 Part 3 Chapter 9 Part 1 of Nostromo. Distracted between doubts and hopes, dismayed by the sound of bells peeling out the arrival of Pedrito Montero, Sotio 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 anomalous booty to make off with. Pedrito Montero, either his 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 had walked to and fro all the length of the room, stopping sometimes to gnaw the fingertips 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 and savage aloofness. His hat, horse whip, 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 Manzani. 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 caseviola 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 valiente Colonel. Señor Fuentes, on entering upon his functions of jefe político, had turned his diplomatic abilities to getting hold of the harbor 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. The meeting 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 chatting agreeably to the officers. It was in that scoundrel-y 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 and 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 wished 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 surprise to 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 mustaches. Uncurled, pendant, in sign of bodily prostration and mental incapacity. Fever. Fever, a heavy fever, had overtaken the muy valiente Colonel, a wavering wildness of expression caused by the passing spasms of 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 Dom 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 the fever in the custom-house. Immediately, most urgently required, awaited with extreme impatience, a thousand thanks, he closed his eyes wierdly 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 doctor had shot after him the door of the landing, the Colonel leaped out with a fling of both feet and an avalanche of woolen 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 jalicies, 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 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 the 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 would be much dancing tonight in Sulaco. Goodbye. But he reigned in his horse and inclined his head sideways on seeing the old major step out, very tall and meager, 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 panageric 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 pretentious and depressive, your worship is beholding the finest body of officers in the republic, men unequal for valor and sagacity, y hombres de muchos dientes. What all of them inquired the disreputable envoy of señor Fuentes, with a faint derise of smile. Doros, 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 and extended one arm. He was a facetious scoundrel, entertaining for these stupid occidentals a feeling of great scorn, natural and inactive 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 head 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 jealousy, 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 state 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 adred 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. Hellediction! The doctor would never come out. He was probably under arrest already, shot up together with Don Carlos. He laughed aloud insanely. Ha, ha, ha! It was Pedrito Montero who would get the information. Ha, ha, ha! And the silver. Ha, ha! All at once in the midst of the laugh he became motionless and silent as if turned to 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 to 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 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 pretense. Nothing but a pretense. 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 barefooted orderly appeared noiselessly a corporal, with his bayonet hanging on his thigh and the 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, and that solitude, full of despair and terror, he was torn out brutally with kicks and blows. Passive, sunk in habitude. 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 Sotio, 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. Sotio looked at him in silence. With you depart from your obstinacy, you rogue! he asked. Already a rope whose one end was fastened to Senor 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. Sotio 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. Sotio, 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 jealousies while the sunshine, reflected from the water of the harbor, 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 OSN 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. Sotio, irritable, moody, walked restlessly about, held consultations with his officers, gave contradictory orders in this shrill clamor pervading the whole empty edifice. Sometimes there would be long and awful silences. Several times he had entered the torture chamber where his sword, horse whip, 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 it 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 wracked limbs, but the body of Senor Hirsch, enterprising businessman from Esmeralda, hung under the heavy beam perpendicular and silent, pressing 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—Sotio 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, groveled 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 Senor 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. Senor 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 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 dispersed 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? Sangle de Dios. What had he done? What had he done? He was basely appalled at his impulsive act, sealing forever 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 clamoring 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 senor Hirsch, merchant, after swaying imperceptibly, made a half-turn, and came to a rest in the midst of odd 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, Colonel? Because he has confessed everything, answered Sotillo, with the hardy-hood 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. He had confessed everything, this fractious Jew, this briban. 