menu_book Chapter 15

CHAPTER VI. The affair of the Brig Benito was bound to cause a sensation in Macassar, the prettiest and perhaps the cleanest-looking of all the towns in the islands, which, however, knows few occasions for excitement. The Front, with its special population, was soon aware that something had happened.

A steamer towing a sailing vessel had been observed far out to sea for some time, and when the steamer came in alone, leaving the other outside, attention was aroused. Why was that? Her masts only could be seen, with furled sails remaining in the same place to the southward. And soon the rumour ran all along the crowded seashore street that there was a ship on Tamissa

Reef. That crowd interpreted the appearance correctly. Its cause was beyond their penetration, for who could associate a girl, nine hundred miles away, with the stranding of a ship on Tamissa Reef? Or look for the remote filiation of that event in the psychology of at least three people,

even if one of them, Lieutenant Hiemskirk, was at that very moment passing amongst them on his way to make his verbal report? No, the minds of the Front were not competent for that sort of investigation. But many hands there, brown hands, yellow hands, white hands, were raised to shade the eyes gazing out to sea.

The rumour spread quickly. Chinese shopkeepers came to their doors. More than one white merchant even rose from his desk to go to the window. After all, a ship on Tamissa was not an everyday occurrence, and presently the rumour took a more definite shape.

An English trader detained on suspicion at sea by the Neptune, Hiemskirk was towing him in to test a case, and by some strange accident. Later on the name came out. The Benito? What?

Impossible! Yes, yes, the Benito. Look, you can see from here. Only two masts. It's a brig.

Didn't think that man would ever let himself be caught. Hiemskirk's pretty smart too. They say she's fitted out her cabin like a gentleman's yacht. That Alan is a sort of gentleman too, an extravagant beggar. The young man entered smartly Mrs Messman's brother's office on the front, bubbling with

some further information. Ah yes, that's the Benito for certain. But you don't know the story I've heard just now. The fellow must have been feeding that river with firearms for the last year or two. Well, it seems he has grown so reckless from long impunity that he is actually dead to

sell the very ship's rifles this time. It's a fact. The rifles were not on board. What impudence! Only, he didn't know that there was one of our warships on the coast.

But those Englishmen are so impudent that perhaps he thought that nothing would be done to him for it. Our courts do not let off these fellows too often on some miserable excuse or other, but at any rate, there's an end of the famous Benito. I've just heard in the harbour office that she must have gone on at the very top of high

water and she's embalsed too. No human power, they think, can move her from where she is. I only hope it is so. It would be fine to have the notorious Benito stuck up there as a warning to others. Mr J. Mesman, a colonial-born Dutchman, a kind paternal old fellow with a clean-shaven,

quiet, handsome face and a head of fine iron-grey hair curling a little on his collar, did not say a word in defence of Jasper and the Benito. He rose from his armchair suddenly. His face was visibly troubled. It had so happened that once, from a business talk of ways and means, island trade, money

matters and so on, Jasper had been led to open himself to him on the subject of Freyja. And the excellent man, who had known old Nelson years before and even remembered something of Freyja, was much astonished and amused by the unfolding of the tale. Well, well, well, Nelson, yes, of course, a very honest sort of man and a little child with very fair hair.

Oh yes, I have a distinct recollection. And so she has grown into such a fine girl, so very determined, so very— And he laughed almost boisterously. Mind, when you have happily eloped with your future wife, Captain Allen, you must come along this way and we shall welcome her here.

A little fair-haired child. I remember, I remember. It was that knowledge which had brought trouble to his face at the first news of the wreck. He took up his hat. Where are you going, Mr Messman?

I'm going to look for Allen. I think he must be ashore. Does anybody know? But none of those present knew, and Mr Messman went out on the front to make inquiries. The other part of the town, the part near the church and the fort, got its information

in another way. The first thing disclosed to it was Jasper himself, walking rapidly as though he were pursued. And as a matter of fact, a Chinaman, obviously a Sampan man, was following him at the same headlong pace.

