'Mrs. Travers trusts me though,' went on Lingard with gentle triumph as if advancing an unanswerable argument.
'So she says,' grunted Carter; 'I warned her. She's a baby. They're all as innocent as babies there. And you know it. And I know it. I've heard of your kind. You would dump the lot of us overboard if it served your turn. That's what I think.'
'And that's all.'
Carter nodded slightly and looked away. There was a silence. Lingard's eyes travelled over the brig. The lighted part of the vessel appeared in bright and wavering detail walled and canopied by the night. He felt a light breath on his face. The air was stirring, but the Shallows, silent and lost in the darkness, gave no sound of life.
This stillness oppressed Lingard. The world of his endeavours and his hopes seemed dead, seemed gone. His desire existed homeless in the obscurity that had devoured his corner of the sea, this stretch of the coast, his certitude of success. And here in the midst of what was the domain of his adventurous soul there was a lost youngster ready to shoot him on suspicion of some extravagant treachery. Came ready to shoot! That's good, too! He was too weary to laugh—and perhaps too sad. Also the danger of the pistol-shot, which he believed real—the young are rash—irritated him. The night and the spot were full of contradictions. It was impossible to say who in this shadowy warfare was to be an enemy, and who were the allies. So close were the contacts issuing from this complication of a yachting voyage, that he seemed to have them all within his breast.
'Shoot me! He is quite up to that trick—damn him. Yet I would trust him sooner than any man in that yacht.'
Such were his thoughts while he looked at Carter, who was biting his lips, in the vexation of the long silence. When they spoke again to each other they talked soberly, with a sense of relief, as if they had come into cool air from an overheated room and when Carter, dismissed, went into his boat, he had practically agreed to the line of action traced by Lingard for the crew of the yacht. He had agreed as if in implicit confidence. It was one of the absurdities of the situation which had to be accepted and could never be understood.
'Do I talk straight now?' had asked Lingard.
'It seems straight enough,' assented Carter with an air of reserve; 'I will work with you so far anyhow.'
'Mrs. Travers trusts me,' remarked Lingard again.
'By the Lord Harry!' cried Carter, giving way suddenly to some latent conviction. 'I was warning her against you. Say, Captain, you are a devil of a man. How did you manage it?'
'I trusted her,' said Lingard.
'Did you?' cried the amazed Carter. 'When? How? Where—'
'You know too much already,' retorted Lingard, quietly. 'Waste no time. I will be after you.'
Carter whistled low.
'There's a pair of you I can't make out,' he called back, hurrying over the side.
Shaw took this opportunity to approach. Beginning with hesitation: 'A word with you, sir,' the mate went on to say he was a respectable man. He delivered himself in a ringing, unsteady voice. He was married, he had children, he abhorred illegality. The light played about his obese figure, he had flung his mushroom hat on the deck, he was not afraid to speak the truth. The grey moustache stood out aggressively, his glances were uneasy; he pressed his hands to his stomach convulsively, opened his thick, short arms wide, wished it to be understood he had been chief-officer of home ships, with a spotless character and he hoped 'quite up to his work.' He was a peaceable man, none more; disposed to stretch a point when it 'came to a difference with niggers of some kind—they had to be taught manners and reason' and he was not averse at a pinch to—but here were white people—gentlemen, ladies, not to speak of the crew. He had never spoken to a superior like this before, and this was prudence, his conviction, a point of view, a point of principle, a conscious superiority and a burst of resentment hoarded through years against all the successive and unsatisfactory captains of his existence. There never had been such an opportunity to show he could not be put upon. He had one of them on a string and he was going to lead him a dance. There was courage, too, in it, since he believed himself fallen unawares into the clutches of a particularly desperate man and beyond the reach of law.
A certain small amount of calculation entered the audacity of his remonstrance. Perhaps—it flashed upon him —the yacht's gentry will hear I stood up for them. This could conceivably be of advantage to a man who wanted a lift in the world. 'Owner of a yacht—badly scared—a gentleman—money nothing to him.' Thereupon Shaw declared with heat that he couldn't be an accessory either after or before the fact. Those that never went home—who had nothing to go to perhaps—he interjected, hurriedly, could do as they liked. He couldn't. He had a wife, a family, a little house—paid for—with difficulty. He followed the sea respectably out and home, all regular, not vagabonding here and there, chumming with the first nigger that came along and laying traps for his betters.
One of the two flare bearers sighed at his elbow, and shifted his weight to the other foot.
These two had been keeping so perfectly still that the movement was as startling as if a statue had changed its pose. After looking at the offender with cold malevolence, Shaw went on to speak of law-courts, of trials, and of the liberty of the subject; then he pointed out the certitude and the inconvenience of being found out, affecting for the moment the dispassionateness of wisdom.
'There will be fifteen years in gaol at the end of this job for everybody,' said Shaw, 'and I have a boy that don't know his father yet. Fine things for him to learn when he grows up. The innocent are dead certain here to catch it along with you. The missus will break her heart unless she starves first. Home sold up.'
He saw a mysterious iniquity in a dangerous relation to himself and began to lose his head. What he really wanted was to have his existence left intact, for his own cherishing and pride. It was a moral aspiration, but in his alarm the native grossness of his nature came clattering out like a devil out of a trap. He would blow the gaff, split, give away the whole show, he would back up honest people, kiss the book, say what he thought, let all the world know . . . and when he paused to draw breath, all around him was silent and still. Before the impetus of that respectable passion his words were scattered like chaff driven by a gale and rushed headlong into the night of the Shallows. And in the great obscurity, imperturbable, it heard him say he 'washed his hands of everything.'
'And the brig?' asked Lingard, suddenly.
Shaw was checked. For a second the seaman in him instinctively admitted the claim of the ship.
'The brig. The brig. She's right enough,' he mumbled. He had nothing to say against the brig—not he. She wasn't like the big ships he was used to, but of her kind the best craft he ever. . . . And with a brusque return upon himself, he protested that he had been decoyed on board under false pretences. It was as bad as being shanghaied