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 senior 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 eyes, he marched first through the door in such disorder of mind that he forgot utterly to provide for Dr. Monagham's possible return. As the officers trooped out after him, one or two looked back hastily at the late senior 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 rear guard, but the party he left behind, with orders to fire the custom house and burn the carcass of the treacherous Jew were at hung, failed somehow in their haste to set the staircase properly alight. The body of the late senior Hirsch dwelt alone for a time in the dismal solitude of the unfinished building, resounding weirdly with sudden slams and cliques of doors and latches, with rustling scurries of torn papers, and the tremulous size that at each gust of wind passed under the high roof. Light of the two candles burning before the perpendicular and breathless immobility of the late senior 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. Monagham 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 the very natural thing, your doctor. I wonder why. It is very likely that before long we shall all get shot one after another, if not by Sotillo than by Pedrito or Fuentes or Gamacho. And we may even get the Estrapade, too. Or worse, Quien sabe, with your pretty tail 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. Well, it is as I say, you are a dangerous man.' Their voices, which without rising, had been growing quarrelsome, ceased suddenly. The late Senor Hirsch, erect and shadowy against the stars, seemed to be waiting, attentive, in impartial silence. But Dr. Monagham had no mind to quarrel with Nostromo. At the supremely critical point of Sulaco's fortunes, it was born 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 De Koud's best dry railery about my illustrious friend, the unique Capotas 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 the destinies of great enterprises and 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 Capotas 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 Sotio a day to give me the estrapade and try some things, perhaps, before he puts a bullet through my heart, as he did to that poor wretch here. Why not? The doctor swallowed 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 anyone for anything. It was simple dread. Had the fellow heard his story by some chance? If so, there was an end to 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 re-echoed sardonically. Then the safe thing for you to do is 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 capitas 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 senior 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 currs that barks outside the walls, without a kennel or 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 anyone, he repeated. The doctor breathed freely. Listen, capitas, 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 repacity of men who, no, Señor, said Nostromo solemnly. It is not in my power to get the treasure back for you to give up to Sotillo or Pedrito or Camacho. 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. Monagham, 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 capitas. His mind, floating in irresolution and discontent, recognized it with bitterness. He understood well that the doctor was anxious to save the Santo May Mine from annihilation. He would be nothing without it. It was his interest, just as it had been the interest of Señor de Cú, of the Blancos, and of the Europeans to get his Cargadores on their side. His thought became arrested upon de Cú. 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 forever. 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, Capitas, 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 minds to me, your silver and your constitutions? Your Don Carlos this and Don Jose 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 rebieres together. I don't know. You should have asked yourself before you allowed Dekud 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. They do imagine Dekud cared very much for what would happen to you. No more than you care 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 rebierist, Nostromo said in an incredulous tone, all this because I am such a devoted rebierist, repeated Dr. Monagham grimly. Again Nostromo gazing abstractedly at the body of the late Senor 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, Senor? The doctor started. I say that you must be true to yourself, Capitas. It will be worse than in 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, though. 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 listening intently. The Capitas, too, stood up. Because I went to Qaita. What would you do, meantime? He asked. I would go to Sotillo directly you'd left, in the way I'm thinking of. A very good way, if only that engineer-in-chief consents. Remind him, Senor, that I looked after the all-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 payteranes. 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 Senor Hirsch preserved the immobility of a disregarded man. That'll be all right. I know what to say to the engineer. Pursue the doctor in a low tone. My difficulty will be with Sotillo, and Dr. Monagham 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 capitas? I think that when the time comes and some information must be given, I shall indicate the great is about. 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? You did not see it, began Nostromo scathingly, gathering scorn as he went on. Three men and a half 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, senor doctor? Why, you would not gain half a day before having your throat cut by subteo. Yisabel, what stupidity! What miserable invention! You are all alike. You find 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. Ha! 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? No stroma 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 treasure of silver ingots can be buried without leaving a sign on the surface. And close at hand, the doctor put in. Just so, senor, 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 harbor 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. See, you tell him that, and see whether he would 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, as I begin to believe that you are a great genius in your own way. No stroma had paused, then began again in a changed tone, somber 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? Sailors like myself, there is no getting away from a treasure that once fastens upon your mind. You are a devil of a man, Caritas. It is the most plausible thing. No stroma 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? You shall suffer greater torments than he inflicted upon that terrified wretch who had no invention. None. Not like me, I could have told, so Tio had deadly tail for very little pain. He laughed wildly and turned in the doorway towards the body of the late senior Hirsch and 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, no stroma. Out of my way, doctor. On the side, 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. Monagham 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. He wanted more than that to stop Dr. Monagham's body, possessed by the exaltation of self-sacrifice. A reasonable exaltation determined not to lose whatever advantage Chents put into his way. He ran with headlong, tottering swiftness, his arms going like a windmill in his effort to keep his balance on his grippled feet. He lost his hat. The tails of his open gabardine 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 hat dropping as if checked in his pace by the weariness of your resolution. What is that to you? 