint reflection, the dim ghost of a very
ancient smile, stole under the white and enormous moustaches of the old hater of
kings and ministers. His daughters were the object of his anxious care. The
younger, especially. Linda, with her mother's voice, had taken more her mother's
place. Her deep, vibrating »Eh, Padre?« seemed, but for the change of the word,
the very echo of the impassioned, remonstrating »Eh, Giorgio?« of poor Signora
Teresa. It was his fixed opinion that the town was no proper place for his
girls. The infatuated but guileless Ramirez was the object of his profound
aversion, as resuming the sins of the country whose people were blind, vile
esclavos.
    On his return from his next voyage, Captain Fidanza found the Violas settled
in the light-keeper's cottage. His knowledge of Giorgio's idiosyncrasies had not
played him false. The Garibaldino had refused to entertain the idea of any
companion whatever, except his girls. And Captain Mitchell, anxious to please
his poor Nostromo, with that felicity of inspiration which only true affection
can give, had formally appointed Linda Viola as under-keeper of the Isabel's
Light.
    »The light is private property,« he used to explain. »It belongs to my
Company. I've the power to nominate whom I like, and Viola it shall be. It's
about the only thing Nostromo - a man worth his weight in gold, mind you - has
ever asked me to do for him.«
    Directly his schooner was anchored opposite the New Custom House, with its
sham air of a Greek temple, flat-roofed, with a colonnade, Captain Fidanza went
pulling his small boat out of the harbour, bound for the Great Isabel, openly in
the light of a declining day, before all men's eyes, with a sense of having
mastered the fates. He must establish a regular position. He would ask him for
his daughter now. He thought of Giselle as he pulled. Linda loved him, perhaps,
but the old man would be glad to keep the eldest, who had his wife's voice.
    He did not pull for the narrow strand where he had landed with Decoud, and
afterwards alone on his first visit to the treasure. He made for the beach at
the other end, and walked up the regular and gentle slope of the wedge-shaped
island. Giorgio Viola, whom he saw from afar, sitting on a bench under the front
wall of the cottage, lifted his arm slightly to his loud hail. He walked up.
Neither of the girls appeared.
    »It is good here,« said the old man, in his austere, far-away manner.
    Nostromo nodded; then, after a short silence -
    »You saw my schooner pass in not two hours ago? Do you know why I am here
before, so to speak, my anchor has fairly bitten into the ground of this port of
Sulaco?«
    »You are welcome like a son,« the old man declared, quietly, staring away
upon the sea.
    »Ah! thy son. I know. I am what thy son would have been. It is well, viejo.
It is a very good welcome. Listen, I have come to ask you for -«
    A sudden dread came upon the fearless and incorruptible Nostromo. He dared
not utter the name in his mind. The slight pause only imparted a marked weight
and solemnity to the changed end of the phrase.
    »For my wife!« ... His heart was beating fast. »It is time you -«
    The Garibaldino arrested him with an extended arm. »That was left for you to
judge.«
    He got up slowly. His beard, unclipped since Teresa's death, thick,
snow-white, covered his powerful chest. He turned his head to the door, and
called out in his strong voice -
    »Linda.«
    Her answer came sharp and faint from within; and the appalled Nostromo stood
up, too, but remained mute, gazing at the door. He was afraid. He was not afraid
of being refused the girl he loved - no mere refusal could stand between him and
a woman he desired - but the shining spectre of the treasure rose before him,
claiming his allegiance in a silence that could not be gainsaid. He was afraid,
because, neither dead nor alive, like the Gringos on Azuera, he belonged body
and soul to the unlawfulness of his audacity. He was afraid of being forbidden
the island. He was afraid, and said nothing.
    Seeing the two men standing up side by side to await her, Linda stopped in
the doorway. Nothing could alter the passionate dead whiteness of her face; but
her black eyes seemed to catch and concentrate all the light of the low sun in a
flaming spark within the black depths, covered at once by the slow descent of
heavy eyelids.
    »Behold thy husband, master, and benefactor.« Old Viola's voice resounded
with a force that seemed to fill the whole gulf.
    She stepped forward with her eyes nearly closed, like a sleep-walker in a
beatific dream.
    Nostromo made a superhuman effort. »It is time, Linda, we two were
betrothed,« he said, steadily, in his level, careless, unbending tone.
    She put her hand into his offered palm, lowering her head, dark with bronze
glints, upon which her father's hand rested for a moment.
    »And so the soul of the dead is satisfied.«
    This came from Giorgio Viola, who went on talking for a while of his dead
wife; while the two, sitting side by side, never looked at each other. Then the
old man ceased; and Linda, motionless, began to speak.
    »Ever since I felt I lived in the world, I have lived for you alone, Gian'
Battista. And that you knew! You knew it ... Battistino.«
    She pronounced the name exactly with her mother's intonation. A gloom as of
the grave covered Nostromo's heart.
    »Yes. I knew,« he said.
    The heroic Garibaldino sat on the same bench bowing his hoary head, his old
soul dwelling alone with its memories, tender and violent, terrible and dreary -
solitary on the earth full of men.
    And Linda, his best-loved daughter, was saying, »I was yours ever since I
can remember. I had only to think of you for the earth to become empty to my
eyes. When you were there, I could see no one else. I was yours. Nothing is
changed. The world belongs to you, and you let me live in it.« ... She dropped
her low, vibrating voice to a still lower note, and found other things to say -
torturing for the man at her side. Her murmur ran on ardent and voluble. She did
not seem to see her sister, who came out with an altar-cloth she was
embroidering in her hands, and passed in front of them, silent, fresh, fair,
with a quick glance and a faint smile, to sit a little away on the other side of
Nostromo.
    The evening was still. The sun sank almost to the edge of a purple ocean;
and the white lighthouse, livid against the background of clouds filling the
head of the gulf, bore the lantern red and glowing, like a live ember kindled by
the fire of the sky. Giselle, indolent and demure, raised the altar-cloth from
time to time to hide nervous yawns, as of a young panther.
    Suddenly Linda rushed at her sister, and seizing her head, covered her face
with kisses. Nostromo's brain reeled. When she left her, as if stunned by the
violent caresses, with her hands lying in her lap, the slave of the treasure
felt as if he could shoot that woman. Old Giorgio lifted his leonine head.
    »Where are you going, Linda?«
    »To the light, padre mio.«
    »Si, si - to your duty.«
    He got up, too, looked after his eldest daughter; then, in a tone whose
festive note seemed the echo of a mood lost in the night of ages -
    »I am going in to cook something. Aha! Son! The old man knows where to find
a bottle of wine, too.«
    He turned to Giselle, with a change to austere tenderness.
