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    An Anarchist

    by Joseph Conrad
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    A Desperate Tale

    That year I spent the best two months of the dry season on one of
    the estates--in fact, on the principal cattle estate--of a famous
    meat-extract manufacturing company.

    B.O.S. Bos. You have seen the three magic letters on the advertisement
    pages of magazines and newspapers, in the windows of provision
    merchants, and on calendars for next year you receive by post in the
    month of November. They scatter pamphlets also, written in a sickly
    enthusiastic style and in several languages, giving statistics of
    slaughter and bloodshed enough to make a Turk turn faint. The "art"
    illustrating that "literature" represents in vivid and shining colours
    a large and enraged black bull stamping upon a yellow snake writhing
    in emerald-green grass, with a cobalt-blue sky for a background. It
    is atrocious and it is an allegory. The snake symbolizes disease,
    weakness--perhaps mere hunger, which last is the chronic disease of the
    majority of mankind. Of course everybody knows the B. O. S. Ltd., with
    its unrivalled products: Vinobos, Jellybos, and the latest unequalled
    perfection, Tribos, whose nourishment is offered to you not only highly
    concentrated, but already half digested. Such apparently is the love
    that Limited Company bears to its fellowmen--even as the love of the
    father and mother penguin for their hungry fledglings.

    Of course the capital of a country must be productively employed. I
    have nothing to say against the company. But being myself animated by
    feelings of affection towards my fellow-men, I am saddened by the
    modern system of advertising. Whatever evidence it offers of enterprise,
    ingenuity, impudence, and resource in certain individuals, it proves to
    my mind the wide prevalence of that form of mental degradation which is
    called gullibility.

    In various parts of the civilized and uncivilized world I have had to
    swallow B. O. S. with more or less benefit to myself, though without
    great pleasure. Prepared with hot water and abundantly peppered to bring
    out the taste, this extract is not really unpalatable. But I have never
    swallowed its advertisements. Perhaps they have not gone far enough. As
    far as I can remember they make no promise of everlasting youth to the
    users of B. O. S., nor yet have they claimed the power of raising the
    dead for their estimable products. Why this austere reserve, I wonder?
    But I don't think they would have had me even on these terms. Whatever
    form of mental degradation I may (being but human) be suffering from, it
    is not the popular form. I am not gullible.

    I have been at some pains to bring out distinctly this statement about
    myself in view of the story which follows. I have checked the facts as
    far as possible. I have turned up the files of French newspapers, and I
    have also talked with the officer who commands the military guard on
    the Ile Royale, when in the course of my travels I reached Cayenne. I
    believe the story to be in the main true. It is the sort of story that
    no man, I think, would ever invent about himself, for it is neither
    grandiose nor flattering, nor yet funny enough to gratify a perverted
    vanity.

    It concerns the engineer of the steam-launch belonging to the Maranon
    cattle estate of the B. O. S. Co., Ltd. This estate is also an
    island--an island as big as a small province, lying in the estuary of a
    great South American river. It is wild and not beautiful, but the grass
    growing on its low plains seems to possess exceptionally nourishing
    and flavouring qualities. It resounds with the lowing of innumerable
    herds--a deep and distressing sound under the open sky, rising like
    a monstrous protest of prisoners condemned to death. On the mainland,
    across twenty miles of discoloured muddy water, there stands a city
    whose name, let us say, is Horta.

    But the most interesting characteristic of this island (which seems like
    a sort of penal settlement for condemned cattle) consists in its being
    the only known habitat of an extremely rare and gorgeous butterfly.
    The species is even more rare than it is beautiful, which is not saying
    little. I have already alluded to my travels. I travelled at that time,
    but strictly for myself and with a moderation unknown in our days of
    round-the-world tickets. I even travelled with a purpose. As a matter of
    fact, I am--"Ha, ha, ha!--a desperate butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!"

    This was the tone in which Mr. Harry Gee, the manager of the cattle
    station, alluded to my pursuits. He seemed to consider me the greatest
    absurdity in the world. On the other hand, the B. O. S. Co., Ltd.,
    represented to him the acme of the nineteenth century's achievement. I
    believe that he slept in his leggings and spurs. His days he spent in
    the saddle flying over the plains, followed by a train of half-wild
    horsemen, who called him Don Enrique, and who had no definite idea of
    the B. O. S. Co., Ltd., which paid their wages. He was an excellent
    manager, but I don't see why, when we met at meals, he should have
    thumped me on the back, with loud, derisive inquiries: "How's the deadly
    sport to-day? Butterflies going strong? Ha, ha, ha!"--especially as he
    charged me two dollars per diem for the hospitality of the B. O. S. Co.,
    Ltd., (capital L1,500,000, fully paid up), in whose balance-sheet for
    that year those monies are no doubt included. "I don't think I can
    make it anything less in justice to my company," he had remarked, with
    extreme gravity, when I was arranging with him the terms of my stay on
    the island.

