The Rescue (43 page)

Jorgenson, with his hands deep in the pockets of his tunic, listened,
looking down. Jaffir showed as much consternation as his nature was
capable of.

"Our refuge is with God," he murmured. "But what is to be done? Has your
wisdom no stratagem, O Tuan?"

Jorgenson did not answer. It appeared as though he had no stratagem. But
God is great and Jaffir waited on the other's immobility, anxious but
patient, perplexed yet hopeful in his grim way, while the night flowing
on from the dark forest near by hid their two figures from the sight
of observing men. Before the silence of Jorgenson Jaffir began to talk
practically. Now that Tengga had thrown off the mask Jaffir did not
think that he could land on the beach without being attacked, captured,
nay killed, since a man like he, though he could save himself by taking
flight at the order of his master, could not be expected to surrender
without a fight. He mentioned that in the exercise of his important
functions he knew how to glide like a shadow, creep like a snake, and
almost burrow his way underground. He was Jaffir who had never been
foiled. No bog, morass, great river or jungle could stop him. He would
have welcomed them. In many respects they were the friends of a crafty
messenger. But that was an open beach, and there was no other way, and
as things stood now every bush around, every tree trunk, every deep
shadow of house or fence would conceal Tengga's men or such of Daman's
infuriated partisans as had already made their way to the Settlement.
How could he hope to traverse the distance between the water's edge
and Belarab's gate which now would remain shut night and day? Not only
himself but anybody from the Emma would be sure to be rushed upon and
speared in twenty places.

He reflected for a moment in silence.

"Even you, Tuan, could not accomplish the feat."

"True," muttered Jorgenson.

When, after a period of meditation, he looked round, Jaffir was no
longer by his side. He had descended from the high place and was
probably squatting on his heels in some dark nook on the fore deck.
Jorgenson knew Jaffir too well to suppose that he would go to sleep.
He would sit there thinking himself into a state of fury, then get away
from the Emma in some way or other, go ashore and perish fighting. He
would, in fact, run amok; for it looked as if there could be no way out
of the situation. Then, of course, Lingard would know nothing of Hassim
and Immada's captivity for the ring would never reach him—the ring that
could tell its own tale. No, Lingard would know nothing. He would know
nothing about anybody outside Belarab's stockade till the end came,
whatever the end might be, for all those people that lived the life of
men. Whether to know or not to know would be good for Lingard Jorgenson
could not tell. He admitted to himself that here there was something
that he, Jorgenson, could not tell. All the possibilities were wrapped
up in doubt, uncertain, like all things pertaining to the life of men.
It was only when giving a short thought to himself that Jorgenson had no
doubt. He, of course, would know what to do.

On the thin face of that old adventurer hidden in the night not a
feature moved, not a muscle twitched, as he descended in his turn and
walked aft along the decks of the Emma. His faded eyes, which had seen
so much, did not attempt to explore the night, they never gave a glance
to the silent watchers against whom he brushed. Had a light been flashed
on him suddenly he would have appeared like a man walking in his sleep:
the somnambulist of an eternal dream. Mrs. Travers heard his footsteps
pass along the side of the deckhouse. She heard them—and let her head
fall again on her bare arms thrown over the little desk before which she
sat.

Jorgenson, standing by the taffrail, noted the faint reddish glow in the
massive blackness of the further shore. Jorgenson noted things quickly,
cursorily, perfunctorily, as phenomena unrelated to his own apparitional
existence of a visiting ghost. They were but passages in the game of men
who were still playing at life. He knew too well how much that game was
worth to be concerned about its course. He had given up the habit
of thinking for so long that the sudden resumption of it irked him
exceedingly, especially as he had to think on toward a conclusion. In
that world of eternal oblivion, of which he had tasted before Lingard
made him step back into the life of men, all things were settled
once for all. He was irritated by his own perplexity which was like a
reminder of that mortality made up of questions and passions from which
he had fancied he had freed himself forever. By a natural association
his contemptuous annoyance embraced the existence of Mrs. Travers, too,
for how could he think of Tom Lingard, of what was good or bad for King
Tom, without thinking also of that woman who had managed to put the
ghost of a spark even into his own extinguished eyes? She was of no
account; but Tom's integrity was. It was of Tom that he had to think, of
what was good or bad for Tom in that absurd and deadly game of his life.
Finally he reached the conclusion that to be given the ring would be
good for Tom Lingard. Just to be given the ring and no more. The ring
and no more.