    »And you, little one, pray not to the God of priests and slaves, but to the
God of orphans, of the oppressed, of the poor, of little children, to give thee
a man like this one for a husband.«
    His hand rested heavily for a moment on Nostromo's shoulder; then he went
in. The hopeless slave of the San Tomé silver felt at these words the venomous
fangs of jealousy biting deep into his heart. He was appalled by the novelty of
the experience, by its force, by its physical intimacy. A husband! A husband for
her! And yet it was natural that Giselle should have a husband at some time or
other. He had never realized that before. In discovering that her beauty could
belong to another he felt as though he could kill this one of old Giorgio's
daughters also. He muttered moodily -
    »They say you love Ramirez.«
    She shook her head without looking at him. Coppery glints rippled to and fro
on the wealth of her gold hair. Her smooth forehead had the soft, pure sheen of
a priceless pearl in the splendour of the sunset, mingling the gloom of starry
spaces, the purple of the sea, and the crimson of the sky in a magnificent
stillness.
    »No,« she said, slowly. »I never loved him. I think I never ... He loves me
- perhaps.«
    The seduction of her slow voice died out of the air, and her raised eyes
remained fixed on nothing, as if indifferent and without thought.
    »Ramirez told you he loved you?« asked Nostromo, restraining himself.
    »Ah! once - one evening ...«
    »The miserable ... Ha!«
    He had jumped up as if stung by a gad-fly, and stood before her mute with
anger.
    »Misericordia Divina! You, too, Gian' Battista! Poor wretch that I am!« she
lamented in ingenuous tones. »I told Linda, and she scolded - she scolded. Am I
to live blind, dumb, and deaf in this world? And she told father, who took down
his gun and cleaned it. Poor Ramirez! Then you came, and she told you.«
    He looked at her. He fastened his eyes upon the hollow of her white throat,
which had the invincible charm of things young, palpitating, delicate, and
alive. Was this the child he had known? Was it possible? It dawned upon him that
in these last years he had really seen very little - nothing - of her. Nothing.
She had come into the world like a thing unknown. She had come upon him
unawares. She was a danger. A frightful danger. The instinctive mood of fierce
determination that had never failed him before the perils of this life added its
steady force to the violence of his passion. She, in a voice that recalled to
him the song of running water, the tinkling of a silver bell, continued -
    »And between you three you have brought me here into this captivity to the
sky and water. Nothing else. Sky and water. Oh, Sanctissima Madre. My hair shall
turn grey on this tedious island. I could hate you, Gian' Battista!«
    He laughed loudly. Her voice enveloped him like a caress. She bemoaned her
fate, spreading unconsciously, like a flower its perfume in the coolness of the
evening, the indefinable seduction of her person. Was it her fault that nobody
ever had admired Linda? Even when they were little, going out with their mother
to Mass, she remembered that people took no notice of Linda, who was fearless,
and chose instead to frighten her, who was timid, with their attention. It was
her hair like gold, she supposed.
    He broke out -
    »Your hair like gold, and your eyes like violets, and your lips like the
rose; your round arms, your white throat.« ...
    Imperturbable in the indolence of her pose, she blushed deeply all over to
the roots of her hair. She was not conceited. She was no more self-conscious
than a flower. But she was pleased. And perhaps even a flower loves to hear
itself praised. He glanced down, and added, impetuously -
    »Your little feet!«
    Leaning back against the rough stone wall of the cottage, she seemed to bask
languidly in the warmth of the rosy flush. Only her lowered eyes glanced at her
little feet.
    »And so you are going at last to marry our Linda. She is terrible. Ah! now
she will understand better since you have told her you love her. She will not be
so fierce.«
    »Chica!« said Nostromo, »I have not told her anything.«
    »Then make haste. Come to-morrow. Come and tell her, so that I may have some
peace from her scolding and - perhaps - who knows ...«
    »Be allowed to listen to your Ramirez, eh? Is that it? You ...«
    »Mercy of God! How violent you are, Giovanni,« she said, unmoved. »Who is
Ramirez ... Ramirez ... Who is he?« she repeated, dreamily, in the dusk and
gloom of the clouded gulf, with a low red streak in the west like a hot bar of
glowing iron laid across the entrance of a world sombre as a cavern, where the
magnificent Capataz de Cargadores had hidden his conquests of love and wealth.
    »Listen, Giselle,« he said, in measured tones; »I will tell no word of love
to your sister. Do you want to know why?«
    »Alas! I could not understand perhaps, Giovanni. Father says you are not
like other men; that no one had ever understood you properly; that the rich will
be surprised yet. ... Oh! saints in heaven! I am weary.«
    She raised her embroidery to conceal the lower part of her face, then let it
fall on her lap. The lantern was shaded on the land side, but slanting away from
the dark column of the lighthouse they could see the long shaft of light,
kindled by Linda, go out to strike the expiring glow in a horizon of purple and
red.
    Giselle Viola, with her head resting against the wall of the house, her eyes
half closed, and her little feet, in white stockings and black slippers, crossed
over each other, seemed to surrender herself, tranquil and fatal, to the
gathering dusk. The charm of her body, the promising mysteriousness of her
indolence, went out into the night of the Placid Gulf like a fresh and
intoxicating fragrance spreading out in the shadows, impregnating the air. The
incorruptible Nostromo breathed her ambient seduction in the tumultuous heaving
of his breast. Before leaving the harbour he had thrown off the store clothing
of Captain Fidanza, for greater ease in the long pull out to the islands. He
stood before her in the red sash and check shirt as he used to appear on the
Company's wharf - a Mediterranean sailor come ashore to try his luck in
Costaguana. The dusk of purple and red enveloped him, too - close, soft,
profound, as no more than fifty yards from that spot it had gathered evening
after evening about the self-destructive passion of Don Martin Decoud's utter
scepticism, flaming up to death in solitude.
    »You have got to hear,« he began at last, with perfect self-control. »I
shall say no word of love to your sister, to whom I am betrothed from this
evening, because it is you that I love. It is you!« ...
    The dusk let him see yet the tender and voluptuous smile that came
instinctively upon her lips shaped for love and kisses, freeze hard in the
drawn, haggard lines of terror. He could not restrain himself any longer. While
she shrank from his approach, her arms went out to him, abandoned and regal in
the dignity of her languid surrender. He held her head in his two hands, and
showered rapid kisses upon the upturned face that gleamed in the purple dusk.
Masterful and tender, he was entering slowly upon the fullness of his possession.
And he perceived that she was crying. Then the incomparable Capataz, the man of
careless loves, became gentle and caressing, like a woman to the grief of a
child. He murmured to her fondly. He sat down by her and nursed her fair head on
his breast. He called her his star and his little flower.