    His chaff would have been harmless enough if intimacy of intercourse
    in the absence of all friendly feeling were not a thing detestable in
    itself. Moreover, his facetiousness was not very amusing. It consisted
    in the wearisome repetition of descriptive phrases applied to people
    with a burst of laughter. "Desperate butterfly-slayer. Ha, ha, ha!" was
    one sample of his peculiar wit which he himself enjoyed so much. And in
    the same vein of exquisite humour he called my attention to the engineer
    of the steam-launch, one day, as we strolled on the path by the side of
    the creek.

    The man's head and shoulders emerged above the deck, over which were
    scattered various tools of his trade and a few pieces of machinery. He
    was doing some repairs to the engines. At the sound of our footsteps
    he raised anxiously a grimy face with a pointed chin and a tiny fair
    moustache. What could be seen of his delicate features under the black
    smudges appeared to me wasted and livid in the greenish shade of the
    enormous tree spreading its foliage over the launch moored close to the
    bank.

    To my great surprise, Harry Gee addressed him as "Crocodile," in
    that half-jeering, half-bullying tone which is characteristic of
    self-satisfaction in his delectable kind:

    "How does the work get on, Crocodile?"

    I should have said before that the amiable Harry had picked up French
    of a sort somewhere--in some colony or other--and that he pronounced
    it with a disagreeable forced precision as though he meant to guy the
    language. The man in the launch answered him quickly in a pleasant
    voice. His eyes had a liquid softness and his teeth flashed dazzlingly
    white between his thin, drooping lips. The manager turned to me, very
    cheerful and loud, explaining:

    "I call him Crocodile because he lives half in, half out of the creek.
    Amphibious--see? There's nothing else amphibious living on the island
    except crocodiles; so he must belong to the species--eh? But in reality
    he's nothing less than un citoyen anarchiste de Barcelone."

    "A citizen anarchist from Barcelona?" I repeated, stupidly, looking down
    at the man. He had turned to his work in the engine-well of the launch
    and presented his bowed back to us. In that attitude I heard him
    protest, very audibly:

    "I do not even know Spanish."

    "Hey? What? You dare to deny you come from over there?" the accomplished
    manager was down on him truculently.

    At this the man straightened himself up, dropping a spanner he had been
    using, and faced us; but he trembled in all his limbs.

    "I deny nothing, nothing, nothing!" he said, excitedly.

    He picked up the spanner and went to work again without paying any
    further attention to us. After looking at him for a minute or so, we
    went away.

    "Is he really an anarchist?" I asked, when out of ear-shot.

    "I don't care a hang what he is," answered the humorous official of the
    B. O. S. Co. "I gave him the name because it suited me to label him in
    that way, It's good for the company."

    "For the company!" I exclaimed, stopping short.

    "Aha!" he triumphed, tilting up his hairless pug face and straddling his
    thin, long legs. "That surprises you. I am bound to do my best for my
    company. They have enormous expenses. Why--our agent in Horta tells me
    they spend fifty thousand pounds every year in advertising all over the
    world! One can't be too economical in working the show. Well, just you
    listen. When I took charge here the estate had no steam-launch. I asked
    for one, and kept on asking by every mail till I got it; but the man
    they sent out with it chucked his job at the end of two months, leaving
    the launch moored at the pontoon in Horta. Got a better screw at a
    sawmill up the river--blast him! And ever since it has been the same
    thing. Any Scotch or Yankee vagabond that likes to call himself a
    mechanic out here gets eighteen pounds a month, and the next you know
    he's cleared out, after smashing something as likely as not. I give you
    my word that some of the objects I've had for engine-drivers couldn't
    tell the boiler from the funnel. But this fellow understands his trade,
    and I don't mean him to clear out. See?"

    And he struck me lightly on the chest for emphasis. Disregarding his
    peculiarities of manner, I wanted to know what all this had to do with
    the man being an anarchist.

    "Come!" jeered the manager. "If you saw suddenly a barefooted, unkempt
    chap slinking amongst the bushes on the sea face of the island, and at
    the same time observed less than a mile from the beach, a small schooner
    full of niggers hauling off in a hurry, you wouldn't think the man fell
    there from the sky, would you? And it could be nothing else but either
    that or Cayenne. I've got my wits about me. Directly I sighted this
    queer game I said to myself--'Escaped Convict.' I was as certain of
    it as I am of seeing you standing here this minute. So I spurred on
    straight at him. He stood his ground for a bit on a sand hillock crying
    out: 'Monsieur! Monsieur! Arretez!' then at the last moment broke and
    ran for life. Says I to myself, 'I'll tame you before I'm done with
    you.' So without a single word I kept on, heading him off here and
    there. I rounded him up towards the shore, and at last I had him
    corralled on a spit, his heels in the water and nothing but sea and sky
    at his back, with my horse pawing the sand and shaking his head within a
    yard of him.

    "He folded his arms on his breast then and stuck his chin up in a
    sort of desperate way; but I wasn't to be impressed by the beggar's
    posturing.

    "Says I, 'You're a runaway convict.'

    "When he heard French, his chin went down and his face changed.