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 de taliuna 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? Good 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 a loss for words, feeling fagged out, powerless, holding on to Nostromo's sleeve absolutely for support after his run. I am betrayed, muttered the capitas 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 senor administrador was beset by spies, no doubt, and even the very servants of the casa were not to be trusted. Reflect, capitas. 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, senor doctor, if somebody were to give me up to Pesito, 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, capitas, said Dr. Monagham, 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, marit 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 sat in a grim tone, which showed that he was recovering from his exertions. Make no mistake, Pedrito is furious at Senor Rivera's rescue, and at having lost the pleasure of shooting Deku, 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 ransom, it would not save you. Turning swiftly and catching the doctor by the shoulders, nostromo thrust his face close to his. Maladeta! 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. He said only 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 among 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 capitas 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 cassaviola, Nostromo stopped again. Silent in inhospitable darkness, the cassaviola seemed to have changed its nature. His home appeared to repel him with an air of hopeless and inimical mystery. The doctor said, You'll be safe there. Go in, capitas. 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. Monagham disregarding and 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 bang 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 albergote Taliouna, which he had never known so lightless, so silent before. The door, all black in the pale wall, stood open as he 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, and 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 capitas 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 OSN Company's building. The thought of the 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. Hola viejo, are you there? In the impenetrable darkness's 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. Hola 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 Leonine Whitehead of Old Giorgio against the black fireplace, 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 Whitehead in ghostly silence. Nostromo heard him stir and uttered 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 Giovan Battista? Si viejo. Stere, not so loud. After his release by Sotillo Giorgio Viola attended to the very door by the good-natured engineer-in-chief had re-entered 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 rung out by the pain as if a keen blade piercing his breast. The rest of the night he made no sound. The darkness turned to gray, and on the colorless 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 Harbor, 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 on the silenced voice of that woman. It was her voice that he missed. Abstracted, busy, lost in inward contemplation, he saw them 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 Jean-Baptiste, 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 allowed 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. Toward 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 reigned up there the house was as dumb as a grave. Then with the same faint rubbing noise he descended, he had to catch up the chairs and tables to regain his seat. He seized his pipe off the high mantle of the fireplace, 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 son of Pedrito's entry into Sulaco, the last son of Senor Hirsch's life, the first of de Cude's solitude on the Great Isabel, passed over the albergo de Taliouna on its way to the west. The tinkling drip, drip of the filter had ceased. The lamp upstairs had burned itself out, and the night beset Giorgio Viola and his dead wife, with its obscurity and silence that seemed invincible, till the capitas de Cargadores, returning from the dead, put them to flight with the splutter and flair of a match. Sibio, 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 Deku'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 Therese'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, Con 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 under 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 capitas. 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 capitas began to devour this beggar's fair, taking up with stony-eyed voracity, piece after piece, lying by his side, the Garibaldino went off and squatting down in another corner filled in earthenware mug with red wine, out of a wicker-covered dame-john. 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 capitas 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, Jean-Baptista, the capitas looked up. Did she do that by drone? To save the children. There with the English senora, their rich benefactress. Hey, old man of the people, thy benefactress. I am old, muttered Giorgio Viola. An English woman 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. See, I am old. May let her. Life lasts too long sometimes. As 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. 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 capitas, 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 Dekuud, and his thought came abruptly to an end. He perceived that he could not imagine in the least what Dekuud was likely to do. Old Viola had not stirred, and the motionless capitas dropped his long, soft eyelashes, which gave to the upper part of his fierce, black, whiskered face a touch of feminine ingeniousness. The silence had lasted for a long time. God rest her soul. He murmured gloomily. End of Chapter 9, Part 2. Part III. CHAPTER X. OF NOSTROMO. This is a LibriVox recording. Now LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Nostromo by Joseph Conrad. Part III. THE LIGHTHOUSE. CHAPTER X. PART I. 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, quote, historical events, end, quote. 