Suddenly, while passing Orange House, Jasper swerved and went in, or rather rushed in, startling Gomez, the hotel clerk, very much. But a Chinaman, beginning to make an unseemly noise at the door, claimed the immediate attention of Gomez. His grievance was that the white man whom he had brought on shore from the gunboat had

not paid him his boat fare. He had pursued him so far, asking for it all the way. But the white man had taken no notice whatever of his just claim. Gomez satisfied the coolie with a few coppers, and then went to look for Jasper, whom he knew very well.

He found him standing stiffly by a little round table. At the other end of the veranda a few men, sitting there, had stopped talking and were looking at him in silence. Two billiard players with cues in their hands had come to the door of the billiard table and stared too.

On Gomez coming up to him, Jasper raised one hand to point at his own throat. Gomez noted the somewhat soiled state of his white clothes, then took one look at his face, and fled away to order the drink for which Jasper seemed to be asking. Where he wanted to go, on what purpose, where he perhaps only imagined himself to be going, when a sudden impulse or the sight of a familiar place had made him turn into Orange House,

it is impossible to say. He was steadying himself lightly with the tips of his fingers on the little table. There were on that veranda two men whom he knew well personally, but his gaze roaming incessantly as though he were looking for a way of escape, passed and repassed over them without a sign of recognition.

They on their side, looking at him, doubted the evidence of their own eyes. It was not that his face was distorted. On the contrary, it was still. It was set. But its expression, somehow, was unrecognizable.

Can that be him, they wondered, with awe? In his head there was a wild chaos of clear thoughts, perfectly clear. It was this clearness which was so terrible, in conjunction with the utter inability to lay hold of any single one of them all. He was saying to himself, or to them, steady, steady.

A china boy appeared before him with a glass on a tray. He poured the drink down his throat and rushed out. His disappearance removed the spell of wonder from the beholders. One of the men jumped up and moved quickly to that side of the veranda from which almost the whole of the road-stead could be seen.

At the very moment when Jasper, issuing from the door of the orange house, was passing under him in the street below, he cried to the others excitedly, That was all unright enough, but where is his brig? Jasper heard these words with extraordinary loudness. The heavens rang with him, as if calling him to account, for those with the very words

Freya would have to use. It was an annihilating question that struck his consciousness like a thunderbolt and brought a sudden night upon the chaos of his thoughts even as he walked. He did not check his pace. He went on in the darkness for another three sides and then fell.

The good messman had to push on as far as the hospital before he found him. The doctor there talked of a slight heat stroke, nothing very much, out in three days. It must be admitted that the doctor was right. In three days Jasper Allen came out of the hospital and became visible to the town, very visible indeed, and remains so for quite a long time.

Long enough to become almost one of the sights of the place. Long enough to become disregarded at last. Long enough for the tale of his haunting visibility to be remembered in the islands to this day. The talk of the front and Jasper's appearance in the orange house stand at the beginning of the famous Benito case and give a view of its two aspects, the practical and the

psychological. The case for the courts and the case for compassion, that last terribly evident and yet obscure. It has, you must understand, remained obscure, even for that friend of mine who wrote me the letter mentioned in the very first lines of this narrative. He was one of those in Mr Messman's office and accompanied that gentleman in his search

for Jasper. His letter described to me the two aspects and some of the episodes of the case. Eames Kirk's attitude was that of deep thankfulness for not having lost his own ship, and that was all. Hayes over the land was his explanation of having got so close to Temeza Reef.

He saved his ship and for the rest he did not care. As to the fat gunner, he deposed simply that he thought at the time that he was acting for the best by letting go the tow rope, but admitted that he was greatly confused by the suddenness of the emergency. As a matter of fact, he had acted on very precise instructions from Eames Kirk, to whom,

through several years of service together in the East, he had become a sort of devoted henchman. What was most amazing in the detention of the Benito was his story how, proceeding to take possession of the firearms as ordered, he discovered that there were no firearms on board.