    "'I deny nothing,' says he, panting yet, for I had kept him skipping
    about in front of my horse pretty smartly. I asked him what he was doing
    there. He had got his breath by then, and explained that he had meant to
    make his way to a farm which he understood (from the schooner's people,
    I suppose) was to be found in the neighbourhood. At that I laughed
    aloud and he got uneasy. Had he been deceived? Was there no farm within
    walking distance?

    "I laughed more and more. He was on foot, and of course the first bunch
    of cattle he came across would have stamped him to rags under their
    hoofs. A dismounted man caught on the feeding-grounds hasn't got the
    ghost of a chance.

    "'My coming upon you like this has certainly saved your life,' I
    said. He remarked that perhaps it was so; but that for his part he had
    imagined I had wanted to kill him under the hoofs of my horse. I assured
    him that nothing would have been easier had I meant it. And then we came
    to a sort of dead stop. For the life of me I didn't know what to do with
    this convict, unless I chucked him into the sea. It occurred to me to
    ask him what he had been transported for. He hung his head.

    "'What is it?' says I. 'Theft, murder, rape, or what?' I wanted to hear
    what he would have to say for himself, though of course I expected it
    would be some sort of lie. But all he said was--

    "'Make it what you like. I deny nothing. It is no good denying
    anything.'

    "I looked him over carefully and a thought struck me.

    "'They've got anarchists there, too,' I said. 'Perhaps you're one of
    them.'

    "'I deny nothing whatever, monsieur,' he repeats.

    "This answer made me think that perhaps he was not an anarchist. I
    believe those damned lunatics are rather proud of themselves. If he had
    been one, he would have probably confessed straight out.

    "'What were you before you became a convict?'

    "'Ouvrier,' he says. 'And a good workman, too.'

    "At that I began to think he must be an anarchist, after all. That's the
    class they come mostly from, isn't it? I hate the cowardly bomb-throwing
    brutes. I almost made up my mind to turn my horse short round and leave
    him to starve or drown where he was, whichever he liked best. As to
    crossing the island to bother me again, the cattle would see to that. I
    don't know what induced me to ask--

    "'What sort of workman?'

    "I didn't care a hang whether he answered me or not. But when he said
    at once, 'Mecanicien, monsieur,' I nearly jumped out of the saddle with
    excitement. The launch had been lying disabled and idle in the creek for
    three weeks. My duty to the company was clear. He noticed my start,
    too, and there we were for a minute or so staring at each other as if
    bewitched.

    "'Get up on my horse behind me,' I told him. 'You shall put my
    steam-launch to rights.'"

    These are the words in which the worthy manager of the Maranon estate
    related to me the coming of the supposed anarchist. He meant to keep
    him--out of a sense of duty to the company--and the name he had given
    him would prevent the fellow from obtaining employment anywhere in
    Horta. The vaqueros of the estate, when they went on leave, spread it
    all over the town. They did not know what an anarchist was, nor yet what
    Barcelona meant. They called him Anarchisto de Barcelona, as if it were
    his Christian name and surname. But the people in town had been reading
    in their papers about the anarchists in Europe and were very much
    impressed. Over the jocular addition of "de Barcelona" Mr. Harry
    Gee chuckled with immense satisfaction. "That breed is particularly
    murderous, isn't it? It makes the sawmills crowd still more afraid of
    having anything to do with him--see?" he exulted, candidly. "I hold him
    by that name better than if I had him chained up by the leg to the deck
    of the steam-launch.

    "And mark," he added, after a pause, "he does not deny it. I am not
    wronging him in any way. He is a convict of some sort, anyhow."

    "But I suppose you pay him some wages, don't you?" I asked.

    "Wages! What does he want with money here? He gets his food from
    my kitchen and his clothing from the store. Of course I'll give him
    something at the end of the year, but you don't think I'd employ a
    convict and give him the same money I would give an honest man? I am
    looking after the interests of my company first and last."

    I admitted that, for a company spending fifty thousand pounds every
    year in advertising, the strictest economy was obviously necessary. The
    manager of the Maranon Estancia grunted approvingly.

    "And I'll tell you what," he continued: "if I were certain he's an
    anarchist and he had the cheek to ask me for money, I would give him
    the toe of my boot. However, let him have the benefit of the doubt. I
    am perfectly willing to take it that he has done nothing worse than
    to stick a knife into somebody--with extenuating circumstances--French
    fashion, don't you know. But that subversive sanguinary rot of doing
    away with all law and order in the world makes my blood boil. It's
    simply cutting the ground from under the feet of every decent,
    respectable, hard-working person. I tell you that the consciences of
    people who have them, like you or I, must be protected in some way; or
    else the first low scoundrel that came along would in every respect be
    just as good as myself. Wouldn't he, now? And that's absurd!"

    He glared at me. I nodded slightly and murmured that doubtless there was
    much subtle truth in his view.

    The principal truth discoverable in the views of Paul the engineer was
    that a little thing may bring about the undoing of a man.

    "_Il ne faut pas beaucoup pour perdre un homme_," he said to me,
    thoughtfully, one evening.