    It had grown dark. From the living-room of the light-keeper's cottage, where
Giorgio, one of the Immortal Thousand, was bending his leonine and heroic head
over a charcoal fire, there came the sound of sizzling and the aroma of an
artistic frittura.
    In the obscure disarray of that thing, happening like a cataclysm, it was in
her feminine head that some gleam of reason survived. He was lost to the world
in their embraced stillness. But she said, whispering into his ear -
    »God of mercy! What will become of me - here - now - between this sky and
this water I hate? Linda, Linda - I see her!« ... She tried to get out of his
arms, suddenly relaxed at the sound of that name. But there was no one
approaching their black shapes, enlaced and struggling on the white background
of the wall. »Linda! Poor Linda! I tremble! I shall die of fear before my poor
sister Linda, betrothed to-day to Giovanni - my lover! Giovanni, you must have
been mad! I cannot understand you! You are not like other men! I will not give
you up - never - only to God himself! But why have you done this blind, mad,
cruel, frightful thing?«
    Released, she hung her head, let fall her hands. The altar-cloth, as if
tossed by a great wind, lay far away from them, gleaming white on the black
ground.
    »From fear of losing my hope of you,« said Nostromo.
    »You knew that you had my soul! You know everything! It was made for you!
But what could stand between you and me? What? Tell me!« she repeated, without
impatience, in superb assurance.
    »Your dead mother,« he said, very low.
    »Ah! ... Poor mother! She has always ... She is a saint in heaven now, and I
cannot give you up to her. No, Giovanni. Only to God alone. You were mad - but
it is done. Oh! what have you done? Giovanni, my beloved, my life, my master, do
not leave me here in this grave of clouds. You cannot leave me now. You must
take me away - at once - this instant - in the little boat. Giovanni, carry me
off to-night, from my fear of Linda's eyes, before I have to look at her again.«
    She nestled close to him. The slave of the San Tomé silver felt the weight
as of chains upon his limbs, a pressure as of a cold hand upon his lips. He
struggled against the spell.
    »I cannot,« he said. »Not yet. There is something that stands between us two
and the freedom of the world.«
    She pressed her form closer to his side with a subtle and naive instinct of
seduction.
    »You rave, Giovanni - my lover!« she whispered, engagingly. »What can there
be? Carry me off - in thy very hands - to Doña Emilia - away from here. I am not
very heavy.«
    It seemed as though she expected him to lift her up at once in his two
palms. She had lost the notion of all impossibility. Anything could happen on
this night of wonder. As he made no movement, she almost cried aloud -
    »I tell you I am afraid of Linda!« And still he did not move. She became
quiet and wily. »What can there be?« she asked, coaxingly.
    He felt her warm, breathing, alive, quivering in the hollow of his arm. In
the exulting consciousness of his strength, and the triumphant excitement of his
mind, he struck out for his freedom.
    »A treasure,« he said. All was still. She did not understand. »A treasure. A
treasure of silver to buy a gold crown for thy brow.«
    »A treasure?« she repeated in a faint voice, as if from the depths of a
dream. »What is it you say?«
    She disengaged herself gently. He got up and looked down at her, aware of
her face, of her hair, her lips, the dimples on her cheeks - seeing the
fascination of her person in the night of the gulf as if in the blaze of
noonday. Her nonchalant and seductive voice trembled with the excitement of
admiring awe and ungovernable curiosity.
    »A treasure of silver!« she stammered out. Then pressed on faster: »What?
Where? How did you get it, Giovanni?«
    He wrestled with the spell of captivity. It was as if striking a heroic blow
that he burst out -
    »Like a thief!«
    The densest blackness of the Placid Gulf seemed to fall upon his head. He
could not see her now. She had vanished into a long, obscure abysmal silence,
whence her voice came back to him after a time with a faint glimmer, which was
her face.
    »I love you! I love you!«
    These words gave him an unwonted sense of freedom; they cast a spell
stronger than the accursed spell of the treasure; they changed his weary
subjection to that dead thing into an exulting conviction of his power. He would
cherish her, he said, in a splendour as great as Doña Emilia's. The rich lived
on wealth stolen from the people, but he had taken from the rich nothing -
nothing that was not lost to them already by their folly and their betrayal. For
he had been betrayed - he said - deceived, tempted. She believed him. ... He had
kept the treasure for purposes of revenge; but now he cared nothing for it. He
cared only for her. He would put her beauty in a palace on a hill crowned with
olive trees - a white palace above a blue sea. He would keep her there like a
jewel in a casket. He would get land for her - her own land fertile with vines
and corn - to set her little feet upon. He kissed them. ... He had already paid
for it all with the soul of a woman and the life of a man. ... The Capataz de
Cargadores tasted the supreme intoxication of his generosity. He flung the
mastered treasure superbly at her feet in the impenetrable darkness of the gulf,
in the darkness defying - as men said - the knowledge of God and the wit of the
devil. But she must let him grow rich first - he warned her.
    She listened as if in a trance. Her fingers stirred in his hair. He got up
from his knees reeling, weak, empty, as though he had flung his soul away.
    »Make haste, then,« she said. »Make haste, Giovanni, my lover, my master,
for I will give thee up to no one but God. And I am afraid of Linda.«
    He guessed at her shudder, and swore to do his best. He trusted the courage
of her love. She promised to be brave in order to be loved always - far away in
a white palace upon a hill above a blue sea. Then with a timid, tentative
eagerness she murmured -
    »Where is it? Where? Tell me that, Giovanni.«
    He opened his mouth and remained silent - thunder-struck.
    »Not that! Not that!« he gasped out, appalled at the spell of secrecy that
had kept him dumb before so many people falling upon his lips again with
unimpaired force. Not even to her. Not even to her. It was too dangerous. »I
forbid thee to ask,« he cried at her, deadening cautiously the anger of his
voice.
    He had not regained his freedom. The spectre of the unlawful treasure arose,
standing by her side like a figure of silver, pitiless and secret, with a finger
on its pale lips. His soul died within him at the vision of himself creeping in
presently along the ravine, with the smell of earth, of damp foliage in his
nostrils - creeping in, determined in a purpose that numbed his breast, and
creeping out again loaded with silver, with his ears alert to every sound. It
must be done on this very night - that work of a craven slave!
    He stooped low, pressed the hem of her skirt to his lips, with a muttered
command -
    »Tell him I would not stay,« and was gone suddenly from her, silent, without
as much as a footfall in the dark night.
    She sat still, her head resting indolently against the wall, and her little
feet in white stockings and black slippers crossed over each other. Old Giorgio,
coming out, did not seem to be surprised at the intelligence as much as she had
vaguely feared. For she was full of inexplicable fear now - fear of everything
and everybody except of her Giovanni and his treasure. But that was incredible.
