The crew made a rush after the passengers—the cabin boy was knocked down, and the others were trampling upon him.
Imbrancam barred their passage.
“Not a man before the lad,” he said.
He kept off the sailors with his two black arms, picked up the boy, and handed him down to the Guernsey man, who was standing upright in the boat.
The boy saved, Imbrancam made way for the others, and said:
“Pass on!”
Meanwhile Clubin had entered his cabin, and had made up a parcel containing the ship’s papers and instruments. He took the compass from the binnacle, handed the papers and instruments to Imbrancam, and the compass to Tangrouille, and said to them:
“Get aboard the boat.”
They obeyed. The crew had taken their places before them.
“Now,” cried Clubin, “push off.”
A cry arose from the long boat.
“What about yourself, Captain?”
“I will remain here.”
Shipwrecked people have little time to deliberate, and not much for indulging in tender feeling. Those who were in the long boat and in comparative safety, however, felt an emotion which was not altogether selfish. All the voices shouted together:
“Come with us, Captain.”
“No: I remain here.”
The Guernsey man, who had some experience of the sea, replied:
“Listen to me, Captain. You are wrecked on the Hanways. Swimming, you would have only a mile to cross to Pleinmont. In a boat you can only land at Rocquaine, which is two miles. There are breakers, and there is the fog. Our boat will not get to Rocquaine in less than two hours. It will be a dark night. The sea is rising—the wind getting fresh. A squall is at hand. We are now ready to return and bring you off; but if bad weather comes on, that will be out of our power. You are lost if you stay there. Come with us.”
The Parisian chimed in:
“The long boat is full—too full, it is true, and one more will certainly be one too many; but we are thirteen—a bad number for the boat, and it is better to overload her with a man than to take an ominous number. Come, Captain.”
Tangrouille added:
“It was all my fault—not yours, Captain. It isn’t fair for you to be left behind.”
“I have decided to remain here,” said Clubin. “The vessel must inevitably go to pieces in the tempest tonight. I won’t leave her. When the ship is lost, the captain is already dead. People shall not say I didn’t do my duty to the end. Tangrouille, I forgive you.”
Then, folding his arms, he cried:
“Obey orders! Let go the rope, and push off.”
The longboat swayed to and fro. Imbrancam had seized the tiller. All the hands which were not rowing were raised towards the captain—every mouth cried, “Cheers for Captain Clubin.”
“An admirable fellow!” said the American.
“Sir,” replied the Guernsey man, “he is one of the worthiest seamen afloat.”
Tangrouille shed tears.
“If I had had the courage,” he said, “I would have stayed with him.”
The longboat pushed away, and was lost in the fog.
Nothing more was visible.
The beat of the oars grew fainter, and died away.
Clubin remained alone.
VI
The Interior of an Abyss Suddenly Revealed
When Clubin found himself upon this rock, in the midst of the fog and the wide waters, far from all sound of human life, left for dead, alone with the tide rising around him, and night settling down rapidly, he experienced a feeling of profound satisfaction.
He had succeeded.
His dream was realised. The acceptance which he had drawn upon destiny at so long a date had fallen due at last.
With him, to be abandoned there was, in fact, to be saved.
He was on the Hanways, one mile from the shore; he had about him seventy-five thousand francs. Never was shipwreck more scientifically accomplished. Nothing had failed. It is true, everything had been foreseen. From his early years Clubin had had an idea to stake his reputation for honesty at life’s gaming-table; to pass as a man of high honour, and to make that reputation his fulcrum for other things; to bide his time, to watch his opportunity; not to grope about blindly, but to seize boldly; to venture on one great stroke, only one; and to end by sweeping off the stakes, leaving fools behind him to gape and wonder. What stupid rogues fail in twenty times, he meant to accomplish at the first blow; and while they terminated a career on the gallows, he intended to finish with a fortune. The meeting with Rantaine had been a new light to him. He had immediately laid his plan—to compel Rantaine to disgorge; to frustrate his threatened revelations by disappearing; to make the world believe him dead, the best of all modes of concealment; and for this purpose to wreck the Durande. The shipwreck was necessary to his designs. Lastly, he had the satisfaction of vanishing, leaving behind him a great renown, the crowning point of his existence. As he stood meditating on these things amid the wreck, Clubin might have been taken for some demon in a pleasant mood.
He had lived a lifetime for the sake of this one minute.
His whole exterior was expressive of the two words, “At last.” A devilish tranquillity reigned in that sallow countenance.
His dull eye, the depth of which generally seemed to be impenetrable, became clear and terrible. The inward fire of his dark spirit was reflected there.
Man’s inner nature, like that external world about him, has its electric phenomena. An idea is like a meteor; at the moment of its coming, the confused meditations which preceded it open a way, and a spark flashes forth. Bearing within oneself a power of evil, feeling an inward prey, brings to some minds a pleasure which is like a sparkle of light. The triumph of an evil purpose brightens up their visages. The success of certain cunning combinations, the attainment of certain cherished objects, the gratification of certain ferocious instincts,