    I report this reflection in French, since the man was of Paris, not of
    Barcelona at all. At the Maranon he lived apart from the station, in
    a small shed with a metal roof and straw walls, which he called
    mon atelier. He had a work-bench there. They had given him several
    horse-blankets and a saddle--not that he ever had occasion to ride, but
    because no other bedding was used by the working-hands, who were all
    vaqueros--cattlemen. And on this horseman's gear, like a son of the
    plains, he used to sleep amongst the tools of his trade, in a litter
    of rusty scrap-iron, with a portable forge at his head, under the
    work-bench sustaining his grimy mosquito-net.

    Now and then I would bring him a few candle ends saved from the scant
    supply of the manager's house. He was very thankful for these. He did
    not like to lie awake in the dark, he confessed. He complained that
    sleep fled from him. "Le sommeil me fuit," he declared, with his
    habitual air of subdued stoicism, which made him sympathetic and
    touching. I made it clear to him that I did not attach undue importance
    to the fact of his having been a convict.

    Thus it came about that one evening he was led to talk about himself.
    As one of the bits of candle on the edge of the bench burned down to the
    end, he hastened to light another.

    He had done his military service in a provincial garrison and returned
    to Paris to follow his trade. It was a well-paid one. He told me with
    some pride that in a short time he was earning no less than ten francs a
    day. He was thinking of setting up for himself by and by and of getting
    married.

    Here he sighed deeply and paused. Then with a return to his stoical
    note:

    "It seems I did not know enough about myself."

    On his twenty-fifth birthday two of his friends in the repairing shop
    where he worked proposed to stand him a dinner. He was immensely touched
    by this attention.

    "I was a steady man," he remarked, "but I am not less sociable than any
    other body."

    The entertainment came off in a little cafe on the Boulevard de la
    Chapelle. At dinner they drank some special wine. It was excellent.
    Everything was excellent; and the world--in his own words--seemed a very
    good place to live in. He had good prospects, some little money laid by,
    and the affection of two excellent friends. He offered to pay for all
    the drinks after dinner, which was only proper on his part.

    They drank more wine; they drank liqueurs, cognac, beer, then more
    liqueurs and more cognac. Two strangers sitting at the next table looked
    at him, he said, with so much friendliness, that he invited them to join
    the party.

    He had never drunk so much in his life. His elation was extreme, and so
    pleasurable that whenever it flagged he hastened to order more drinks.

    "It seemed to me," he said, in his quiet tone and looking on the ground
    in the gloomy shed full of shadows, "that I was on the point of just
    attaining a great and wonderful felicity. Another drink, I felt, would
    do it. The others were holding out well with me, glass for glass."

    But an extraordinary thing happened. At something the strangers said his
    elation fell. Gloomy ideas--des idees noires--rushed into his head. All
    the world outside the cafe; appeared to him as a dismal evil place where
    a multitude of poor wretches had to work and slave to the sole end
    that a few individuals should ride in carriages and live riotously in
    palaces. He became ashamed of his happiness. The pity of mankind's cruel
    lot wrung his heart. In a voice choked with sorrow he tried to express
    these sentiments. He thinks he wept and swore in turns.

    The two new acquaintances hastened to applaud his humane indignation.
    Yes. The amount of injustice in the world was indeed scandalous. There
    was only one way of dealing with the rotten state of society. Demolish
    the whole sacree boutique. Blow up the whole iniquitous show.

    Their heads hovered over the table. They whispered to him eloquently; I
    don't think they quite expected the result. He was extremely drunk--mad
    drunk. With a howl of rage he leaped suddenly upon the table. Kicking
    over the bottles and glasses, he yelled: "Vive l'anarchie! Death to the
    capitalists!" He yelled this again and again. All round him broken glass
    was falling, chairs were being swung in the air, people were taking each
    other by the throat. The police dashed in. He hit, bit, scratched and
    struggled, till something crashed down upon his head. . . .

    He came to himself in a police cell, locked up on a charge of assault,
    seditious cries, and anarchist propaganda.

    He looked at me fixedly with his liquid, shining eyes, that seemed very
    big in the dim light.

    "That was bad. But even then I might have got off somehow, perhaps," he
    said, slowly.

    I doubt it. But whatever chance he had was done away with by a young
    socialist lawyer who volunteered to undertake his defence. In vain he
    assured him that he was no anarchist; that he was a quiet, respectable
    mechanic, only too anxious to work ten hours per day at his trade. He
    was represented at the trial as the victim of society and his drunken
    shoutings as the expression of infinite suffering. The young lawyer had
    his way to make, and this case was just what he wanted for a start. The
    speech for the defence was pronounced magnificent.

    The poor fellow paused, swallowed, and brought out the statement:

    "I got the maximum penalty applicable to a first offence."

    I made an appropriate murmur. He hung his head and folded his arms.

    "When they let me out of prison," he began, gently, "I made tracks, of
    course, for my old workshop. My patron had a particular liking for me
    before; but when he saw me he turned green with fright and showed me the
    door with a shaking hand."

    While he stood in the street, uneasy and disconcerted, he was accosted
    by a middle-aged man who introduced himself as an engineer's fitter,
    too. "I know who you are," he said. "I have attended your trial. You are
    a good comrade and your ideas are sound. But the devil of it is that you
    won't be able to get work anywhere now. These bourgeois'll conspire to
    starve you. That's their way. Expect no mercy from the rich."