"It will help him to make up his mind," muttered Jorgenson in his
moustache, as if compelled by an obscure conviction. It was only then
that he stirred slightly and turned away from the loom of the fires on
the distant shore. Mrs. Travers heard his footsteps passing again along
the side of the deckhouse—and this time never raised her head. That
man was sleepless, mad, childish, and inflexible. He was impossible. He
haunted the decks of that hulk aimlessly. . . .

It was, however, in pursuance of a very distinct aim that Jorgenson had
gone forward again to seek Jaffir.

The first remark he had to offer to Jaffir's consideration was that
the only person in the world who had the remotest chance of reaching
Belarab's gate on that night was that tall white woman the Rajah Laut
had brought on board, the wife of one of the captive white chiefs.
Surprise made Jaffir exclaim, but he wasn't prepared to deny that. It
was possible that for many reasons, some quite simple and others very
subtle, those sons of the Evil One belonging to Tengga and Daman would
refrain from killing a white woman walking alone from the water's
edge to Belarab's gate. Yes, it was just possible that she might walk
unharmed.

"Especially if she carried a blazing torch," muttered Jorgenson in his
moustache. He told Jaffir that she was sitting now in the dark, mourning
silently in the manner of white women. She had made a great outcry in
the morning to be allowed to join the white men on shore. He, Jorgenson,
had refused her the canoe. Ever since she had secluded herself in the
deckhouse in great distress.

Jaffir listened to it all without particular sympathy. And when
Jorgenson added, "It is in my mind, O Jaffir, to let her have her will
now," he answered by a "Yes, by Allah! let her go. What does it matter?"
of the greatest unconcern, till Jorgenson added:

"Yes. And she may carry the ring to the Rajah Laut."

Jorgenson saw Jaffir, the grim and impassive Jaffir, give a perceptible
start. It seemed at first an impossible task to persuade Jaffir to part
with the ring. The notion was too monstrous to enter his mind, to move
his heart. But at last he surrendered in an awed whisper, "God is great.
Perhaps it is her destiny."

Being a Wajo man he did not regard women as untrustworthy or unequal
to a task requiring courage and judgment. Once he got over the personal
feeling he handed the ring to Jorgenson with only one reservation, "You
know, Tuan, that she must on no account put it on her finger."

"Let her hang it round her neck," suggested Jorgenson, readily.

As Jorgenson moved toward the deckhouse it occurred to him that perhaps
now that woman Tom Lingard had taken in tow might take it into her head
to refuse to leave the Emma. This did not disturb him very much. All
those people moved in the dark. He himself at that particular moment was
moving in the dark. Beyond the simple wish to guide Lingard's thought in
the direction of Hassim and Immada, to help him to make up his mind at
last to a ruthless fidelity to his purpose Jorgenson had no other aim.
The existence of those whites had no meaning on earth. They were the
sort of people that pass without leaving footprints. That woman would
have to act in ignorance. And if she refused to go then in ignorance she
would have to stay on board. He would tell her nothing.

As a matter of fact, he discovered that Mrs. Travers would simply have
nothing to do with him. She would not listen to what he had to say. She
desired him, a mere weary voice confined in the darkness of the deck
cabin, to go away and trouble her no more. But the ghost of Jorgenson
was not easily exorcised. He, too, was a mere voice in the outer
darkness, inexorable, insisting that she should come out on deck and
listen. At last he found the right words to say.

"It is something about Tom that I want to tell you. You wish him well,
don't you?"

After this she could not refuse to come out on deck, and once there she
listened patiently to that white ghost muttering and mumbling above her
drooping head.

"It seems to me, Captain Jorgenson," she said after he had ceased,
"that you are simply trifling with me. After your behaviour to me this
morning, I can have nothing to say to you."

"I have a canoe for you now," mumbled Jorgenson.

"You have some new purpose in view now," retorted Mrs. Travers with
spirit. "But you won't make it clear to me. What is it that you have in
your mind?"