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 the paratical 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 danger as 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, maid, sir, the man of the famous ride to Cata, sir, an historical event, sir. Regarded by the OSN 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 harbor, 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 marketplace with a gigantic shadow of Higurota was still lying upon the fruit and flower stalls piled up with masses of gorgeous coloring, attending easily to the 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 let his privileged old bachelor man about town existence with great comfort and solemnity, but on mailboat days he was down at the harbor 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 boughs between the harbor heads. It would be into the harbor 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 businessmen, don't you know? Into the Miliflores 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. Cavalliera Parochetti. You know, Parochetti, 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. A 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 tracked to our jetty. Nothing more. This is the harbor gate. Picturesque, is it not? Formerly, the town stopped short here. We enter now the Canada 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. Solaco 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 gulds of the original Gould concession that all the world knows of now. I hold 17 of the $1,000 shares in the consolidated Santome 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. 17 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 Pedrito's troops, who had just taken the harbor gate. They could not stand the new rifles brought out by that poor Deku. 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 center 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? Compaña Anzani, a great general store, like those cooperative 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 Garant 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 Ilaneros flying, the Nationals throwing their arms down, and the miners of the San Tome, all Indians from the Sierra, rolling by like a torrent to the sound of pipes and symbols, 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 Pepe 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 senior administrator. For Barrios, though he ordered the assault at once, at night, too, would have been too late. Petrito Montero had Don Carlos led out to be shot, like his uncle many years ago. And then, as Barrios said afterwards, Solaco would not have been worth fighting for. Solaco, 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 Roman, standing by to annihilate the Santome 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 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 isle, you see a bust of the Don José Avellanos, patriot in statesmen, as the inscription says, minister to courts of England and Spain, et cetera, et cetera, died in the woods of Las Jatos, worn out with his lifelong struggle for right injustice at the dawn of a new era. A fair likeness. Perochetti's work from some old photographs in a pencil sketch by Mrs. Gould, I was well acquainted with that distinguished Spanish-American of the old school, a true Hidalgo, beloved by everyone 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 mostromo on that fatal knight, sir. See, to the memory of Martín de Cú, 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 Dania Antonia is not the stuff they make nuns of. Bishop Corbelin, her uncle, lives with her in the Corbelin townhouse. He is a fierce sort of priest, everlastingly worrying the government about the old churchlands and convents. I believe they think a lot of him in Rome. Now let us go to the Amaria Club, just across the plaza, to get some lunch. Stay 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 Juiz de 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, camores, 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 compo. 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 Amaria. Observe the bishop at the foot of the stairs to the right as we go in. When 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 compo, sallow little nervous men, and fat, placent, swarthy men, and Europeans or North Americans of superior standing whose faces look 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 Amaria, sir. You won't meet anywhere in the world. We get the bean from a famous cafeteria in the Foothills whose owner sends three sacks every year as a present to his fellow members in remembrance of the fight against Scamachos 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 on the 3rd of May, we call it Tres de Mayo Coffee. Taste it. Captain Mitchell, 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 in 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 gray 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 crown 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 Monteres. He is a friend and humble servant of Bishop Corbelan. Here's 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 on his cigar in silence. Then, in his most important manner, pronounced, the Spanish racer 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 is never anyone there till after five. I could tell you episodes of the separationist revolution that would astonish you. When the great heats over, we'll take a turn on the Alameda. The program 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 to formality. Then, with animation, Donia 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. The 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. Monaham, Inspector of State Hospitals, Chief Medical Officer of the Consolidated San Tome Mies. 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 checked 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 Sotio, 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 guilt on the top, Cavalliere Parochetti was asked to make a design, which you can see framed under glass in the municipal salla. Names are to be engraved all around 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, as it kept to Mitchell, has got less than many others by it when it comes to that. He dropped onto 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 Cata for a time, and come back to help here by sea. The transports were still in harbor, fortunately. Sir, I did not even know that my capitas de Cargadores was alive. I had no idea. It was Dr. Moneham who came upon him by chance in the custom house, evacuated an hour or two before by the wretched Sotio. I was never told, never given a hint, nothing, as if I were unworthy of confidence. Moneham arranged it all. He went to the railway yards and got admission to the engineer-in-chief, who, for the sake of the ghouls as much as for anything else, consented to let an engine make a dash down the line, 180 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 marvelous ride, 400 miles in six days through a disturbed country, ending by the feet of passing through the Monteras lines outside Cata. 