    To be spoken to so kindly in the street had comforted him very much. His
    seemed to be the sort of nature needing support and sympathy. The idea
    of not being able to find work had knocked him over completely. If his
    patron, who knew him so well for a quiet, orderly, competent workman,
    would have nothing to do with him now--then surely nobody else would.
    That was clear. The police, keeping their eye on him, would hasten to
    warn every employer inclined to give him a chance. He felt suddenly very
    helpless, alarmed and idle; and he followed the middle-aged man to the
    estaminet round the corner where he met some other good companions. They
    assured him that he would not be allowed to starve, work or no work.
    They had drinks all round to the discomfiture of all employers of labour
    and to the destruction of society.

    He sat biting his lower lip.

    "That is, monsieur, how I became a compagnon," he said. The hand he
    passed over his forehead was trembling. "All the same, there's something
    wrong in a world where a man can get lost for a glass more or less."

    He never looked up, though I could see he was getting excited under his
    dejection. He slapped the bench with his open palm.

    "No!" he cried. "It was an impossible existence! Watched by the police,
    watched by the comrades, I did not belong to myself any more! Why, I
    could not even go to draw a few francs from my savings-bank without a
    comrade hanging about the door to see that I didn't bolt! And most of
    them were neither more nor less than housebreakers. The intelligent, I
    mean. They robbed the rich; they were only getting back their own, they
    said. When I had had some drink I believed them. There were also the
    fools and the mad. Des exaltes--quoi! When I was drunk I loved them.
    When I got more drink I was angry with the world. That was the best
    time. I found refuge from misery in rage. But one can't be always
    drunk--n'est-ce pas, monsieur? And when I was sober I was afraid to
    break away. They would have stuck me like a pig."

    He folded his arms again and raised his sharp chin with a bitter smile.

    "By and by they told me it was time to go to work. The work was to rob
    a bank. Afterwards a bomb would be thrown to wreck the place. My
    beginner's part would be to keep watch in a street at the back and to
    take care of a black bag with the bomb inside till it was wanted. After
    the meeting at which the affair was arranged a trusty comrade did not
    leave me an inch. I had not dared to protest; I was afraid of being
    done away with quietly in that room; only, as we were walking together I
    wondered whether it would not be better for me to throw myself suddenly
    into the Seine. But while I was turning it over in my mind we had
    crossed the bridge, and afterwards I had not the opportunity."

    In the light of the candle end, with his sharp features, fluffy little
    moustache, and oval face, he looked at times delicately and gaily young,
    and then appeared quite old, decrepit, full of sorrow, pressing his
    folded arms to his breast.

    As he remained silent I felt bound to ask:

    "Well! And how did it end?"

    "Deportation to Cayenne," he answered.

    He seemed to think that somebody had given the plot away. As he was
    keeping watch in the back street, bag in hand, he was set upon by the
    police. "These imbeciles," had knocked him down without noticing what he
    had in his hand. He wondered how the bomb failed to explode as he fell.
    But it didn't explode.

    "I tried to tell my story in court," he continued. "The president was
    amused. There were in the audience some idiots who laughed."

    I expressed the hope that some of his companions had been caught, too.
    He shuddered slightly before he told me that there were two--Simon,
    called also Biscuit, the middle-aged fitter who spoke to him in the
    street, and a fellow of the name of Mafile, one of the sympathetic
    strangers who had applauded his sentiments and consoled his humanitarian
    sorrows when he got drunk in the cafe.

    "Yes," he went on, with an effort, "I had the advantage of their company
    over there on St. Joseph's Island, amongst some eighty or ninety other
    convicts. We were all classed as dangerous."

    St. Joseph's Island is the prettiest of the Iles de Salut. It is
    rocky and green, with shallow ravines, bushes, thickets, groves of
    mango-trees, and many feathery palms. Six warders armed with revolvers
    and carbines are in charge of the convicts kept there.

    An eight-oared galley keeps up the communication in the daytime, across
    a channel a quarter of a mile wide, with the Ile Royale, where there is
    a military post. She makes the first trip at six in the morning. At four
    in the afternoon her service is over, and she is then hauled up into
    a little dock on the Ile Royale and a sentry put over her and a few
    smaller boats. From that time till next morning the island of St. Joseph
    remains cut off from the rest of the world, with the warders patrolling
    in turn the path from the warders' house to the convict huts, and a
    multitude of sharks patrolling the waters all round.

    Under these circumstances the convicts planned a mutiny. Such a thing
    had never been known in the penitentiary's history before. But their
    plan was not without some possibility of success. The warders were to be
    taken by surprise and murdered during the night. Their arms would
    enable the convicts to shoot down the people in the galley as she came
    alongside in the morning. The galley once in their possession, other
    boats were to be captured, and the whole company was to row away up the
    coast.