    The heroic Garibaldino accepted Nostromo's abrupt departure with a sagacious
indulgence. He remembered his own feelings, and exhibited a masculine
penetration of the true state of the case.
    »Va been. Let him go. Ha! ha! No matter how fair the woman, it galls a
little. Liberty, liberty. There's more than one kind! He has said the great
word, and son Gian' Battista is not tame.« He seemed to be instructing the
motionless and scared Giselle. ... »A man should not be tame,« he added,
dogmatically out of the doorway. Her stillness and silence seemed to displease
him. »Do not give way to the enviousness of your sister's lot,« he admonished
her, very grave, in his deep voice.
    Presently he had to come to the door again to call in his younger daughter.
It was late. He shouted her name three times before she even moved her head.
Left alone, she had become the helpless prey of astonishment. She walked into
the bedroom she shared with Linda like a person profoundly asleep. That aspect
was so marked that even old Giorgio, spectacled, raising his eyes from the
Bible, shook his head as she shut the door behind her.
    She walked right across the room without looking at anything, and sat down
at once by the open window. Linda, stealing down from the tower in the
exuberance of her happiness, found her with a lighted candle at her back, facing
the black night full of sighing gusts of wind and the sound of distant showers -
a true night of the gulf, too dense for the eye of God and the wiles of the
devil. She did not turn her head at the opening of the door.
    There was something in that immobility which reached Linda in the depths of
her paradise. The elder sister guessed angrily: the child is thinking of that
wretched Ramirez. Linda longed to talk. She said in her arbitrary voice,
»Giselle!« and was not answered by the slightest movement.
    The girl that was going to live in a palace and walk on ground of her own
was ready to die with terror. Not for anything in the world would she have
turned her head to face her sister. Her heart was beating madly. She said with
subdued haste -
    »Do not speak to me. I am praying.«
    Linda, disappointed, went out quietly; and Giselle sat on unbelieving, lost,
dazed, patient, as if waiting for the confirmation of the incredible. The
hopeless blackness of the clouds seemed part of a dream, too. She waited.
    She did not wait in vain. The man whose soul was dead within him, creeping
out of the ravine, weighted with silver, had seen the gleam of the lighted
window, and could not help retracing his steps from the beach.
    On that impenetrable background, obliterating the lofty mountains by the
seaboard, she saw the slave of the San Tomé silver, as if by an extraordinary
power of a miracle. She accepted his return as if henceforth the world could
hold no surprise for all eternity.
    She rose, compelled and rigid, and began to speak long before the light from
within fell upon the face of the approaching man.
    »You have come back to carry me off. It is well! Open thy arms, Giovanni, my
lover. I am coming.«
    His prudent footsteps stopped, and with his eyes glistening wildly, he spoke
in a harsh voice:
    »Not yet. I must grow rich slowly.« ... A threatening note came into his
tone. »Do not forget that you have a thief for your lover.«
    »Yes! Yes!« she whispered, hastily. »Come nearer! Listen! Do not give me up,
Giovanni! Never, never! ... I will be patient! ...«
    Her form drooped consolingly over the low casement towards the slave of the
unlawful treasure. The light in the room went out, and weighted with silver, the
magnificent Capataz clasped her round her white neck in the darkness of the gulf
as a drowning man clutches at a straw.
 

                                Chapter Thirteen

On the day Mrs. Gould was going, in Dr. Monygham's words, to give a tertulia,
Captain Fidanza went down the side of his schooner lying in Sulaco harbour,
calm, unbending, deliberate in the way he sat down in his dinghy and took up his
sculls. He was later than usual. The afternoon was well advanced before he
landed on the beach of the Great Isabel, and with a steady pace climbed the
slope of the island.
    From a distance he made out Giselle sitting in a chair tilted back against
the end of the house, under the window of the girl's room. She had her
embroidery in her hands, and held it well up to her eyes. The tranquillity of
that girlish figure exasperated the feeling of perpetual struggle and strife he
carried in his breast. He became angry. It seemed to him that she ought to hear
the clanking of his fetters - his silver fetters, from afar. And while ashore
that day, he had met the doctor with the evil eye, who had looked at him very
hard.
    The raising of her eyes mollified him. They smiled in their flower-like
freshness straight upon his heart. Then she frowned. It was a warning to be
cautious. He stopped some distance away, and in a loud, indifferent tone, said -
    »Good day, Giselle. Is Linda up yet?«
    »Yes. She is in the big room with father.«
    He approached then, and, looking through the window into the bedroom for
fear of being detected by Linda returning there for some reason, he said, moving
only his lips -
    »You love me?«
    »More than my life.« She went on with her embroidery under his contemplating
gaze and continued to speak, looking at her work, »Or I could not live. I could
not, Giovanni. For this life is like death. Oh, Giovanni, I shall perish if you
do not take me away.«
    He smiled carelessly. »I will come to the window when it's dark,« he said.
    »No, don't, Giovanni. Not-to-night. Linda and father have been talking
together for a long time to-day.«
    »What about?«
    »Ramirez, I fancy I heard. I do not know. I am afraid. I am always afraid.
It is like dying a thousand times a day. Your love is to me like your treasure
to you. It is there, but I can never get enough of it.«
    He looked at her very still. She was beautiful. His desire had grown within
him. He had two masters now. But she was incapable of sustained emotion. She was
sincere in what she said, but she slept placidly at night. When she saw him she
flamed up always. Then only an increased taciturnity marked the change in her.
She was afraid of betraying herself. She was afraid of pain, of bodily harm, of
sharp words, of facing anger, and witnessing violence. For her soul was light
and tender with a pagan sincerity in its impules. She murmured -
    »Give up the palazzo, Giovanni, and the vineyard on the hills, for which we
are starving our love.«
    She ceased, seeing Linda standing silent at the corner of the house.
    Nostromo turned to his affianced wife with a greeting, and was amazed at her
sunken eyes, at her hollow cheeks, at the air of illness and anguish in her
face.
    »Have you been ill?« he asked, trying to put some concern into this
question.
    Her black eyes blazed at him. »Am I thinner?« she asked.
    »Yes - perhaps - a little.«
    »And older?«
    »Every day counts - for all of us.«
    »I shall go grey, I fear, before the ring is on my finger,« she said,
slowly, keeping her gaze fastened upon him.
    She waited for what he would say, rolling down her turned-up sleeves.
    »No fear of that,« he said, absently.
    She turned away as if it had been something final, and busied herself with
household cares while Nostromo talked with her father. Conversation with the old
Garibaldino was not easy. Age had left his faculties unimpaired, only they
seemed to have withdrawn somewhere deep within him. His answers were slow in
coming, with an effect of august gravity. But that day he was more animated,
quicker; there seemed to be more life in the old lion. He was uneasy for the
integrity of his honour. He believed Sidoni's warning as to Ramirez's designs
upon his younger daughter. And he did not trust her. She was flighty. He said
nothing of his cares to »Son Gian' Battista.« It was a touch of senile vanity.