All he found in the forecabin was an empty rack for the proper number of eighteen rifles, but of the rifles themselves never a single one anywhere in the ship. The mate of the brig, who looked rather ill and behaved excitedly, as though he were perhaps a lunatic, wanted him to believe that Captain Allen knew nothing of this, that it was he, the mate, who had recently sold these rifles in the dead of night to a certain person up

the river. In proof of this story, he produced a bag of silver dollars and pressed it on his, the gunner's, acceptance. Then, suddenly flinging it down on the deck, he beat his own head with both his fists and started heaping shocking curses upon his own soul for an ungrateful wretch not fit to live.

For this the gunner reported at once to his commanding officer. What Eames Kirk intended by taking upon himself to detain the Benito, it is difficult to say, except that he meant to bring some trouble into the life of the man favoured by Freya. He had been looking at Jasper with the desire to strike that man of kisses and embraces to the earth.

The question was, how could he do it without giving himself away? But the report of the gunner created a serious case enough. Yet Allen had friends, and who could tell whether he wouldn't somehow succeed in wriggling out of it? The idea of simply towing the brig so much compromised onto the reef came to him while

he was listening to the fat gunner in his cabin. There was but little risk of being disapproved now, and it should be made to appear an accident. Going out on deck he had gloated upon his unconscious victim with such a sinister roll of his eyes, such a queerly pursed mouth, that Jasper could not help smiling. And the lieutenant had gone on the bridge, saying to himself,

You wait, I shall spoil the taste of those sweet kisses for you. When you hear of Lieutenant Eames Kirk in the future, that name won't bring a smile on your lips, I swear. You are delivered into my hands. And this possibility had come about without any planning, one could almost say, naturally,

as if events had mysteriously shaped themselves to fit the purposes of a dark passion. The most astute scheming could not have served Eames Kirk better. It was given to him to taste a transcendental, an incredible perfection of vengeance, to strike a deadly blow into that hated person's heart, and to watch him afterwards, walking about with a dagger in his breast.

For that is what the state of Jasper amounted to. He moved, acted, weary-eyed, keen-faced, lank and restless, with brusque movements and fierce gestures. He talked incessantly in a frenzied and fatigued voice, but within himself he knew that nothing would ever give him back the brig, just as nothing can heal a pierced heart.

His soul, kept quiet in the stress of love by the unflinching frayers' influence, was like a still but overwhelmed string. The shock had started it vibrating, and the string had snapped. He had waited for two years, in a perfectly intoxicated confidence, for a day that now would never come, to a man disarmed for life by the loss of the brig, and it seemed to

him made unfit for love, to which he had no foothold to offer. Day after day he would traverse the length of the town, follow the coast, and, reaching the point of land opposite that part of the reef on which his brig lay stranded, look steadily across the water at her beloved form, once the home of an exulting hope, and now in her inclined, desolated immobility, towering above the lonely sea-horizon, a symbol of

despair. The crew had left her in due course, and in her own boats, which directly they reached the town, were sequestrated by the harbour authorities. The vessel too was sequestrated, pending proceedings, but these same authorities did not take the trouble to set a guard on board.

For indeed, what could move her from there? Nothing unless a miracle, nothing unless just spazars, fastened on her tensely for hours together, as though he hoped by the mere power of vision to draw her to his breast. All this story, read in my friend's very chatty letter, dismayed me not a little. But it was really appalling to read his relation of how Schultz, the mate, went about everywhere,

affirming with desperate pertinacity that it was he alone who had sold the rifles. I stole them, he protested. Of course no one would believe him. My friend himself did not believe him, though he, of course, admired this self-sacrifice. But a good many people thought it was going too far to make oneself out a thief for the

sake of a friend. It was such an obvious lie, too, that it did not matter, perhaps. I, who in view of Schultz's psychology knew how true that must be, admit that I was appalled. So this was how a perfidious destiny took advantage of a generous impulse. And I felt as though I were an accomplice in this perfidy, since I did, to a certain

extent, encourage Jasper. Yet I had warned him as well. The man seemed to have gone crazy on this point, wrote my friend. He went to Mesman with his story. He says that some rascally white man living amongst the natives up that river made him

drunk with some gin one evening, and then jeered at him for never having any money. Then he, protesting to us that he was an honest man and must be believed, described himself as being a thief whenever he took a drop too much, and told us that he went on board and passed the rifles one by one without the slightest compunction to a canoe which came alongside that night, receiving ten dollars apiece for them.