    At dusk the two warders on duty mustered the convicts as usual. Then
    they proceeded to inspect the huts to ascertain that everything was
    in order. In the second they entered they were set upon and absolutely
    smothered under the numbers of their assailants. The twilight faded
    rapidly. It was a new moon; and a heavy black squall gathering over
    the coast increased the profound darkness of the night. The convicts
    assembled in the open space, deliberating upon the next step to be
    taken, argued amongst themselves in low voices.

    "You took part in all this?" I asked.

    "No. I knew what was going to be done, of course. But why should I
    kill these warders? I had nothing against them. But I was afraid of the
    others. Whatever happened, I could not escape from them. I sat alone
    on the stump of a tree with my head in my hands, sick at heart at the
    thought of a freedom that could be nothing but a mockery to me. Suddenly
    I was startled to perceive the shape of a man on the path near by. He
    stood perfectly still, then his form became effaced in the night. It
    must have been the chief warder coming to see what had become of his
    two men. No one noticed him. The convicts kept on quarrelling over
    their plans. The leaders could not get themselves obeyed. The fierce
    whispering of that dark mass of men was very horrible.

    "At last they divided into two parties and moved off. When they had
    passed me I rose, weary and hopeless. The path to the warders' house was
    dark and silent, but on each side the bushes rustled slightly. Presently
    I saw a faint thread of light before me. The chief warder, followed by
    his three men, was approaching cautiously. But he had failed to close
    his dark lantern properly. The convicts had seen that faint gleam, too.
    There was an awful savage yell, a turmoil on the dark path, shots fired,
    blows, groans: and with the sound of smashed bushes, the shouts of the
    pursuers and the screams of the pursued, the man-hunt, the warder-hunt,
    passed by me into the interior of the island. I was alone. And I assure
    you, monsieur, I was indifferent to everything. After standing still
    for a while, I walked on along the path till I kicked something hard. I
    stooped and picked up a warder's revolver. I felt with my fingers
    that it was loaded in five chambers. In the gusts of wind I heard the
    convicts calling to each other far away, and then a roll of thunder
    would cover the soughing and rustling of the trees. Suddenly, a big
    light ran across my path very low along the ground. And it showed a
    woman's skirt with the edge of an apron.

    "I knew that the person who carried it must be the wife of the head
    warder. They had forgotten all about her, it seems. A shot rang out in
    the interior of the island, and she cried out to herself as she ran. She
    passed on. I followed, and presently I saw her again. She was pulling
    at the cord of the big bell which hangs at the end of the landing-pier,
    with one hand, and with the other she was swinging the heavy lantern to
    and fro. This is the agreed signal for the Ile Royale should assistance
    be required at night. The wind carried the sound away from our island
    and the light she swung was hidden on the shore side by the few trees
    that grow near the warders' house.

    "I came up quite close to her from behind. She went on without stopping,
    without looking aside, as though she had been all alone on the island.
    A brave woman, monsieur. I put the revolver inside the breast of my blue
    blouse and waited. A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder destroyed
    both the sound and the light of the signal for an instant, but she never
    faltered, pulling at the cord and swinging the lantern as regularly as a
    machine. She was a comely woman of thirty--no more. I thought to myself,
    'All that's no good on a night like this.' And I made up my mind that
    if a body of my fellow-convicts came down to the pier--which was sure to
    happen soon--I would shoot her through the head before I shot myself. I
    knew the 'comrades' well. This idea of mine gave me quite an interest
    in life, monsieur; and at once, instead of remaining stupidly exposed on
    the pier, I retreated a little way and crouched behind a bush. I did not
    intend to let myself be pounced upon unawares and be prevented perhaps
    from rendering a supreme service to at least one human creature before I
    died myself.

    "But we must believe the signal was seen, for the galley from Ile Royale
    came over in an astonishingly short time. The woman kept right on till
    the light of her lantern flashed upon the officer in command and the
    bayonets of the soldiers in the boat. Then she sat down and began to
    cry.

    "She didn't need me any more. I did not budge. Some soldiers were only
    in their shirt-sleeves, others without boots, just as the call to arms
    had found them. They passed by my bush at the double. The galley had
    been sent away for more; and the woman sat all alone crying at the end
    of the pier, with the lantern standing on the ground near her.

    "Then suddenly I saw in the light at the end of the pier the red
    pantaloons of two more men. I was overcome with astonishment. They,
    too, started off at a run. Their tunics flapped unbuttoned and they were
    bare-headed. One of them panted out to the other, 'Straight on, straight
    on!'

    "Where on earth did they spring from, I wondered. Slowly I walked down
    the short pier. I saw the woman's form shaken by sobs and heard her
    moaning more and more distinctly, 'Oh, my man! my poor man! my poor
    man!' I stole on quietly. She could neither hear nor see anything. She
    had thrown her apron over her head and was rocking herself to and fro in
    her grief. But I remarked a small boat fastened to the end of the pier.

    "Those two men--they looked like sous-officiers--must have come in it,
    after being too late, I suppose, for the galley. It is incredible that
    they should have thus broken the regulations from a sense of duty. And
    it was a stupid thing to do. I could not believe my eyes in the very
    moment I was stepping into that boat.