He wanted to show that he was equal yet to the task of guarding alone the honour
of his house.
    Nostromo went away early. As soon as he had disappeared, walking towards the
beach, Linda stepped over the threshold and, with a haggard smile, sat down by
the side of her father.
    Ever since that Sunday, when the infatuated and desperate Ramirez had waited
for her on the wharf, she had no doubts whatever. The jealous ravings of that
man were no revelation. They had only fixed with precision, as with a nail
driven into her heart, that sense of unreality and deception which, instead of
bliss and security, she had found in her intercourse with her promised husband.
She had passed on, pouring indignation and scorn upon Ramirez; but, that Sunday,
she nearly died of wretchedness and shame, lying on the carved and lettered
stone of Teresa's grave, subscribed for by the engine-drivers and the fitters of
the railway workshops, in sign of their respect for the hero of Italian Unity.
Old Viola had not been able to carry out his desire of burying his wife in the
sea; and Linda wept upon the stone.
    The gratuitous outrage appalled her. If he wished to break her heart - well
and good. Everything was permitted to Gian' Battista. But why trample upon the
pieces; why seek to humiliate her spirit? Aha! He could not break that. She
dried her tears. And Giselle! Giselle! The little one that, ever since she could
toddle, had always clung to her skirt for protection. What duplicity! But she
could not help it probably. When there was a man in the case the poor
featherheaded wretch could not help herself.
    Linda had a good share of the Viola stoicism. She resolved to say nothing.
But woman-like she put passion into her stoicism. Giselle's short answers,
prompted by fearful caution, drove her beside herself by their curtness that
resembled disdain. One day she flung herself upon the chair in which her
indolent sister was lying and impressed the mark of her teeth at the base of the
whitest neck in Sulaco. Giselle cried out. But she had her share of the Viola
heroism. Ready to faint with terror, she only said, in a lazy voice, »Madre de
Dios! Are you going to eat me alive, Linda?« And this outburst passed off
leaving no trace upon the situation. »She knows nothing. She cannot know
anything,« reflected Giselle. »Perhaps it is not true. It cannot be true,« Linda
tried to persuade herself.
    But when she saw Captain Fidanza for the first time after her meeting with
the distracted Ramirez, the certitude of her misfortune returned. She watched
him from the doorway go away to his boat, asking herself stoically, »Will they
meet to-night?« She made up her mind not to leave the tower for a second. When
he had disappeared she came out and sat down by her father.
    The venerable Garibaldino felt, in his own words, »a young man yet.« In one
way or another a good deal of talk about Ramirez had reached him of late; and
his contempt and dislike of that man who obviously was not what his son would
have been, had made him restless. He slept very little now; but for several
nights past instead of reading - or only sitting, with Mrs. Gould's silver
spectacles on his nose, before the open Bible, he had been prowling actively all
about the island with his old gun, on watch over his honour.
    Linda, laying her thin brown hand on his knee, tried to soothe his
excitement. Ramirez was not in Sulaco. Nobody knew where he was. He was gone.
His talk of what he would do meant nothing.
    »No,« the old man interrupted. »But son Gian' Battista told me - quite of
himself - that the cowardly esclavo was drinking and gambling with the rascals
of Zapiga, over there on the north side of the gulf. He may get some of the
worst scoundrels of that scoundrelly town of Negroes to help him in his attempt
upon the little one. ... But I am not so old. No!«
    She argued earnestly against the probability of any attempt being made; and
at last the old man fell silent, chewing his white moustache. Women had their
obstinate notions which must be humoured - his poor wife was like that, and
Linda resembled her mother. It was not seemly for a man to argue. »May be. May
be,« he mumbled.
    She was by no means easy in her mind. She loved Nostromo. She turned her
eyes upon Giselle, sitting at a distance, with something of maternal tenderness,
and the jealous anguish of a rival outraged in her defeat. Then she rose and
walked over to her.
    »Listen - you,« she said, roughly.
    The invincible candour of the gaze, raised up all violet and dew, excited
her rage and admiration. She had beautiful eyes - the Chica - this vile thing of
white flesh and black deception. She did not know whether she wanted to tear
them out with shouts of vengeance or cover up their mysterious and shameless
innocence with kisses of pity and love. And suddenly they became empty, gazing
blankly at her, except for a little fear not quite buried deep enough with all
the other emotions in Giselle's heart.
    Linda said, »Ramirez is boasting in town that he will carry you off from the
island.«
    »What folly!« answered the other, and in a perversity born of long
restraint, she added: »He is not the man,« in a jesting tone with a trembling
audacity.
    »No?« said Linda, through her clenched teeth. »Is he not? Well, then, look
to it; because father has been walking about with a loaded gun at night.«
    »It is not good for him. You must tell him not to, Linda. He will not listen
to me.«
    »I shall say nothing - never any more - to anybody,« cried Linda,
passionately.
    This could not last, thought Giselle. Giovanni must take her away soon - the
very next time he came. She would not suffer these terrors for ever so much
silver. To speak with her sister made her ill. But she was not uneasy at her
father's watchfulness. She had begged Nostromo not to come to the window that
night. He had promised to keep away for this once. And she did not know, could
not guess or imagine, that he had another reason for coming on the island.
    Linda had gone straight to the tower. It was time to light up. She unlocked
the little door, and went heavily up the spiral staircase, carrying her love for
the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores like an ever-increasing load of shameful
fetters. No; she could not throw it off. No; let Heaven dispose of these two.
And moving about the lantern, filled with twilight and the sheen of the moon,
with careful movements she lighted the lamp. Then her arms fell along her body.
    »And with our mother looking on,« she murmured. »My own sister - the Chica!«
    The whole refracting apparatus, with its brass fittings and rings of prisms,
glittered and sparkled like a dome-shaped shrine of diamonds, containing not a
lamp, but some sacred flame, dominating the sea. And Linda, the keeper, in
black, with a pale face, drooped low in a wooden chair, alone with her jealousy,
far above the shames and passions of the earth. A strange, dragging pain as if
somebody were pulling her about brutally by her dark hair with bronze glints,
made her put her hands up to her temples. They would meet. They would meet. And
she knew where, too. At the window. The sweat of torture fell in drops on her
cheeks, while the moonlight in the offing closed as if with a colossal bar of
silver the entrance of the Placid Gulf - the sombre cavern of clouds and
stillness in the surf-fretted seaboard.