Next day he was ill with shame and grief, but had not the courage to confess his lapse to his benefactor. When the gunboat stopped the brig, he felt ready to die with the apprehension of the consequences, and would have died happily if he could have been able to bring the rifles back by the sacrifices of his life.

He said nothing to Jasper, hoping that the brig would be released presently. When it turned out otherwise, and his captain was detained on board the gunboat, he was ready to commit suicide from despair, only he thought it his duty to live in order to let the truth be known. I am an honest man, I am an honest man, he repeated, in a voice that brought tears to

our eyes. You must believe me when I tell you that I am a thief, a vile, low, cunning, sneaking thief as soon as I've had a glass or two. Take me somewhere where I may tell the truth on oath. When we had at last convinced him that his story could be of no use to Jasper, for what

Dutch court, having once got hold of an English trader, would accept such an explanation, and indeed how, when, where, could one hope to find proofs of such a tale? He made as if to tear his hair in handfuls, but calming down, said, Good-bye then, gentlemen, and went out of the room, so crushed that he seemed hardly able to put one foot before the other.

That very night he committed suicide by cutting his throat in the house of a half-caste with whom he had been lodging since he came ashore from the wreck. That throat, I thought, with a shudder, which could produce the tender, persuasive, manly, but fascinating voice which had aroused Jasper's ready compassion and had secured Freya's sympathy.

Who could ever have supposed such an end in store for the impossible gentle Schultz, with of naïve pilfering, so absurdly straightforward that even in the people who had suffered from it had aroused nothing more than a sort of amused exasperation. He was really impossible. His lot, evidently, should have been a half-starved, mysterious, but by no means tragic existence,

as a mild-eyed, inoffensive beachcomber on the fringe of native life. There are occasions when the irony of fate, which some people profess to discover in the working out of our lives, wears the aspect of crude and savage jesting. I shook my head over the mayonnaise of Schultz and went on with my friend's letter. It told me how the brig on the reef, looted by the natives from the coast villages, acquired

gradually the lamentable aspect, the grey ghastliness of a wreck, while Jasper, fading daily into a mere shadow of a man, strode brusquely all along the front with horribly lively eyes and a faint, fixed smile on his lips, to spend the day on a lonely spit of sand looking eagerly at her, as though he had expected some shape on board to rise up and make some sort of sign to him over the decaying bulwarks.

The mesmines were taking care of him as far as it was possible. The Benito case had been referred to Batavia, where no doubt it would fade away in a fog of official papers. It was heart-rending to read all this. That active and zealous officer, Lieutenant Heemskirk, his air of sullen, duckly pained

self-importance not lightened by the approval of his action conveyed to him unofficially, had gone on to take up his station in the Moluccas. Then, at the end of the bulky, kindly-meant epistle, dealing with the island news of half a year at least, my friend wrote, A couple of months ago, old Nelson turned up here, arriving by the mailboat from Java.

Came to see Mesman, it seems. A rather mysterious visit, and extraordinarily short after coming all that way. He stayed just four days at the Orange House, with apparently nothing in particular to do, and then caught the south-going steamer for the Straits. I remember people saying at one time that Alan was rather sweet on old Nelson's daughter,

the girl that was brought up by Mrs Harley and then went to live with him at the Seven Isles group. Surely you remember old Nelson? Remember old Nelson, rather. The letter went on to inform me further that old Nelson at least remembered me, since some

time after his flying visit to Macassar he had written to the Mesmans asking for my address in London. That old Nelson, or Nielsen, the note of whose personality was a profound, echo-less, irresponsiveness to everything around him, should wish to write, or find anything to write about to anybody, was in itself a cause for no small wonder.