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 5th of May, being practically a prisoner in the harbor 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 onto 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 violas in. Check, almost to a standstill. I made out, sir, a man. I couldn't tell who. Dash out of the albergo d'italiana una, climb into the cab, and then, sir, that engine seemed positively to leap clear of the house, and then 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. The stromo had his start. The rest, you know. You've only got to look around you. There are people on this elevator that ride in their carriages, or are even alive at all today, 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 17th of May, just 12 days after I saw the man from the Casaviala get on the engine and wondered what it meant, Bariosis transports were entering this harbor, and the treasure house of the world, as the Times Man calls Sulaco in his book, was saved in tact for civilization. For a great future, sir. Pedrito, with Hernandez on the west and the Santome miners pressing on the land gate, was not able to oppose the landing. He had been sending messages to Sotio for a week to join him. Had Sotio done so, there would have been massacres in prescription that would have left no man or woman of position alive. But that's where Dr. Monaham comes in. Sotio, 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 harbor. 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. Monaham, whom he had on board, at the end of the after-derrick, when the first of Barrios' 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 completeest surprise in the world, sir. They were too astounded at first to bolt below. Men were falling right and left like nine pins. It's a miracle that Monaham, 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 Esmerelda regiment, standing by, unsheathed his sword with a shriek, died perjured traitor, and ran Sotillo clean through his body, just before he fell himself shot through the head. Captain Mitchell stopped for a while. Be gad, sir, I could spin you a yarn for hours, but it's time we started off to rincone. It would not do for you to pass through Solaco and not see the lights of the Santome 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 in pursuit of Pedrito away south, when the Provincial Junta, with Don Justa 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, with a 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 capitas 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 lips, but I have observed him several days loafing about the wharf, and just now he stopped me 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 stretch the point, I said, very gently. Why, yes, but it's a confounded nuisance, the fellow's everlastingly caging for smokes. Sir, I turned my eyes away, and then asked, weren't you one of those prisoners in the Cabildo? You know very well I was, and in chains, too, says he. And under fine of fifteen thousand dollars? He colored, 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 saw the point. Not he. And that's how the world wags, sir. He rose a little stiffly, and the drive to Rincón would be taken with only one philosophical remark, uttered by the merciless Ciceroan, with the eyes fixed upon the lights of Santomi, that seemed suspended in the dark night between earth and heaven. A great power this, for good and evil, sir. A great power. CHAPTER II And the dinner of the merely flores would be eaten excellent as to cooking, and leaving upon the traveller's mind an impression that there were in Solaco 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 harbor in a two-wheeled machine, which Captain Mitchell called a curicle, behind a fleet in scraggy mule, beaten all the time by an obviously neapolitan driver, the cycle would be nearly closed before the lighted-up offices of the OSN company, remaining open so late because of the steamer, nearly, but not quite. 10 o'clock. Your ship won't be ready to leave till half-past 12, 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 series, or Juno, or Palace, 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 harbor, 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 amarylla 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 de Guerrillero, a raid 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 in sleep with resolutely open eyes and a faint but amiable curl upon his lips, from between which stuck out the 18th or 20th cigar of that memorable day. He appeared to me in this very room like a haunting ghost, sir. Captain Mitchell was talking of his nastromo 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 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 Dona Antonia had heard yet of Deku's death. His voice trembled. I had to tell him Dona Antonia, as a matter of fact, was not back in town yet. Poor girl! And just as I was ready to ask him a thousand questions, with a sudden, pardon me, senor, 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 wanted about in and out of town, and on two nights turned up to sleep in the batter-coons 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 their cargadores presently. Senor, 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 could 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. See, see, 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 a rather cold man. He had to keep a tight hand on his feelings, dealing with thieves and rascals and 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 Solaco 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 skoner 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 the seaboard, sir. Moreover, that man always succeeded in everything except in saving the silver. Poor Donia Antonia, fresh from her terrible experiences in the wood of Los Hatos, had an interview with him, too. Wanted to hear about D'Cou, 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 D'Cou 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 birth, forgot to ask himself, what an earth D'Cou'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 D'Cou, floating empty far out in the gulf. He was then on the bridge of the first of Barrios's transports, and within an hour steaming from Sulaco. Barrios, always delighted with a feat of daring and a good judge of courage, had taken a great liking to the Capitas. During the passage around 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, brought on the bow, the tiny, elusive dark speck, which, along with the forms of the three Isabel's 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 D'Cou had been insistently present for days, had long before recognized with excitement the dingy 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 a finish line of an ocean race, pressed on, all black and smoking in the western sky. Me, 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. Por Dios, gaffa de barrios, in a noisy, good-humored 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, me 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, banded the general, jovially, without even looking at him. Let him go! He wants me to admit that we cannot take Sulaco without him. Would you like to swim off to her, my son? Nostromo had leapt overboard, and his black head bobbed up far away already from the ship. The general muttered and appalled, Cielo, sinner that I am, in a thunderstruck tone. One anxious glance was enough to show 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 madcapotize. 