    Linda Viola stood up suddenly with a finger on her lip. He loved neither her
nor her sister. The whole thing seemed so objectless as to frighten her, and
also give her some hope. Why did he not carry her off? What prevented him? He
was incomprehensible. What were they waiting for? For what end were these two
lying and deceiving? Not for the ends of their love. There was no such thing.
The hope of regaining him for herself made her break her vow of not leaving the
tower that night. She must talk at once to her father, who was wise, and would
understand. She ran down the spiral stairs. At the moment of opening the door at
the bottom she heard the sound of the first shot ever fired on the Great Isabel.
    She felt a shock, as though the bullet had struck her breast. She ran on
without pausing. The cottage was dark. She cried at the door, »Giselle!
Giselle!« then dashed round the corner and screamed her sister's name at the
open window, without getting an answer; but as she was rushing, distracted,
round the house, Giselle came out of the door, and darted past her, running
silently, her hair loose, and her eyes staring straight ahead. She seemed to
skim along the grass as if on tiptoe, and vanished.
    Linda walked on slowly, with her arms stretched out before her. All was
still on the island; she did not know where she was going. The tree under which
Martin Decoud spent his last days, beholding life like a succession of senseless
images, threw a large blotch of black shade upon the grass. Suddenly she saw her
father, standing quietly all alone in the moonlight.
    The Garibaldino - big, erect, with his snow-white hair and beard - had a
monumental repose in his immobility, leaning upon a rifle. She put her hand upon
his arm lightly. He never stirred.
    »What have you done?« she asked, in her ordinary voice.
    »I have shot Ramirez - infame!« he answered, with his eyes directed to where
the shade was blackest. »Like a thief he came, and like a thief he fell. The
child had to be protected.«
    He did not offer to move an inch, to advance a single step. He stood there,
rugged and unstirring, like a statue of an old man guarding the honour of his
house. Linda removed her trembling hand from his arm, firm and steady like an
arm of stone, and, without a word, entered the blackness of the shade. She saw a
stir of formless shapes on the ground, and stopped short. A murmur of despair
and tears grew louder to her strained hearing.
    »I entreated you not to come to-night. Oh, my Giovanni! And you promised.
Oh! Why - why did you come, Giovanni?«
    It was her sister's voice. It broke on a heartrending sob. And the voice of
the resourceful Capataz de Cargadores, master and slave of the San Tomé
treasure, who had been caught unawares by old Giorgio while stealing across the
open towards the ravine to get some more silver, answered careless and cool, but
sounding startlingly weak from the ground.
    »It seemed as though I could not live through the night without seeing thee
once more - my star, my little flower.«
 
The brilliant tertulia was just over, the last guests had departed, and the
Señor Administrator had gone to his room already, when Dr. Monygham, who had
been expected in the evening but had not turned up, arrived driving along the
wood-block pavement under the electric-lamps of the deserted Calle de la
Constitucion, and found the great gateway of the Casa still open.
    He limped in, stumped up the stairs, and found the fat and sleek Basilio on
the point of turning off the lights in the sala. The prosperous majordomo
remained open-mouthed at this late invasion.
    »Don't put out the lights,« commanded the doctor. »I want to see the
señora.«
    »The señora is in the Señor Adminstrador's cancillaria,« said Basilio, in an
unctuous voice. »The Señor Administrator starts for the mountain in an hour.
There is some trouble with the workmen to be feared, it appears. A shameless
people without reason and decency. And idle, señor. Idle.«
    »You are shamelessly lazy and imbecile yourself,« said the doctor, with that
faculty for exasperation which made him so generally beloved. »Don't put the
lights out.«
    Basilio retired with dignity. Dr. Monygham, waiting in the brilliantly
lighted sala, heard presently a door close at the further end of the house. A
jungle of spurs died out. The Señor Administrator was off to the mountain.
    With a measured swish of her long train, flashing with jewels and the
shimmer of silk, her delicate head bowed as if under the weight of a mass of
fair hair, in which the silver threads were lost, the first lady of Sulaco, as
Captain Mitchell used to describe her, moved along the lighted corridor, wealthy
beyond great dreams of wealth, considered, loved, respected, honoured, and as
solitary as any human being had ever been, perhaps, on this earth.
    The doctor's »Mrs. Gould! One minute!« stopped her with a start at the door
of the lighted and empty sala. From the similarity of mood and circumstance, the
sight of the doctor, standing there all alone amongst the groups of furniture,
recalled to her emotional memory her unexpected meeting with Martin Decoud; she
seemed to hear in the silence the voice of that man, dead miserably so many
years ago, pronounce the words, »Antonia left her fan here.« But it was the
doctor's voice that spoke, a little altered by his excitement. She remarked his
shining eyes.
    »Mrs. Gould, you are wanted. Do you know what has happened? You remember
what I told you yesterday about Nostromo. Well, it seems that a lancha, a decked
boat, coming from Zapiga, with four Negroes in her, passing close to the Great
Isabel, was hailed from the cliff by a woman's voice - Linda's, as a matter of
fact - commanding them (it's a moonlight night) to go round to the beach and
take up a wounded man to the town. The patron (from whom I've heard all this),
of course, did so at once. He told me that when they got round to the low side
of the Great Isabel, they found Linda Viola waiting for them. They followed her:
she led them under a tree not far from the cottage. There they found Nostromo
lying on the ground with his head in the younger girl's lap, and father Viola
standing some distance off leaning on his gun. Under Linda's direction they got
a table out of the cottage for a stretcher, after breaking off the legs. They
are here, Mrs. Gould. I mean Nostromo and - and Giselle. The Negroes brought him
in to the first-aid hospital near the harbour. He made the attendant send for
me. But it is not me he wanted to see - it was you, Mrs. Gould! It was you.«
    »Me?« whispered Mrs. Gould, shrinking a little.
    »Yes, you!« the doctor burst out. »He begged me - his enemy, as he thinks -
to bring you to him at once. It seems he has something to say to you alone.«
    »Impossible!« murmured Mrs. Gould.
    »He said to me, Remind her that I have done something to keep a roof over
her head. ... Mrs. Gould,« the doctor pursued, in the greatest excitement. »Do
you remember the silver? The silver in the lighter - that was lost!«
    Mrs. Gould remembered. But she did not say she hated the mere mention of
that silver. Frankness personified, she remembered with an exaggerated horror
that for the first and last time of her life she had concealed the truth from
her husband about that very silver. She had been corrupted by her fears at that
time, and she had never forgiven herself. Moreover, that silver, which would
never have come down if her husband had been made acquainted with the news
brought by Decoud, had been in a roundabout way nearly the cause of Dr.
Monygham's death. And these things appeared to her very dreadful.
    »Was it lost, though?« the doctor exclaimed. »I've always felt that there
was a mystery about our Nostromo ever since. I do believe he wants now, at the
point of death -«
    »The point of death,« repeated Mrs. Gould.