And to me, of all people. I waited with uneasy impatience for whatever disclosure could come from that naturally benighted intelligence, but my impatience had time to wear out before my eyes beheld old Nelson's trembling, painfully formed handwriting, senile and childish at the same time, on an envelope bearing a penny stamp and the postal mark of the Notting Hill office.

I delayed opening it in order to pay the tribute of astonishment due to the event by flinging my hands above my head. So he had come home to England, to be definitely Nelson, or else was on his way home to Denmark where he would revert forever to his original Nielsen. But old Nelson, or Nielsen, out of the tropics seemed unthinkable, and yet he was there asking

me to call. His address was at a boarding-house in one of those bays-alter squares, once of leisure, which nowadays are reduced to earning their living. Somebody had recommended him there. I started to call on him on one of those January days in London, one of those wintry days composed

of the four devilish elements, cold, wet, mud and grime, combined with a particular stickiness of atmosphere that clings like an unclean garment to one's very soul. Yet on approaching his abode I saw, like a flicker far behind the soiled veil of the four elements, the wearisome and splendid glitter of a blue sea, with the seven eyelids like minute specks swimming in my eye, the high red roof of the bungalow crowning the

very smallest of them all. This visual reminiscence was profoundly disturbing. I knocked at the door with a faltering hand. Old Nelson, or Nielsen, got up from the table at which he was sitting with a shabby pocket full of papers before him.

He took off his spectacles before shaking hands. For a moment neither of us said a word. Then, noticing me looking round somewhat expectantly, he murmured some words of which I caught only daughter in Hong Kong, cast his eyes down and sighed. His moustache sticking all ways out as of yore was quite white now.

His old cheeks were softly rounded, with some colour in them, strangely enough that something childlike, always noticeable in the general contour of his physiognomy, had become much more marked. Like his handwriting, he looked childish and senile. He showed his age most in his unintelligently furrowed, anxious forehead, and in his round,

innocent eyes, which appeared to me weak and blinking and watery. Or was it that they were full of tears? To discover old Nelson fully informed upon any matter whatever was a new experience. But after the first awkwardness had worn off, he talked freely, with, now and then, a question to start him going whenever he lapsed into silence, which he would do, suddenly clasping

his hands on his waistcoat in an attitude which would recall to me the East Veranda, where he used to sit talking quietly and puffing out his cheeks in what seemed now old, very old days. He talked in a reasonable, somewhat anxious tone. No, no, we did not know anything for weeks.

Out of the way like that we couldn't, of course, no mail service to the Seven Isles. But one day I ran over to Banker in my big sailing boat to see whether there were any letters and saw a Dutch paper. But it looked only like a bit of marine news, English brig Benito gone ashore outside Macassar Roads.

That was all. I took the paper home with me and showed it to her. I will never forgive him, she cries with her old spirit. My dear, I said, you are a sensible girl. The best man may lose his ship, but what about your health?

I was beginning to be frightened at her looks. She would not let me talk even of going to Singapore before. But really, such a sensible girl couldn't keep on objecting forever. Do what you like, papa, she says. Rather a job, that.

Had to catch a steamer at sea, but I got her over all right. There, doctors, of course. Fever, anaemia, put her to bed. Two or three women, very kind to her. Naturally, in our papers, the whole story came out before long.

She reads it to the end, lying on the couch, then hands the newspaper back to me, whispers Heemskirk, and goes off into a faint. He blinked at me for quite a long time, his eyes running full of tears again. Next day he began, without any emotion in his voice. She felt stronger, and we had a long talk.

She told me everything. Here, Lord Nelson, with his eyes cast down, gave me the whole story of the Heemskirk episode, in Freya's words, then went on in his rather jerky utterance, and looking up innocently. My dear, I said, you have behaved in the main like a sensible girl. I've been horrid, she cries, and he is breaking his heart over there.

Well, she was too sensible not to see. She wasn't in a state to travel, but I went. She told me to go. She was being looked after very well. Anemia, getting better, they said.

He paused. You did see him? I murmured. Ah, yes, I did see him. He started again, talking in that reasonable voice, as though he were arguing a point.

I did see him. I came upon him. Eyes sunk an inch into his head, nothing but skin on the bones of his face, a skeleton in dirty white clothes. That's what he looked like.