"Tom's interest."

"Are you really his friend?"

"He brought me here. You know it. He has talked a lot to you."

"He did. But I ask myself whether you are capable of being anybody's
friend."

"You ask yourself!" repeated Jorgenson, very quiet and morose. "If I am
not his friend I should like to know who is."

Mrs. Travers asked, quickly: "What's all this about a ring? What ring?"

"Tom's property. He has had it for years."

"And he gave it to you? Doesn't he care for it?"

"Don't know. It's just a thing."

"But it has a meaning as between you and him. Is that so?"

"Yes. It has. He will know what it means."

"What does it mean?"

"I am too much his friend not to hold my tongue."

"What! To me!"

"And who are you?" was Jorgenson's unexpected remark. "He has told you
too much already."

"Perhaps he has," whispered Mrs. Travers, as if to herself. "And you
want that ring to be taken to him?" she asked, in a louder tone.

"Yes. At once. For his good."

"Are you certain it is for his good? Why can't you. . . ."

She checked herself. That man was hopeless. He would never tell
anything and there was no means of compelling him. He was invulnerable,
unapproachable. . . . He was dead.

"Just give it to him," mumbled Jorgenson as though pursuing a mere fixed
idea. "Just slip it quietly into his hand. He will understand."

"What is it? Advice, warning, signal for action?"

"It may be anything," uttered Jorgenson, morosely, but as it were in a
mollified tone. "It's meant for his good."

"Oh, if I only could trust that man!" mused Mrs. Travers, half aloud.

Jorgenson's slight noise in the throat might have been taken for an
expression of sympathy. But he remained silent.

"Really, this is most extraordinary!" cried Mrs. Travers, suddenly
aroused. "Why did you come to me? Why should it be my task? Why should
you want me specially to take it to him?"

"I will tell you why," said Jorgenson's blank voice. "It's because there
is no one on board this hulk that can hope to get alive inside that
stockade. This morning you told me yourself that you were ready to
die—for Tom—or with Tom. Well, risk it then. You are the only one that
has half a chance to get through—and Tom, maybe, is waiting."

"The only one," repeated Mrs. Travers with an abrupt movement forward
and an extended hand before which Jorgenson stepped back a pace. "Risk
it! Certainly! Where's that mysterious ring?"

"I have got it in my pocket," said Jorgenson, readily; yet nearly half
a minute elapsed before Mrs. Travers felt the characteristic shape being
pressed into her half-open palm. "Don't let anybody see it," Jorgenson
admonished her in a murmur. "Hide it somewhere about you. Why not hang
it round your neck?"

Mrs. Travers' hand remained firmly closed on the ring. "Yes, that will
do," she murmured, hastily. "I'll be back in a moment. Get everything
ready." With those words she disappeared inside the deckhouse and
presently threads of light appeared in the interstices of the boards.
Mrs. Travers had lighted a candle in there. She was busy hanging that
ring round her neck. She was going. Yes—taking the risk for Tom's sake.

"Nobody can resist that man," Jorgenson muttered to himself with
increasing moroseness. "
I
couldn't."

Jorgenson, after seeing the canoe leave the ship's side, ceased to live
intellectually. There was no need for more thinking, for any display
of mental ingenuity. He had done with it all. All his notions were
perfectly fixed and he could go over them in the same ghostly way in
which he haunted the deck of the Emma. At the sight of the ring Lingard
would return to Hassim and Immada, now captives, too, though Jorgenson
certainly did not think them in any serious danger. What had happened
really was that Tengga was now holding hostages, and those Jorgenson
looked upon as Lingard's own people. They were his. He had gone in with
them deep, very deep. They had a hold and a claim on King Tom just as
many years ago people of that very race had had a hold and a claim
on him, Jorgenson. Only Tom was a much bigger man. A very big man.
Nevertheless, Jorgenson didn't see why he should escape his own
fate—Jorgenson's fate—to be absorbed, captured, made their own either
in failure or in success. It was an unavoidable fatality and Jorgenson
felt certain that the ring would compel Lingard to face it without
flinching. What he really wanted Lingard to do was to cease to take the
slightest interest in those whites—who were the sort of people that
left no footprints.