    »Yes. Yes. ... He wants perhaps to tell you something concerning that silver
which -«
    »Oh, no! No!« exclaimed Mrs. Gould, in a low voice. »Isn't it lost and done
with? Isn't there enough treasure without it to make everybody in the world
miserable?«
    The doctor remained still, in a submissive, disappointed silence. At last he
ventured, very low -
    »And there is that Viola girl, Giselle. What are we to do? It looks as
though father and sister had -«
    Mrs. Gould admitted that she felt in duty bound to do her best for these
girls.
    »I have a volante here,« the doctor said. »If you don't mind getting into
that -«
    He waited, all impatience, till Mrs. Gould reappeared, having thrown over
her dress a grey cloak with a deep hood.
    It was thus that, cloaked and monastically hooded over her evening costume,
this woman, full of endurance and compassion, stood by the side of the bed on
which the splendid Capataz de Cargadores lay stretched out motionless on his
back. The whiteness of sheets and pillows gave a sombre and energetic relief to
his bronzed face, to the dark, nervous hands, so good on a tiller, upon a bridle
and on a trigger, lying open and idle upon a white coverlet.
    »She is innocent,« the Capataz was saying in a deep and level voice, as
though afraid that a louder word would break the slender hold his spirit still
kept upon his body. »She is innocent. It is I alone. But no matter. For these
things I would answer to no man or woman alive.«
    He paused. Mrs. Gould's face, very white within the shadow of the hood, bent
over him with an invincible and dreary sadness. And the low sobs of Giselle
Viola, kneeling at the end of the bed, her gold hair with coppery gleams loose
and scattered over the Capataz's feet, hardly troubled the silence of the room.
    »Ha! Old Giorgio - the guardian of thine honour! Fancy the Vecchio coming
upon me so light of foot, so steady of aim. I myself could have done no better.
But the price of a charge of powder might have been saved. The honour was safe.
... Señora, she would have followed to the end of the world Nostromo the thief.
... I have said the word. The spell is broken!«
    A low moan from the girl made him cast his eyes down.
    »I cannot see her. ... No matter,« he went on, with the shadow of the old
magnificent carelessness in his voice. »One kiss is enough, if there is no time
for more. An airy soul, señora! Bright and warm, like sunshine - soon clouded,
and soon serene. They would crush it there between them. Señora, cast on her the
eye of your compassion, as famed from one end of the land to the other as the
courage and daring of the man who speaks to you. She will console herself in
time. And even Ramirez is not a bad fellow. I am not angry. No! It is not
Ramirez who overcame the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores.« He paused, made an
effort, and in louder voice, a little wildly, declared -
    »I die betrayed - betrayed by -«
    But he did not say by whom or by what he was dying betrayed.
    »She would not have betrayed me,« he began again, opening his eyes very
wide. »She was faithful. We were going very far - very soon. I could have torn
myself away from that accursed treasure for her. For that child I would have
left boxes and boxes of it - full. And Decoud took four. Four ingots. Why?
Picardia! To betray me? How could I give back the treasure with four ingots
missing? They would have said I had purloined them. The doctor would, have said
that. Alas! it holds me yet!«
    Mrs. Gould bent low, fascinated - cold with apprehension.
    »What became of Don Martin on that night, Nostromo?«
    »Who knows! I wondered what would become of me. Now I know. Death was to
come upon me unawares. He went away! He betrayed me. And you think I have killed
him! You are all alike, you fine people. The silver has killed me. It has held
me. It holds me yet. Nobody knows where it is. But you are the wife of Don
Carlos, who put it into my hands and said, Save it on your life. And when I
returned, and you all thought it was lost, what do I hear? It was nothing of
importance. Let it go. Up, Nostromo, the faithful, and ride away to save us, for
dear life!«
    »Nostromo!« Mrs. Gould whispered, bending very low. »I, too, have hated the
idea of that silver from the bottom of my heart.«
    »Marvellous! - that one of you should hate the wealth that you know so well
how to take from the hands of the poor. The world rests upon the poor, as old
Giorgio says. You have been always good to the poor. But there is something
accursed in wealth. Señora, shall I tell you where the treasure is? To you
alone. ... Shining! Incorruptible!«
    A pained, involuntary reluctance lingered in his tone, in his eyes, plain to
the woman with the genius of sympathetic intuition. She averted her glance from
the miserable subjection of the dying man, appalled, wishing to hear no more of
the silver.
    »No, Capataz,« she said. »No one misses it now. Let it be lost for ever.«
    After hearing these words, Nostromo closed his eyes, uttered no word, made
no movement. Outside the door of the sick-room Dr. Monygham, excited to the
highest pitch, his eyes shining with eagerness, came up to the two women.
    »Now, Mrs. Gould,« he said, almost brutally in his impatience, »tell me, was
I right? There is a mystery. You have got the word of it, have you not? He told
you -«
    »He told me nothing,« said Mrs. Gould, steadily.
    The light of his temperamental enmity to Nostromo went out of Dr. Monygham's
eyes. He stepped back submissively. He did not believe Mrs. Gould. But her word
was law. He accepted her denial like an inexplicable fatality affirming the
victory of Nostromo's genius over his own. Even before that woman, whom he loved
with secret devotion, he had been defeated by the magnificent Capataz de
Cargadores, the man who had lived his own life on the assumption of unbroken
fidelity, rectitude, and courage!
    »Pray send at once somebody for my carriage,« spoke Mrs. Gould from within
her hood. Then, turning to Giselle Viola, »Come nearer me, child; come closer.
We will wait here.«
    Giselle Viola, heartbroken and childlike, her face veiled in her falling
hair, crept up to her side. Mrs. Gould slipped her hand through the arm of the
unworthy daughter of old Viola, the immaculate republican, the hero without a
stain. Slowly, gradually, as a withered flower droops, the head of the girl, who
would have followed a thief to the end of the world, rested on the shoulder of
Doña Emilia, the first lady of Sulaco, the wife of the Señor Administrator of
the San Tomé mine. And Mrs. Gould, feeling her suppressed sobbing, nervous and
excited, had the first and only moment of bitterness in her life. It was worthy
of Dr. Monygham himself.
    »Console yourself, child. Very soon he would have forgotten you for his
treasure.«
    »Señora, he loved me. He loved me,« Giselle whispered, despairingly. »He
loved me as no one had ever been loved before.«
    »I have been loved, too,« Mrs. Gould said in a severe tone.
    Giselle clung to her convulsively. »Oh, señora, but you shall live adored to
the end of your life,« she sobbed out.
    Mrs. Gould kept an unbroken silence till the carriage arrived. She helped in
the half-fainting girl. After the doctor had shut the door of the landau, she
leaned over to him.