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 leapt 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 capotize 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 era of friendly contest, of nautical sport, of a regatta, and the united smoke of their funnels drove like a thin, sulfurous fog bank 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 skillful effort he clambered over the stern. The very boat, no doubt of it, no doubt whatsoever. It was the dinghy of the lighter number three. The dinghy left with Martin de Coup 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 de Coup? The capotize made a minute examination. He looked for some scratch, for some mark, for some sign. All he discovered was a brown stain on the gun-whale 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 as slant, streaming from head to foot, with his hair and whiskers hanging lank and dripping and a lusterless stare fixed upon the bottom boards. The capotize of the Sulaco Cargadoras resembled the drowned corpse come up from the bottom to idle away the sunset hour in the small boat. The excitement of his adventurous ride, the excitement of the return in time, of achievement, of success. All this excitement centered round the associated ideas of the great treasure and of the only other man who knew of its existence had departed from it. To the very last moment he had been cuddling his brains as to how he could manage to visit the Great Isabel without loss of time and undetected it. For the idea of secrecy had come to be connected with the treasure so closely that even to Barrios himself he had refrained it from mentioning the existence of de Coup 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, senting battle from afar, had not wasted his time in making inquiries from the messenger. In fact, Barrios, talking with Nostromo, assumed that both Don Martín de Coup and the ingots of the Santome were lost together, and Nostromo, not questioned directly, had kept silent under the influence of some indefinable form of resentment and distrust. Let Don Martín 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 that 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 Capitas 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 Capitas 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 met her do 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. Deku 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. They were all alike in their folly, these hombres finos that invented laws and governments and barren tasks for the people. The Capitas picked up the spade, and with the feel of the handle in his palm the desire of having a look at 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 a rational 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, foregone, taken away, four ingots. But who? Deku? 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 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 capitas 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-allowed. He will never come back to explain. 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 Isabelles. 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 de Coup never became a subject of speculation for anyone 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 Cusquan arrow 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 seabirds of the gulf shunned the Isabelles. The rocky head of Azuara is their haunt, whose stony levels and chasms resound with their wild and tumultuous clamor as if they were forever quarreling over the legendary treasure. At the end of his first day on the Great Isabelle, D'Cou, 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 in 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 in 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 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, Soudaku, 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 skepticism 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, Taku 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. Taku 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 gibbering and obscene specters. 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 sale, appeared within the range of his vision. And as if to escape from his 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 skeptical mind. He beheld the universe as a succession of incomprehensible images. Nostroma 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, with 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 Nostroma, 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 right. 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 it round his waist. The cord of silence could never snap on the island. It must let him fall in sink into the sea, he thought. In 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 slid 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 skulls 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 tonight, 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 the capitas died. The stiffness of his 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 de Cou, weighted by the bars of the Santome Silver, disappeared without a trace, swallowed up in the immense indifference of things. His sleepless, crouching figure was gone from the side of the Santome 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 awaken the narrow black gully all through the night, and nearly the same pose, in the same place in which had sat the other sleepless man who had gone away forever 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 Santome was provided now with a faithful and lifelong slave. The magnificent Capitas 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 de Cou, his companion in the most desperate affair of his life. And he wondered how de Cou had died. But he knew the part he had played himself. First a woman, then a man, abandoned both 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 John Batista Fidanza, Capitas 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. De Cou 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 de Cou 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. Ha! He murmured with his head and 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 Santo May Mine, which appeared to him hateful and immense, lording it by its vast wealth over the valor, the toil, the fidelity of the poor, overworn peace, over the labors of the town, the sea, and the campo. The sun lit up the sky behind the peaks of the Cordillera. The capitas 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. End of Part 3 The Lighthouse, Chapter 10, Part 2, Recording by Steve Rousel