    "I pulled along the shore slowly. A black cloud hung over the Iles de
    Salut. I heard firing, shouts. Another hunt had begun--the convict-hunt.
    The oars were too long to pull comfortably. I managed them with
    difficulty, though the boat herself was light. But when I got round to
    the other side of the island the squall broke in rain and wind. I was
    unable to make head against it. I let the boat drift ashore and secured
    her.

    "I knew the spot. There was a tumbledown old hovel standing near the
    water. Cowering in there I heard through the noises of the wind and the
    falling downpour some people tearing through the bushes. They came out
    on the strand. Soldiers perhaps. A flash of lightning threw everything
    near me into violent relief. Two convicts!

    "And directly an amazed voice exclaimed. 'It's a miracle!' It was the
    voice of Simon, otherwise Biscuit.

    "And another voice growled, 'What's a miracle?'

    "'Why, there's a boat lying here!'

    "'You must be mad, Simon! But there is, after all. . . . A boat.'

    "They seemed awed into complete silence. The other man was Mafile. He
    spoke again, cautiously.

    "'It is fastened up. There must be somebody here.'

    "I spoke to them from within the hovel: 'I am here.'

    "They came in then, and soon gave me to understand that the boat was
    theirs, not mine. 'There are two of us,' said Mafile, 'against you
    alone.'

    "I got out into the open to keep clear of them for fear of getting a
    treacherous blow on the head. I could have shot them both where they
    stood. But I said nothing. I kept down the laughter rising in my throat.
    I made myself very humble and begged to be allowed to go. They consulted
    in low tones about my fate, while with my hand on the revolver in the
    bosom of my blouse I had their lives in my power. I let them live. I
    meant them to pull that boat. I represented to them with abject humility
    that I understood the management of a boat, and that, being three to
    pull, we could get a rest in turns. That decided them at last. It was
    time. A little more and I would have gone into screaming fits at the
    drollness of it."

    At this point his excitement broke out. He jumped off the bench and
    gesticulated. The great shadows of his arms darting over roof and walls
    made the shed appear too small to contain his agitation.

    "I deny nothing," he burst out. "I was elated, monsieur. I tasted a
    sort of felicity. But I kept very quiet. I took my turns at pulling
    all through the night. We made for the open sea, putting our trust in
    a passing ship. It was a foolhardy action. I persuaded them to it. When
    the sun rose the immensity of water was calm, and the Iles de Salut
    appeared only like dark specks from the top of each swell. I was
    steering then. Mafile, who was pulling bow, let out an oath and said,
    'We must rest.'

    "The time to laugh had come at last. And I took my fill of it, I can
    tell you. I held my sides and rolled in my seat, they had such startled
    faces. 'What's got into him, the animal?' cries Mafile.

    "And Simon, who was nearest to me, says over his shoulder to him, 'Devil
    take me if I don't think he's gone mad!'

    "Then I produced the revolver. Aha! In a moment they both got the
    stoniest eyes you can imagine. Ha, ha! They were frightened. But
    they pulled. Oh, yes, they pulled all day, sometimes looking wild and
    sometimes looking faint. I lost nothing of it because I had to keep my
    eyes on them all the time, or else--crack!--they would have been on top
    of me in a second. I rested my revolver hand on my knee all ready and
    steered with the other. Their faces began to blister. Sky and sea
    seemed on fire round us and the sea steamed in the sun. The boat made a
    sizzling sound as she went through the water. Sometimes Mafile foamed
    at the mouth and sometimes he groaned. But he pulled. He dared not stop.
    His eyes became blood-shot all over, and he had bitten his lower lip to
    pieces. Simon was as hoarse as a crow.

    "'Comrade--' he begins.

    "'There are no comrades here. I am your patron.'

    "'Patron, then,' he says, 'in the name of humanity let us rest.'

    "I let them. There was a little rainwater washing about the bottom of
    the boat. I permitted them to snatch some of it in the hollow of their
    palms. But as I gave the command, 'En route!' I caught them exchanging
    significant glances. They thought I would have to go to sleep sometime!
    Aha! But I did not want to go to sleep. I was more awake than ever. It
    is they who went to sleep as they pulled, tumbling off the thwarts head
    over heels suddenly, one after another. I let them lie. All the stars
    were out. It was a quiet world. The sun rose. Another day. Allez! En
    route!

    "They pulled badly. Their eyes rolled about and their tongues hung out.
    In the middle of the forenoon Mafile croaks out: 'Let us make a rush at
    him, Simon. I would just as soon be shot at once as to die of thirst,
    hunger, and fatigue at the oar.'

    "But while he spoke he pulled; and Simon kept on pulling too. It made
    me smile. Ah! They loved their life these two, in this evil world of
    theirs, just as I used to love my life, too, before they spoiled it for
    me with their phrases. I let them go on to the point of exhaustion, and
    only then I pointed at the sails of a ship on the horizon.

    "Aha! You should have seen them revive and buckle to their work! For
    I kept them at it to pull right across that ship's path. They were
    changed. The sort of pity I had felt for them left me. They looked
    more like themselves every minute. They looked at me with the glances I
    remembered so well. They were happy. They smiled.