    »You can do nothing?« she whispered.
    »No, Mrs. Gould. Moreover, he won't let us touch him. It does not matter. I
just had one look. ... Useless.«
    But he promised to see old Viola and the other girl that very night. He
could get the police-boat to take him off to the island. He remained in the
street, looking after the landau rolling away slowly behind the white mules.
    The rumour of some accident - an accident to Captain Fidanza - had been
spreading along the new quays with their rows of lamps and the dark shapes of
towering cranes. A knot of night prowlers - the poorest of the poor - hung about
the door of the first-aid hospital, whispering in the moonlight of the empty
street.
    There was no one with the wounded man but the pale photographer, small,
frail, bloodthirsty, the hater of capitalists, perched on a high stool near the
head of the bed with his knees up and his chin in his hands. He had been fetched
by a comrade who, working late on the wharf, had heard from a negro belonging to
a lancha, that Captain Fidanza had been brought ashore mortally wounded.
    »Have you any dispositions to make, comrade?« he asked, anxiously. »Do not
forget that we want money for our work. The rich must be fought with their own
weapons.«
    Nostromo made no answer. The other did not insist, remaining huddled up on
the stool, shock-headed, wildly hairy, like a hunchbacked monkey. Then, after a
long silence -
    »Comrade Fidanza,« he began, solemnly, »you have refused all aid from that
doctor. Is he really a dangerous enemy of the people?«
    In the dimly lit room Nostromo rolled his head slowly on the pillow and
opened his eyes, directing at the weird figure perched by his bedside a glance
of enigmatic and profound inquiry. Then his head rolled back, his eyelids fell,
and the Capataz de Cargadores died without a word or moan after an hour of
immobility, broken by short shudders testifying to the most atrocious
sufferings.
    Dr. Monygham, going out in the police-galley to the islands, beheld the
glitter of the moon upon the gulf and the high black shape of the Great Isabel
sending a shaft of light afar, from under the canopy of clouds.
    »Pull easy,« he said, wondering what he would find there. He tried to
imagine Linda and her father, and discovered a strange reluctance within
himself. »Pull easy,« he repeated.
 
From the moment he fired at the thief of his honour, Giorgio Viola had not
stirred from the spot. He stood, his old gun grounded, his hand grasping the
barrel near the muzzle. After the lancha carrying off Nostromo for ever from her
had left the shore, Linda, coming up, stopped before him. He did not seem to be
aware of her presence, but when, losing her forced calmness, she cried out -
    »Do you know whom you have killed?« he answered -
    »Ramirez the vagabond.«
    White, and staring insanely at her father, Linda laughed in his face. After
a time he joined her faintly in a deep-toned and distant echo of her peals. Then
she stopped, and the old man spoke as if startled -
    »He cried out in son Gian' Battista's voice.«
    The gun fell from his opened hand, but the arm remained extended for a
moment as if still supported. Linda seized it roughly.
    »You are too old to understand. Come into the house.«
    He let her lead him. On the threshold he stumbled heavily, nearly coming to
the ground together with his daughter. His excitement, his activity of the last
few days, had been like the flare of a dying lamp. He caught at the back of his
chair.
    »In son Gian' Battista's voice,« he repeated in a severe tone. »I heard him
- Ramirez - the miserable -«
    Linda helped him into the chair, and, bending low, hissed into his ear -
    »You have killed Gian' Battista.«
    The old man smiled under his thick moustache. Women had strange fancies.
    »Where is the child?« he asked, surprised at the penetrating chilliness of
the air and the unwonted dimness of the lamp by which he used to sit up half the
night with the open Bible before him.
    Linda hesitated a moment, then averted her eyes.
    »She is asleep,« she said. »We shall talk of her to-morrow.«
    She could not bear to look at him. He filled her with terror and with an
almost unbearable feeling of pity. She had observed the change that came over
him. He would never understand what he had done; and even to her the whole thing
remained incomprehensible. He said with difficulty -
    »Give me the book.«
    Linda laid on the table the closed volume in its worn leather cover, the
Bible given him ages ago by an Englishman in Palermo.
    »The child had to be protected,« he said, in a strange, mournful voice.
    Behind his chair Linda wrung her hands, crying without noise. Suddenly she
started for the door. He heard her move.
    »Where are you going?« he asked.
    »To the light,« she answered, turning round to look at him balefully.
    »The light! Si - duty.«
    Very upright, white-haired, leonine, heroic in his absorbed quietness, he
felt in the pocket of his red shirt for the spectacles given him by Doña Emilia.
He put them on. After a long period of immobility he opened the book, and from
on high looked through the glasses at the small print in double columns. A
rigid, stern expression settled upon his features with a slight frown, as if in
response to some gloomy thought or unpleasant sensation. But he never detached
his eyes from the book while he swayed forward, gently, gradually, till his
snow-white head rested upon the open pages. A wooden clock ticked methodically
on the white-washed wall, and growing slowly cold the Garibaldino lay alone,
rugged, undecayed, like an old oak uprooted by a treacherous gust of wind.
    The light of the Great Isabel burned unfailing above the lost treasure of
the San Tomé mine. Into the bluish sheen of a night without stars the lantern
sent out a yellow beam towards the far horizon. Like a black speck upon the
shining panes, Linda, crouching in the outer gallery, rested her head on the
rail. The moon, drooping in the western board, looked at her radiantly.
    Below, at the foot of the cliff, the regular splash of oars from a passing
boat ceased, and Dr. Monygham stood up in the stern sheets.
    »Linda!« he shouted, throwing back his head. »Linda!«
    Linda stood up. She had recognized the voice.
    »Is he dead?« she cried, bending over.
    »Yes, my poor girl. I am coming round,« the doctor answered from below.
»Pull to the beach,« he said to the rowers.
    Linda's black figure detached itself upright on the light of the lantern
with her arms raised above her head as though she were going to throw herself
over.
    »It is I who loved you,« she whispered, with a face as set and white as
marble in the moonlight. »I! Only I! She will forget thee, killed miserably for
her pretty face. I cannot understand. I cannot understand. But I shall never
forget thee. Never!«
    She stood silent and still, collecting her strength to throw all her
fidelity, her pain, bewilderment, and despair into one great cry.
    »Never! Gian' Battista!«
    Dr. Monygham, pulling round in the police-galley, heard the name pass over
his head. It was another of Nostromo's triumphs, the greatest, the most
enviable, the most sinister of all. In that true cry of undying passion that
seemed to ring aloud from Punta Mala to Azuera and away to the bright line of
the horizon, overhung by a big white cloud shining like a mass of solid silver,
the genius of the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores dominated the dark gulf
containing his conquests of treasure and love.