Well, Freya, but she never did, not really. He was sitting there, the only live thing for miles along that coast, on a drift log washed up on the shore. They'd clipped his hair in the hospital, and it had not grown again. He stared, holding his chin in his hand, and with nothing on the sea between him and the

sky but that wreck. When I came up to him, he just moved his head a bit. Is that you, old man? says he, like that. If you had seen him, you would have understood at once how impossible it was for Freya to

have ever loved that man. Well, well, I don't say. She might have something. She was lonely, you know, but really, to go away with him, never, madness. She was too sensible.

I began to reproach him gently, and by and by he turned on me. Right, dear, what about? Come to her, what with? If I had been a man, I would have carried her off, but she made a child, a happy child of me.

Tell her that the day the only thing I had belonging to me in the world perished on this reef I discovered that I had no power over her. As she come here with you, he shouts, blazing at me suddenly with his hollow eyes. I shook my head. Come with me, indeed, Anemia.

You see, go away then, old man, and leave me alone here with that ghost, he says, jerking his head at the wreck of his brig. Mad! It was getting dusk. I did not care to stop any longer, or by myself with that man in that lonely place.

I was not going to tell him of Freya's illness. Anemia, what was the good? Mad! And what sort of husband would he have made, anyhow, for a sensible girl like Freya? Why, even my little property I could not have left them.

The Dutch authorities would never have allowed an Englishman to settle there. It was not sold then. My man Mamat, you know, was looking after it for me. Later on I let it go for a tenth of its value to a Dutch half-caste, but never mind. It was nothing to me then.

Yes, I went away from him. I caught the return mailboat. I told everything to Freya. He's mad, I said, and, my dear, the only thing he loved was his brig. Perhaps, she says to herself, looking straight away, her eyes were nearly as hollow as his,

perhaps it is true. Yes, I would never allow him any power over me. Fort Nelson paused. I sat fascinated and feeling a little cold in that room with a blazing fire. So, you see, he continued, she never really cared for him, much too sensible.

I took her away to Hong Kong. Change of climate, they said. Oh, these doctors, my God. Wintertime. There came ten days of cold mists and wind and rain, pneumonia.

But look here, we talked a lot together, days and evenings. Who else had she? She talked a lot to me, my own girl. Sometimes she would laugh a little. Look at me and laugh a little.

I shuddered. He looked up vaguely with a childish, puzzled moodiness. She would say, I did not really mean to be a bad daughter to you, Papa. And I would say, of course, my dear, you could not have meant it. She would lie quiet and then say, I wonder.

And sometimes, I've been really a coward, she would tell me. You know, sick people, they say things. And so she would say, too, I've been conceited, headstrong, capricious. I sought my own gratification. I was selfish or afraid.

But sick people, you know, they say anything. And once, after lying silent almost all day, she said, yes, perhaps when the day came, I would not have gone. Perhaps I don't know, she cried. Draw the curtain, Papa.

Shut the sea out. It reproaches me with my folly. He gasped and paused. So you see, he went on in a murmur, very ill, very ill indeed, pneumonia, very sudden. He pointed his finger at the carpet while the thought of the poor girl vanquished in

her struggle with three men's absurdities and coming at last to doubt her own self held me in a very anguish of pity. You see, yourself, he began again in a downcast manner. She could not have really. She mentioned you several times, good friend, a sensible man.

So I wanted to tell you myself, let you know the truth. A fellow like that, how could it be? She was lonely. And perhaps for a while, mere nothing. There could never have been a question of love for my friar, such a sensible girl.

Man, I cried, rising upon him wrathfully. Don't you see that she died of it? He got up too. No, no. He stammered as if angry.

The doctors, pneumonia, low state, the inflammation of the—they told me—he did not finish the word. It ended in a sob. He flung his arms out in a gesture of despair, giving up his ghastly pretense with a low, heart-rending cry.

And I thought that she was so sensible. End of Freya of the Seven Isles. End of Twixland and Sea. End of Twixland and Sea.