    "'Well,' says Simon, 'the energy of that youngster has saved our lives.
    If he hadn't made us, we could never have pulled so far out into the
    track of ships. Comrade, I forgive you. I admire you.'

    "And Mafile growls from forward: 'We owe you a famous debt of gratitude,
    comrade. You are cut out for a chief.'

    "Comrade! Monsieur! Ah, what a good word! And they, such men as these
    two, had made it accursed. I looked at them. I remembered their lies,
    their promises, their menaces, and all my days of misery. Why could they
    not have left me alone after I came out of prison? I looked at them and
    thought that while they lived I could never be free. Never. Neither I
    nor others like me with warm hearts and weak heads. For I know I have
    not a strong head, monsieur. A black rage came upon me--the rage of
    extreme intoxication--but not against the injustice of society. Oh, no!

    "'I must be free!' I cried, furiously.

    "'Vive la liberte!" yells that ruffian Mafile. 'Mort aux bourgeois who
    send us to Cayenne! They shall soon know that we are free.'

    "The sky, the sea, the whole horizon, seemed to turn red, blood red all
    round the boat. My temples were beating so loud that I wondered they
    did not hear. How is it that they did not? How is it they did not
    understand?

    "I heard Simon ask, 'Have we not pulled far enough out now?'

    "'Yes. Far enough,' I said. I was sorry for him; it was the other I
    hated. He hauled in his oar with a loud sigh, and as he was raising his
    hand to wipe his forehead with the air of a man who has done his work,
    I pulled the trigger of my revolver and shot him like this off the knee,
    right through the heart.

    "He tumbled down, with his head hanging over the side of the boat. I did
    not give him a second glance. The other cried out piercingly. Only one
    shriek of horror. Then all was still.

    "He slipped off the thwart on to his knees and raised his clasped hands
    before his face in an attitude of supplication. 'Mercy,' he whispered,
    faintly. 'Mercy for me!--comrade.'

    "'Ah, comrade,' I said, in a low tone. 'Yes, comrade, of course. Well,
    then, shout Vive l'anarchie.'

    "He flung up his arms, his face up to the sky and his mouth wide open in
    a great yell of despair. 'Vive l'anarchie! Vive--'

    "He collapsed all in a heap, with a bullet through his head.

    "I flung them both overboard. I threw away the revolver, too. Then I sat
    down quietly. I was free at last! At last. I did not even look towards
    the ship; I did not care; indeed, I think I must have gone to sleep,
    because all of a sudden there were shouts and I found the ship almost
    on top of me. They hauled me on board and secured the boat astern. They
    were all blacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto. He alone knew a
    few words of French. I could not find out where they were going nor who
    they were. They gave me something to eat every day; but I did not like
    the way they used to discuss me in their language. Perhaps they were
    deliberating about throwing me overboard in order to keep possession of
    the boat. How do I know? As we were passing this island I asked whether
    it was inhabited. I understood from the mulatto that there was a house
    on it. A farm, I fancied, they meant. So I asked them to put me ashore
    on the beach and keep the boat for their trouble. This, I imagine, was
    just what they wanted. The rest you know."

    After pronouncing these words he lost suddenly all control over himself.
    He paced to and fro rapidly, till at last he broke into a run; his arms
    went like a windmill and his ejaculations became very much like raving.
    The burden of them was that he "denied nothing, nothing!" I could only
    let him go on, and sat out of his way, repeating, "Calmez vous, calmez
    vous," at intervals, till his agitation exhausted itself.

    I must confess, too, that I remained there long after he had crawled
    under his mosquito-net. He had entreated me not to leave him; so, as
    one sits up with a nervous child, I sat up with him--in the name of
    humanity--till he fell asleep.

    On the whole, my idea is that he was much more of an anarchist than he
    confessed to me or to himself; and that, the special features of his
    case apart, he was very much like many other anarchists. Warm heart and
    weak head--that is the word of the riddle; and it is a fact that the
    bitterest contradictions and the deadliest conflicts of the world are
    carried on in every individual breast capable of feeling and passion.

    From personal inquiry I can vouch that the story of the convict mutiny
    was in every particular as stated by him.

    When I got back to Horta from Cayenne and saw the "Anarchist" again, he
    did not look well. He was more worn, still more frail, and very livid
    indeed under the grimy smudges of his calling. Evidently the meat of the
    company's main herd (in its unconcentrated form) did not agree with him
    at all.

    It was on the pontoon in Horta that we met; and I tried to induce him to
    leave the launch moored where she was and follow me to Europe there and
    then. It would have been delightful to think of the excellent manager's
    surprise and disgust at the poor fellow's escape. But he refused with
    unconquerable obstinacy.

    "Surely you don't mean to live always here!" I cried. He shook his head.

    "I shall die here," he said. Then added moodily, "Away from them."

    Sometimes I think of him lying open-eyed on his horseman's gear in the
    low shed full of tools and scraps of iron--the anarchist slave of the
    Maranon estate, waiting with resignation for that sleep which "fled"
    from him, as he used to say, in such an unaccountable manner.
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